Jesse ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱

you weren’t supposed to be doing this. not with your boss. ex- boss. you quit your job at the princeton hospital a couple years back. not it mattered much, you didn’t fit in anyway. but now? lisa cuddy, the dean of medicine, on your bed, in her pretty silk panties.. fuck.

she kept letting out soft breathless sounds every time you slid your cock against her folds. you.. promised yourself you wouldn’t fuck her. so here you were, your length between her legs, under her panties. the head of your cock straining against the soft, silk fabric every time you pushed your hips forward. it was such a hot sight, you felt your control slipping. you rutted against her slick folds faster, as if desperate. lisa’s hands were gripping the sheets, her eyes closed in bliss due to your actions. she sounded so pretty it made you physically ill.

You don’t flinch anymore. You’ve heard worse. Besides, it’s not like they’re wrong.

She doesn’t exactly hide it.

Lisa Cuddy is demanding. Unforgiving. A perfectionist with a wardrobe better suited for a runway than a hospital, and a gaze sharp enough to cut through steel. No one intimidates you the way she does. No one draws you in, either.

You’re not supposed to play favourites in medicine.

But Cuddy does. And you're hers.

It’s unspoken, never acknowledged aloud, never scrawled into the margins of evaluations. But you’re not stupid. You know what it looks like when she singles you out during rounds, calls you into her office to discuss consults other interns weren’t even allowed to touch, leans in a little too close when she hands back your charts.

You also know you’d chase her approval even if she never looked at you twice.

The truth is, you like being watched. Not by everyone. Just her.

You like it when she finds you in the middle of a shift and corrects your posture with nothing but a look. When she pauses after you answer a question, just long enough to make you wonder if you impressed her, or disappointed her. You like the quiet weight of her expectations on your shoulders.

She never praises you in front of others. But in her office, when the door is closed and the lights are low, sometimes she lets a little warmth into her voice. Sometimes she says your name like she’s thinking about something she shouldn’t.

You never let yourself imagine what.

House is the worst about it.

He never calls you by name. Just golden girl, Cuddy’s favourite, or his personal favourite: obedient intern number one.

You’ve tried ignoring him. Tried answering him in monosyllables. Nothing works. He pokes at you like a bruise he knows won’t heal.

“She’s got you house-trained already,” he tells you once in the elevator. “Cute.”

You grip the file in your hand tighter.

“She’s your boss too,” you reply, too tired to play his game today.

“Oh, sure. But you—” He eyes you with mock awe. “You practically purr when she says good job.”

You say nothing.

“Hey, I’m not judging,” he adds, shrugging.“Everyone wants Mommy’s approval. You just work harder for it.”

He steps off at diagnostics, but not before tossing a grin over his shoulder. “Be careful, though. Pets get put down when they start biting.”

You don’t respond. But the words sit with you longer than you’d like.

The pager buzzes at 6:43 p.m.

Come by my office. – Cuddy

You stare at the message a second longer than necessary, then tuck the device into your coat pocket and head toward administration. It’s later than usual. Most of the hospital is already winding down but her light is still on when you get there. Her office door is slightly ajar, like she knew you’d come quickly.

You knock lightly.

“Come in.”

Her voice always sounds different in the evening. Less clipped. Warmer. Or maybe that’s just projection. You’ve been told more than once that you see what you want to see.

She’s seated behind her desk, blazer slung over the back of her chair, sleeves rolled to the elbows. The top two buttons of her blouse are undone. Her posture is as precise as ever, but there’s something relaxed about her, an end-of-the-day looseness that makes her look a little less untouchable.

She glances up at you with a faint smile. “You’re still here.”

“You paged me.”

“Didn’t think you’d still be around this late.”

You shrug. “I don’t mind the hours.”

“You shouldn’t say that out loud. I’ll start assigning you more.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

She lets out a quiet laugh, low and throaty. “Fair enough.”

She gestures to the chair in front of her desk. “Sit.”

You do. She slides a file across the desk toward you. Your intake notes from the morning.

“I wanted to talk about this,” she says. “The patient with the arrhythmia.”

You nod. “Did I miss something?”

“No. You were thorough. Very thorough.” She pauses. “Almost suspiciously so.”

You blink. “Suspiciously?”

“Your note-taking is bordering on romantic obsession.”

You open your mouth, then close it again.

She tilts her head. “Don’t look so alarmed. I’m complimenting you. In my own way.”

“I guess I just… I try to be careful.”

“You try to be perfect,” she corrects. “You think if you do everything flawlessly, I won’t find anything to criticize.”

