Gala

After what felt like eons, the Doctor opened the door, shoved you into the closet. He followed, shutting the door and locking from the inside. Immediately you realized exactly how small this closet was, from the way his arms brushed against your front and your feet stood touching. You realized that if you could acutely feel his body heat and get this much information on the contour of his chest, then he could probably gather a cue from the increased temperature of your flushing face. Anywho, now was absolutely not the time to be picturing your travelling companion, the Doctor, underneath that tight pinstriped suit of his.

The voice in the hallway continued: "Hiding is futile. You will be exterminated."

"Are we—" you started to whisper, but were hushed by the Doctor's hand over your mouth.

"Shh. Lean to your right." You abided, and he seemed to reach past your head to one of the small shelves lining the walls. You heard him unscrew something, sniff it, and make a affirmative grunt. "This will hurt a little, but it will save your life." You felt him push up your sleeve—his long fingers, you noticed with no small amount of embarrassment, working nimbly—and pressing a needle into your arm. You took a slow breath in and out, trusting him with your life like it was nothing. You realized that after all this time, this was probably the most "doctorish" thing he'd ever done to you. It was also, somehow, the sexiest. Pressed up against you like this, on the brink of death. Pricking you with an unknown drug.

"Now," he whispered. Oh, his breath tickled your ear. That was new, too. "It will work quickly and it will last temporarily. You're going to die, briefly. I'll be here when you wake up again. I'm so sorry for this."

You were going to die? You thought the point of this was to prevent that from happening! But before you could give it much more thought, you slipped from consciousness, and died, all hot and bothered in the Time Lord's arms.

—

You came to in an uncomfortable click of reality back into place. It was still dark, and the first thing you noticed was that all you could smell, still, was Doctor. Your body felt disconnected, numb. You tried moving your limbs, and could not tell if you were successful.

"Oh, good. You're back with me. Just focus on my voice. The Dalek's have gone off, probably thought we took the TARDIS and ran. I gave you a large dose of a vasoconstrictor, rapidly decreasing your body temperature so that the infrared scan would miss us."

You tried to say, "Okay," but your voice came out in a cracked whisper.

"Right, water. Water, let's see." He leaned into you—you could only tell because his voice drew closer to your ear—and must have reached down. "Here's a water bottle. Let me open that for you. Here." He put it to your lips, which you were able to feel. That was a start. After several sips, you could feel your whole body explode in prickles as the feeling returning to every inch of your body, and it was excruciating.

"Ow, God, that hurts. Oh, my God," you breathed. "Everything. Everything hurts."

"I know, and I'm sorry. It should wear off quickly."

"Did you… give yourself the shot too?"

"Oh, no. Didn't have to. I simply squeezed my veins really hard until my body temperature went down."

You managed a minor break from involuntary writhing to give a laugh. "You can do that?"

"'Course I can," he stated.

"Ah!" You felt your body give a fervent tremble, as if your spirit had just been slammed back in place into your body. "Oh, hello. That's better."

"Sensations are back, are they?"

Oh, yes, they were. As if no time had passed, no drugs had coursed through your body, you were back to acute awareness of the Doctor's body heat, which also seemed to have returned to normal. You couldn't help but notice that what had felt warm before now felt almost unbearably hot. The combination of his intense radiating warmth and salient scent, that familiar scent of TARDIS and cinnamon and honey and metal, was very quickly driving you mad. "Doctor," you breathed, almost involuntarily. Oh, fuck, being crammed into a closet with the Doctor was forcing you to face the reality of how you felt about him. Or, rather, of how he made you feel, which seemed to have something to do with hormones and intense, dramatic arousal.

"Is there something else wrong?"

"Er," you began, unsure of where to start. Out of habit, you tried to cross your arms, but a single attempt reminded you that moving any limbs while half-tangled with the Doctor in a supply closet wasn't really an option. "Well, I need to rub some feeling into my arms, but I. Er. Can't reach." It wasn't a lie. And he was offering to help. Nevermind that this was definitely a desire-guided ploy to have his hands on you somewhere.

"Of course." He rearranged his arms so that he could reach your sides. Both of his hands grasped either of your forearms. "Here?"

"Yeah—and, um, higher, if you can."

Again, you reminded yourself, it hadn't been a lie that you needed some feeling rubbed into your arms. Your whole body felt a little unreal, probably a side effect of intentionally overdosing on some futuristic drug. But what was more unreal was having the Doctor's palms brushing against your skin, rubbing soft circles with pressure from his fingers. You couldn't help but release a pent-up sigh. These were The Doctor's hands, and they made you feel both so safe and so aroused.