You shift slightly in your seat, cheeks heating. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No. But it’s not sustainable.”

You nod slowly, fingers tightening around the armrest.

She watches you, eyes narrowing slightly, like she’s testing a theory.

“You don’t like being wrong,” she says.

“Does anyone?”

“You take it personally. Like I’m disappointed in you.”

You say nothing.

“I’m not,” she adds, softer now. “But I think you’re scared of that.”

You finally meet her eyes. “Maybe.”

A pause. Her gaze lingers. “You know people talk about you.”

You nod. “I know.”

She folds her hands on the desk. “Does it bother you?”

“Sometimes.”

“They say you’re my favourite.”

“I’m aware.”

“Are you?”

You hesitate. “Am I what?”

“My favourite.”

The air between you changes. Tightens.

You’re not sure how to answer. You want to say yes. You want to ask her why it matters. You want to ask her what she’d do if you said something you weren’t supposed to.

But all you say is: “That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether it’s a compliment or a warning.”

That makes her smile—an actual smile, not the tight-lipped one she uses in meetings. Something slower. Fonder. Dangerous.

“Maybe both,” she murmurs.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until she rises from her chair. She walks around the desk and perches on the edge of it, closer to you now. She folds her arms across her chest, watching you like she’s trying to decide what you’ll do next.

“I know you want to impress me,” she says. “That’s not a bad thing. But don’t confuse ambition with submission.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“I’m not trying to submit,” you say, barely louder than a whisper.

“No?” Her voice dips. “Could’ve fooled me.”

There’s a pause, long and heavy, the kind of silence that crackles with possibility.

Then, mercifully, she shifts the tone again.

“You’re a good intern,” she says, a bit more professionally now. “Focused. Detail-oriented. A little obsessive, maybe, but I can work with that.”

You let out a breath. “Thank you.”

She leans back slightly, one leg crossed over the other. “Tell me something.”

You glance up.

“Do you actually like the work,” she asks, “or do you just like when I notice you doing it well?”

You freeze.

“That’s—” You stop. “I don’t know how to answer that.”

“Honestly.”

You take a breath. “I think… I like both.”

She studies you again, eyes tracing your face.

“That’s honest,” she says quietly. “And dangerous.”

Your pulse stutters.

“I’m not trying to cross any lines,” you say.

“I know,” she replies. “Neither am I.”

But neither of you moves.

For a moment, it feels like the whole world narrows down to the space between your chair and her knees. A few feet. A lifetime. Her gaze is steady, unflinching. You get the sense she could look right through you if she wanted.

She doesn’t. She sees you, and that’s almost worse.

“Get some sleep,” she says, standing again. “You’ve earned it.”

You nod, rising carefully.

At the door, you glance back.

“If I ever did want to be your favourite,” you say, soft and sure, “would that be a bad thing?”

She lifts a brow. “You already are.”

And then, before you can reply, she’s turning back toward her desk.

You step out into the corridor, heart thundering in your ears.

They can whisper all they want. You don’t care.

Sterile Rooms, Dirty Minds

The lights above were dimmed—unusual for Princeton-Plainsboro’s diagnostic department, but not unusual for House’s office at this hour. His cane was leaning crooked against the desk, a half-empty Vicodin bottle sat beside an abandoned file, and the air smelled faintly of takeout and hospital-grade disinfectant. You were sitting on his desk—legs spread just enough to accommodate his body between them, the sharp edge biting into the back of your thighs through your clothes, though you could barely register the discomfort.

House's mouth was on yours, and it was messy. Sloppy. His stubble scraped against your skin, his teeth tugged at your bottom lip in a way that was too practiced to be accidental. One of his hands gripped your jaw, holding you in place, fingers spread over your cheek and under your ear like he was memorizing the shape of your face by touch alone. The other hand had slid under your shirt at some point—fingers splayed wide across your stomach, calloused and hot and shameless.

You could feel the push of his thigh between your legs as he leaned in, chest brushing yours with every breath, his pelvis flush with yours. You were gasping against his mouth now, struggling to keep up, especially with the way his thumb kept stroking upward, inch by inch, toward your nipple, only to stop short. He enjoyed teasing himself more than he enjoyed teasing you. Bastard.

"How many hours do you think we’ve got before Cuddy starts wondering why I haven’t caused a catastrophe today?" he muttered against your lips, words muffled by the way he kept kissing you between phrases. “Two? Three? Long enough for me to disappoint you thoroughly in an on-call room?”

“Long enough,” you breathed, sliding your hands under the back of his shirt and dragging your nails up his spine, just to hear the grunt it pulled from him. “But I think you like the desk more.”

“I do.” He grinned. “It’s sturdy. Handles trauma well. Like me.”

He ground down just slightly, just enough that you could feel him, hard and insistent through his jeans, pressing right where you needed him. You let out something between a sigh and a groan, and he rewarded you by kissing you deeper—tongue parting your lips, hand moving to grab your ass over your clothes, fingers digging in.

You let your head fall back, mouth open as his teeth scraped down your neck. “Fuck, House…”

“Is that a request or just a lament?” His voice was low, rough, edged with amusement and arousal and something else underneath that he never liked to name. “Because if it’s the first one, I can be very accommodating.”

“Not here,” you said, even as your hips rolled up against him. “We shouldn’t.”

House huffed a breath against your throat, pressing a kiss there that lingered just a second too long. “You’re on my desk, legs around me, and I’ve got my hand down your pants. I think we crossed that line twenty minutes ago.”

“Your hand is not down my pants.”

He leaned back slightly, smirking, eyes glinting in the low light. “Would you like it to be?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. He kissed you again, harder this time. When his fingers returned to your stomach, they dipped lower this time—over the waistband of your pants, tracing the line of your underwear, knuckles brushing where you were hot and needy for him. He didn’t move further. Didn’t need to. Just the hint of it had your whole body tensing.

“You’re not exactly making a case for patience,” he muttered, lips brushing the corner of your jaw. “I could fuck you right here and blame the mess on Foreman.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Say that again when you're not grinding on me.”

He was right. Of course he was. You didn’t care. His name was on the door. The blinds were mostly closed. The hall outside was quiet except for the faint buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant squeak of a janitor’s cart. It was just you and him, and the pressure of his mouth, his hands, his body pressing yours into wood and glass.

House kissed you again, but slower now. Less biting, more tasting. He kept his hand resting low on your belly, thumb dipping just beneath the waistband, teasing—not quite enough, never enough. He pulled back only when you were breathless again, and even then, it was only a few inches. His face was flushed, lips red, pupils wide with want. He looked at you like he was reading you—diagnosing something beneath your skin that had nothing to do with blood or bones. You’d never seen him look at anyone that way before.

“I want to fuck you,” he said, blunt and low and close to your ear, voice cracking just slightly with how tightly he was holding himself back. “Not here. Not rushed. Not with the janitor two doors down and my team probably fucking up a case without me.”

You swallowed hard, nodding, your fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt. “Your place?”

“My place,” he echoed, breath warm on your cheek. “My couch. My bed. My kitchen table if you’re good.”

“You are such a piece of shit.”

“Yeah. But you’re coming home with me.”

His hand slid fully under your waistband now, palm cupping you through your underwear, slow and deliberate. You gasped, back arching off the desk, hand flying to his wrist—not to stop him, just to feel. He leaned in and kissed you again, gentle this time. Soft, like an apology for stopping. Or maybe a promise to continue later. Either way, it was the kind of kiss that said you’re mine, and not here, and soon.

When he pulled away, he didn’t step back right away. Just rested his forehead against yours, breath warm and shared, both of you flushed and trembling and way too aware of how wet both your underwear probably were, how hard he was still pressed against you, and how badly this needed to happen somewhere else.

“You still gonna come home with me,” he asked, voice rough and barely above a whisper, “or do I have to kidnap you?”

You laughed softly, tilting your head just enough to brush your nose against his. “Get your coat, House.”

He pulled back finally, hands sliding out from under your clothes, adjusting himself shamelessly while you fixed your shirt and tried to stop trembling.

He winked, already limping toward the door. “Come on, babe. Let’s get the hell out of here before I lose all self-control and fuck you on top of my MRI results.”

You followed him, cheeks still hot, heart still racing, legs just slightly unsteady. And god help you—you couldn’t wait.

Close the Door

The soft clack of the door latching behind you was louder than expected in the quiet of the oncology department. It was nearly midnight—long past when the fluorescent lights should still be on in Wilson’s office, long past when either of you should still be there. But the low hum of the computer screen cast a dull glow over the desk, illuminating his tired eyes as he looked up from a file, pen paused mid-sentence.

“You’re still here,” he said, voice roughened from disuse, tinged with surprise but no disapproval. His jacket was draped over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loose and crooked, the first two buttons of his shirt undone like he'd tried to breathe for once but couldn’t quite manage it.

You crossed the threshold without answering, let the door close behind you with a soft click. Something about the air between you shifted—subtle, but charged. He watched you approach with careful eyes, the edge of a smile twitching at his mouth. He already knew what was coming, he was just waiting for you to admit to it.

“So are you,” you murmured as you came to stand beside him. Your fingers brushed against the back of his chair. “All your patients asleep. No emergencies. No excuse to still be hiding in this office.”

Wilson leaned back in his chair slowly, pen set down, hands resting on the arms. You stepped closer.

“I didn’t want to go home yet,” he admitted, tone quieter now, more honest. His gaze dropped to your mouth and lingered there. “Not without you.”

The silence pressed tight between you, thick with things left unsaid and all the things already known. You bent down slowly, your hand curling around the edge of the armrest just above his, the fabric of his dress shirt warm against your knuckles. His breath hitched. You could feel the tension coiling up in both of you, the way his thighs stiffened slightly beneath his slacks, the way his throat worked as he swallowed.

“You’re not even pretending to do paperwork anymore.”

“No,” he said, and his voice trembled just faintly. “I was waiting for you.”

The kiss was inevitable. Desperate. Your lips met his hard, mouths pressing together in something that couldn’t be mistaken for a greeting or a thank you or a goodnight. It was hungry. It was impatient. His hands flew to your waist as he stood abruptly, the wheels of his chair skidding behind him. You staggered back a step, but he followed, pressed you against the wall just beside the bookshelves, hands gripping your hips.

He kissed you like a man starved. His mouth opened against yours, tongue sliding in without hesitation, devouring you in ragged, open-mouthed kisses that left both of you gasping. His fingers tugged at the hem of your shirt, pushing it up just enough to feel the heat of your skin, and his groan against your mouth was hoarse, raw, needy.

You arched into his touch as he dragged his palms up your torso, thumbs brushing the sides of your ribs, not quite frantic but close. It was careful for half a second—then it wasn’t. His mouth traveled down to your throat, teeth scraping across your pulse point with a pressure that sent heat racing low in your gut.

“You taste like coffee,” he murmured into your skin, voice low, almost reverent, before his teeth sank into your collarbone. Your fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt.

“And you taste like desperation,” you muttered back, breathless, tilting your head back to let him have more.

His laugh was choked, nearly a groan. One of his hands slid down between your legs, cupping you over your clothes with a firm grip that made you whine before you could stop yourself. He squeezed, slow and deliberate, watching your face with eyes gone dark.

“Fuck,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “You like that?”

You nodded. You were already half undone, pressed hard against the wall with his body between your legs, his hands everywhere—one rubbing you with just enough pressure to make your thighs twitch, the other up under your shirt, fingertips teasing at your chest, grazing your nipples until you gasped into his mouth.

Your own hands finally moved, clumsy with urgency, dragging his shirt up and over his hips, slipping beneath the fabric to trace the trail of soft hair down his stomach. He shivered, cock twitching against your thigh through the layers of fabric still separating you. You reached between you, palmed him through his slacks, felt how hard he already was.

“Jesus,” he hissed. “We’re in the goddamn hospital.”

“So lock the door,” you said, not stopping.

He laughed, forehead pressing to yours. “You’re going to kill me.”

Your fingers dragged down his zipper, slow enough to tease, not slow enough to be patient. He groaned into your mouth again, hand tightening in your shirt. He was trying to decide whether to stop you or fuck you right there on the floor.

His hips jerked forward when you brushed over the outline of his cock, and he bit your bottom lip hard enough to sting. “If you don’t stop now,” he warned hoarsely, “I’m not going to stop either.”

You stilled, lips swollen, chest heaving.

Then, slowly, you leaned up and kissed him again—deep, hot and slow.

“We should go to your place,” you said when you finally pulled back, voice low, rough, your lips brushing his as you spoke. “So we can fuck properly.”

Wilson’s groan was full-bodied and exasperated and turned-on all at once. He rested his forehead against yours for a long moment, both of you breathing hard.

“God,” he muttered. “You’re insufferable.”

“Mm. And you love me for it.”

“Shut up.”

You grinned and kissed him again.

He shut the office lights off on the way out.

Overtime

The blinds were half-shut, casting long slats of shadow across her office walls, broken by the soft golden spill of her desk lamp. Outside, the hospital had gone quiet in the way it only ever did past midnight — the buzz of daytime urgency traded for the occasional distant beep of monitors and the dull roll of a gurney wheel down some far-off corridor. The air smelled faintly of her perfume, sharp and expensive, tinged by the paper scent of hospital files piled high beside her elbow.

Cuddy’s fingers tapped a soft rhythm against her glass desk surface, eyes scanning the page in front of her without really reading it. She could feel your stare. Not overt, not hungry, but insistent. You sat across from her, ankle hooked over your knee, pretending to be focused on the budget projections she’d asked for — or maybe just giving yourself a reason to stay. You always found a reason.

She didn't look up when she spoke. “You’ve been in here a long time.”

“Mm. So have you.”

Her pen paused. She leaned back slowly in her chair, gaze lifting at last to meet yours, eyes flickering with that clinical scrutiny she always wore like armor—until something else softened it. The sharp edge rounded. You could see it in the way her eyes dragged down your face, to your mouth, her thoughts were only half about whatever line item she was supposed to be signing off.

“Still pretending this is about work?” she asked, her voice low, too smooth for how tired she should be.

Your lips twitched. “That depends. Are you?”

Cuddy arched a brow, lips curling at the corners as she stood, drawing herself up from the chair with that deliberate grace that made you ache. She was all authority—pencil skirt taut across her hips, blouse unbuttoned just enough to make your mouth dry, dark waves of hair falling just loose enough to tell you she’d run her hands through it more than once tonight. She stepped around the desk with slow, practiced ease, heels quiet against the floor.

Her hand settled on the back of your chair before you could move. The heat of her so close made your back straighten without thinking. Her perfume was stronger here. Jasmine, clean skin, and something darker underneath. Her thumb traced a line across your shoulder, just once.

“I could write this off as a supervisory meeting,” she murmured, low against your ear. “Late-night strategy session. But then someone might ask why I’ve got you sitting here looking at me like you’re seconds from climbing across the desk.”

You turned your head slightly, enough to see the gleam of amusement — and want — in her eyes. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to lie for you.”

Her smile was sharp. “I don’t pay you enough for that.”

“You don’t pay me enough at all.”

“Then you really have no excuse.”

Before the words had finished leaving her mouth, you’d reached for her waist, fingers hooking just above the curve of her hips, pulling her down onto your lap with one smooth tug. She didn’t resist—didn’t flinch—only let out the faintest hum of approval, her weight settling onto your thighs, one knee slipping to the outside of yours. Her arms went around your neck as naturally as if she’d done it a hundred times, which she had, and still you felt your heartbeat slam harder like it was the first.

“God, you’re smug,” you whispered against her mouth, just before you kissed her.

The first press was slow and lazy. The kind of kiss that asked without begging, that lingered more than it searched. But Cuddy didn’t do soft for long, not when it came to you. Her fingers curled in your hair, dragging your mouth harder against hers, the rhythm of it tipping fast from exploratory to demanding. She’d been waiting hours for this, and was finally done pretending.

You didn’t mind the heat of her breath or the way her hips shifted subtly against your lap. She wasn’t trying to grind down, but couldn’t help herself. Your hands slid down her back, greedy, tracing every inch of her spine like it might ground you, anchor you somewhere in this too-bright, too-quiet office where she smelled like sin and looked like something you should never have been allowed to touch.

But she let you. She always let you.

Your hand found the edge of her blouse and slipped under it, warm palm against bare skin. Her breath hitched. She didn’t stop you. You moved higher, hand flattening just under her ribs, then trailing up—slow, deliberate—until your fingers brushed the swell of her breast. She made a sound against your mouth, low and half-caught, not quite a moan but nothing polite either. Her nails dug into the back of your neck.

“You’re not shy tonight,” she whispered, mouth ghosting your jaw.

“I’ve never been shy with you.”

She laughed, soft and breathless, then caught your bottom lip between her teeth, tugging, just enough to make your fingers twitch where they rested beneath her bra. Her hips rolled again, this time slower, more controlled, and you felt her exhale. She was trying not to lose control too quickly.

“Lock the door,” she murmured, dragging her mouth down your neck. “Do it.”

You didn’t argue. She slid off your lap in a motion as fluid as her entrance, and you stood, heart thudding so loud in your chest it made your hands shake slightly when you twisted the lock. When you turned back, she was leaning against the desk, blouse half-untucked, one leg crossed over the other, lips kissed pink and eyes darker than before.

She crooked a finger at you.

It took you three strides to reach her. Your hands were on her waist again before you could think. You kissed her like the office would dissolve if you didn’t, like the whole hospital might catch fire and you’d still need more. Her hands were under your shirt now, fingers cool against your skin, dragging your hips flush against hers with none of the usual hesitation. It was all friction now — mouths messy, bodies tighter, hungrier, her thigh slotting between your legs.

You palmed her breast fully this time, thumb brushing over the sensitive point through lace. She gasped, the sound raw and real, and didn’t stop you when your other hand slid down, curved over her ass, pulling her tighter to you. She rolled her hips again, breath hot in your ear.

“You make me stupid,” she hissed. “Do you know that? I have meetings at eight. A board call. And you—” she kissed you again, hard, messy “—come in here and make me forget every reason I’m supposed to say no.”

“Then don’t,” you breathed. “Don’t say no.”

She kissed you again instead. You both groaned when you pressed her harder against the desk, her hands fisting in the fabric at your back, dragging your shirt up. She wanted to take it, or tear it, or just feel skin, god, any part of you she didn’t already have.

“Take this off,” she said, tugging at your shirt.

“You first.”

Another smirk, one she didn't bother to hide as she reached for her buttons. One by one, she slipped them open, slow despite everything, watching your face as pale skin was revealed inch by inch. She shrugged the blouse off her body. The sight of her in just her bra, breath shallow and pupils blown wide, made your stomach lurch with something close to worship.

“I should make you beg,” she whispered, pulling you back in. “Make you sit there while I finish my paperwork. Watch me touch myself at my desk. Maybe let you help if you’re good.”

You groaned against her collarbone. “Jesus, Cuddy.”

“No,” she said, cupping your jaw in one hand. “Lisa.”

She kissed you again, rough and open-mouthed, and your hands were everywhere—up her sides, down her hips, one slipping between her thighs and pressing just enough to make her tremble. She pulled you closer, rocked against your hand, and when you felt how wet she already was through her underwear, you cursed under your breath, forehead dropping to her shoulder.

“God, you're unbelievable,” you whispered.

She dragged your mouth back to hers with a hiss of approval. “Then prove it.”

After Rounds

The hallway lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a pale glow across the empty diagnostics office. The floor was mostly dark by now—nurses whispering at stations, the odd intern scribbling notes at a computer, but otherwise, the hospital had finally dipped into that rare, late-night quiet that only came when the adrenaline tapered off and the chaos slowed to a crawl.

You stood near the desk, arms crossed, shifting your weight between your feet while trying to look preoccupied. You weren't on call anymore, not technically. You had finished your last rounds over an hour ago, but the idea of going home hadn't really crossed your mind. Not when you knew who else was still here.

The door creaked open behind you. You didn't turn, because you didn’t need to.

“Still here?” Foreman asked, voice low, the kind of tired drawl only twelve hours of diagnostics could draw out of him.

You hummed, grabbing a folder off the desk without looking at it. “So are you.”

He didn’t reply at first. Just stepped farther into the room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. You could feel the change in the air before he even crossed the space between you. The shift in tension, the silence too full for two people who weren’t thinking about each other. You turned finally, catching the shadow in his gaze, his usual stern composure looser now that the rest of the team was gone.

“You’re not supposed to still be here,” he said again, quieter this time, though there wasn’t any real protest in his voice.

"I know.”

He stood a foot away now, hands in his coat pockets, brow drawn but soft. You held his gaze, the fluorescent light above flickering once, then holding steady. The silence stretched again, and neither of you broke it. He didn’t move at first, too used to calculating his every step, too careful about what people might say, what someone might see. But his restraint never lasted long when it came to you.

His hand reached up, brushing your jaw first. Not rushed, not overly firm—just a touch meant to anchor. Then his fingers curled, and he leaned forward, lips meeting yours in one long pull, breath steady but heated. You kissed him back instantly, pressing closer, his coat brushing your chest. The folder fell out of your hand to the desk with a soft thump, forgotten.

His other hand came up to your waist, palm warm through the thin fabric of your scrubs. The door was locked—he always checked. Still, there was a thrill that shot down your spine as he pushed you slowly against the edge of the desk, your hips nudging against the wood. You felt him exhale into the kiss, the tension in his jaw melting just slightly, though his grip on you didn’t waver.

Foreman always kissed like he was trying not to. Like there was a part of him still holding back, still worried someone would open the door or catch him slipping. But not tonight. Not after the stress of three consults, two difficult differentials, and a full day under House’s impossible standards. Tonight, he let go.

Your back pressed to the desk now, your hands sliding up under his coat to feel the crisp shirt beneath, fingers curling into the fabric. You could feel the strength in his arms as he leaned into you, tongue brushing against yours in slow, deliberate strokes. His fingers dug slightly into your waist, anchoring you to him as he kissed harder, deeper, tasting the parts of you he had missed all day behind patient charts and professionalism.

He broke the kiss just long enough to press his forehead to yours, his breath hot and uneven.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he muttered, his voice rougher than usual, hand slipping down to the curve of your hip. “Couldn’t get anything done with you walking around in those damn scrubs.”

You bit back a smile, tilting your head just enough to kiss him again. This one was messier. Slower but desperate. His hand slid lower, gripping your thigh, fingers flexing through the fabric, the pressure enough to make your breath catch. You let out a soft sound against his mouth, rewarded with a soft groan from him, his fingers dragging up again to tug at the waistband of your scrubs.

He didn’t pull them down—not yet. But the way he touched you, you could tell he was thinking about it. His hand palmed your ass through the fabric, firm and unapologetic, the motion deliberate.

You gripped the back of his neck, nails lightly grazing his skin as his mouth trailed down your jaw, then lower, to the base of your throat. Warm lips, soft drag of teeth—not enough to bruise, but close. He breathed you in, his voice low against your skin. “You’ve got no idea how hard it is, keeping my hands off you all damn day.”

“You could’ve snuck me into the on-call room.”

He laughed under his breath, lifting his head to meet your eyes again. “You would’ve moaned loud enough to get us fired.”

“Would’ve been worth it.”

He kissed you again, faster this time. His tongue pushed into your mouth without hesitation, his hips pressing closer. His hand slipped beneath the hem of your shirt now, fingertips dragging up your side, hot against your skin. You arched slightly under the touch, his body pinning yours more fully to the desk.

His breathing got heavier the longer he touched you, and you could feel the restraint breaking again in the way his hand gripped your waist, tugging you tighter against him. His thigh nudged between yours, his other hand sliding back down to your ass, this time giving a firm squeeze that made your breath hitch and your nails dig into his back through the shirt.

Foreman groaned softly into your mouth, kissing you with the kind of hunger he rarely let show. “You keep making those sounds,” he muttered, “and I’m not stopping.”

“Mmh—don’t. Don't stop."

That broke something in him. His hand slipped past the waistband now, dipping into your underwear just enough to grope you properly. His touch was rougher now, more confident, more impatient, and the way he held you made it impossible to think. You gasped against his mouth, bucking slightly into his hand as he kissed you again, swallowing the sound greedily.

He didn’t let up—kept touching, squeezing, dragging his fingers in just the right way while his other hand held your face, thumb brushing the edge of your lip. His kiss turned feverish again, devouring, mouth wet and hot and open over yours. You could barely hold yourself up with how he was working you over, and he knew it. His thigh shifted to support your weight, hands steady, body locking you in place.

You pulled him closer by the collar, grinding up against him in the heat of it, and he let out a breathy curse, pressing into your movements without hesitation. His hand gripped your ass tighter, guiding the motion, helping you find that friction you both needed so badly.

“I’m not taking you on the desk,” he whispered against your ear. “Not here.”

You groaned in protest, breathless, half out of your mind. “Why not?”

“Because I want more than five minutes with you. I want your legs over my shoulders. I want to take my time.” His voice was gravel now, so full of need and want it made your knees weak. “And I can’t do that here.”

“Then get us out of here.”

He kissed you one more time—long, slow, and deep. Then he stepped back just enough to fix your waistband, the heat of his hands lingering. He smoothed his palms down your sides, breathing heavy, forehead still pressed to yours for a beat longer before finally stepping back fully.

You adjusted your shirt with trembling fingers, heart pounding as you looked at him. His lips were slick with spit, jaw flexing as he stared at you like he wasn’t finished—because he wasn’t.

He ran a hand down his face, then picked his coat off the back of the chair. “My place.”

You nodded, still dazed, following after him when he unlocked the door.

The hallway was quiet again.

But this time, it felt charged.

And you knew you weren’t sleeping tonight.

Sterile Sheets and Quiet Sins

The office was quiet in that muffled kind of way hospitals always managed when it was well past midnight. Phones muted. Voices hushed. No code blues echoing through the halls. Just the sound of tired fluorescent lights humming above and the occasional rustle of papers or nurses’ shoes down the corridor. The diagnostics office was dimly lit, only the soft glow from the desk lamp painting a halo of warmth over reports and files spread across the table, long forgotten in the wake of your arrival.

You stood behind him in the cramped space, close enough that your hips brushed the back of his chair. Robert hadn't turned when you'd entered—he’d glanced up, blinked those tired eyes at you, lips curling faintly—but hadn’t said much, already knowing you weren’t there to talk about patients. He wasn’t stupid. The tension had been brewing for hours.

"You’re not supposed to be in here," he said lowly, voice rough from exhaustion or anticipation—you weren’t sure which, maybe both. He shifted a little in his chair, straightening, but made no real move to stop you when you reached over his shoulder and slowly pushed the folder on his lap off to the side of the desk.

"Then kick me out," you murmured near his ear, letting your hand drift down the front of his chest—his tie loosened, top buttons undone, the rise and fall of his breathing giving away the rest of his restraint. Your fingers paused just above his belt.

He let out a shaky breath. Didn’t move.

"Didn’t think so."

You leaned down and kissed the side of his neck, soft and slow, just enough to make him swallow hard. His Adam’s apple bobbed under your lips. One of his hands came up, slow, a little unsure, to touch your thigh where you’d rested it beside the chair. There was the smallest squeeze, nothing confident, nothing that made you feel like he was in control. It was sweet. Desperate. He just wanted to feel where you were.

"You’re such an ass," he muttered, though it had no real bite to it. If anything, it trembled at the end, he already knew he wasn’t going to win.

"You love it," you whispered against his ear, and then sank your teeth just a little into the soft skin there, making him hiss.

He jolted, knuckles tightening where his hand held your leg now. "Fuck—"

You moved around the chair slowly, stepping between his legs until he was looking up at you. That exhausted, beautiful face flushed with something warmer now, lips parted slightly, his blond hair slightly messy from hours of shift work and now the fingers you threaded into it as you tugged his head back. His eyes fluttered closed for a second, long lashes catching the low light, and then he looked up at you, almost pleading.

"You’re gonna get us caught," he whispered.

"Only if you can’t keep quiet."

You kissed him hard, without patience, you’d been thinking about it since the minute the sun went down. His hands flew up to your hips, gripping hard, and you could feel the way he pressed into you instinctively—he couldn’t help himself—already half-hard beneath those tight, creased slacks. You could’ve laughed at how fast he responded, but it felt too good, too hot, to pull away even for that.

He kissed back like he’d been starving for it all night, tongue sliding against yours in slow, eager strokes. There was no performance in it. No arrogant show. Just raw need.

You dropped into his lap, knees pressing into the cushion on either side of him, your hands on his jaw, his throat, his hair. He groaned into your mouth, a little choked-off sound, hips twitching up against you before he bit down on the sound too late. You didn’t slow down. You just pressed harder, rolled your hips forward, and kissed him deeper. His hands flew to your ass, squeezing tight—needy, grasping, more desperate than he probably realized.

“You’re shameless,” he mumbled breathlessly against your mouth.

“You’re hard,” you shot back.

He flushed deeper, mouth falling open again, and you took advantage of it immediately. Kissed him until he whimpered, until he was shifting underneath you, one hand still gripping your ass. He couldn’t decide if he wanted you closer or if he was trying to hold himself together.

You slid a hand between the two of you and pressed your palm against him through his pants. He jolted, gasping into your mouth as you rubbed slow, firm circles over the bulge in his lap. His breath stuttered against your lips.

“Fuck—ah—don’t—”

“Don’t what?” you whispered, dragging your mouth to his jaw as your hand squeezed a little harder, palm rubbing over the fabric with just enough friction to make his thighs tense beneath you. “Don’t touch you? Don’t make you feel good?”

He shook his head helplessly, breath shuddering. “I’m—fuck—‘m already close.”

You grinned against his skin. “That’s cute.”

He groaned, loud this time, and you reached up to cover his mouth with your hand while your other kept working his lap. You could feel the way he trembled beneath you, the way his hips couldn’t stop bucking up, chasing the pressure, chasing the edge. You were so close to ruining him right there, and he knew it. You could see it in his eyes. That dazed, ruined look. Embarrassed. Completely at your mercy.

But you didn’t give him the satisfaction.

You pulled your hand back suddenly, leaned away just enough to make his head thunk back against the chair in disbelief.

“Wait—wha—” He sounded wrecked, voice wrecked, and he blinked up at you like he couldn’t comprehend why you’d stopped.

You stood slowly, smoothing your clothes as if you hadn’t just had him seconds from falling apart under your hands.

“Get your stuff,” you said, breath still ragged but steadying. You smirked at the disbelief on his face. “We’re going to your place.”

He stared at you like you’d just slapped him, jaw slack, chest heaving. “You’re—are you serious?”

“You want me to make you come in your office?” you asked, arching a brow. “You want House to walk in and find you like that? Humping the air? Whimpering like some desperate intern?”

He looked away quickly, face burning as he adjusted himself with a shaky hand, mouth still parted, lips red and swollen from how hard you’d kissed him.

“…You’re evil,” he said finally, still not meeting your eyes.

You grinned. “You like it.”

“…Yeah.” His voice cracked, almost a whisper. “Yeah. I do.”

You held the door open for him, lips curling.