"Higher?" he asked softly. God, was he doing that on purpose? His softened voice had an alluring tone you only ever heard when he was telling you a story. With his hands rising to your biceps, it sounded downright dirty. "How's here?" A shiver crept down your spine as his hand brushed the previous site of the shot he'd given you. It hurt—or it would have, if it had been anyone else's hand in any other context. But something about him being the one to inflict that pain was deeply pleasurable. Especially since the rest of him was more pressed against you now, though perhaps you were imagining it.

"Oh, hold on, sorry. Did that hurt?"

You paused. Would saying yes stop him from doing it again? "It felt rather nice, actually," you replied. "Um, that was a 'that felt good' shiver."

"Alright. Just… let me know if it does, yeah?"

You gulped audibly. "If it feels good?"

"I meant if it hurts. Though, I suppose you can tell me when it feels good, too." His hands had reached your shoulder now, fingers pressing into your back just before your shoulder blades. The heels of his palms worked into the front of your shoulders and you groaned.

"Oh, Doctor. That feels good." You couldn't even attempt hide the arousal dripping from your tone. The Doctor would have to be deaf to have missed it.

His hands froze, a pretty good indicator that was catching your drift. "Oh," he said, seemingly to himself.

You were about to ask him for forgiveness for being so forthcoming with your… state. That was, until you had to voice your own, "Oh!"

You were suddenly being confronted rather directly with the fact that the Doctor had anatomy apparently similar to a human male. This body seemed rather human, after all; you shouldn't have been surprised. But as your tone conveyed, you were indeed shocked by the tent in his pants helplessly pressing against your pelvis. Firstly, because you were suddenly aware that Gallifreyans might not be as alien as you'd previously thought. Secondly, because his hardness had very obviously been in response to your vocalization. Which meant that you had turned on the Doctor.

By moaning his name.

It wouldn't do to try and ignore this now. Not with your core melting with need, as it was now. At this point, your eyes had adjusted to the dark enough that you could make out where his face was—and you caught the glint of light in his presumably widened eyes.

"Doctor, I…" Damn it all, you couldn't come up with anything to say.

He took up the baton. "Are you… doing that on purpose?"

"Doing what?" It came out in a whisper.

The Doctor very deliberately cleared his throat.

"Those obscene sounds you're making," he said, almost snarling. "You're doing those on purpose, aren't you?"

You took a nervous breath in. After taking a few more, your honest response tumbled out: "Well. Not exactly. I can't help makin' them, can I? Not with your hands on me. It's—it's too much."

His hands grasped at your sides as if in retaliation. Your breath was knocked entirely out of you as one of his hands pressed into the small of your back, closing between you the small distance that had remained. Your arms, no longer pinned to your sides, and quite capable of feeling every sensation available to them, bent so that you could place your hands on that slender chest of his. You could feel with each hand his separate heart beats. You could feel his breath on your nose. And all you could smell was Doctor, Doctor, "Doctor…"

Then his lips were on yours, like an answer. At first he kissed you slowly, giving you time to reciprocate while taking in the divine sensation of his hands dragging along the bare skin of your back. When did his hands get under your shirt? You didn't know, and weren't about to complain. The Doctor broke off the kiss to lean his face into your neck, taking what sounded like a long inhale of your scent. He whispered your name and pressed kisses to the curve of your neck. You pushed one of your hands into his hair and clenched.

Between gasps, you managed to vocalize the only thoughts in your head. "Being against you like this—Mmh—Doctor, it's—ah—impossible to resist you."

"You don't know the half of it," he murmured into your ear, raising the hairs of your neck. At the same time, he gave a motivated press of his hips into you, his clothed erection hitting your body in just the right spot. With a whimper, you reciprocated with a buck of your hips.

"Please let me fuck you, Doctor," you whined. "I'm gonna go to pieces."

He chuckled, and you could perfectly picture his raised eyebrow. "Someone's in a hurry for my cock, hm?"

"Oh, stuff it." You had to ask, in a slight panic: "They're gone, for sure, right?"

He gave another breathy chuckle, hands running down your body to your waist, and past it. "Daleks couldn't stop us from fucking if they tried, darling."

His non-answer should have made you feel uneasy, but all it really managed was to send an impossible rush to the desire pooling at your core. Your hands went to his suit, fumbling by feel to unbutton it, to rid him of it, to expose his hot skin to your touch. He obliged in pushing off his suit jacket, only to curl a hand around your thigh, squeezing. Your lips found his again and you kissed more fervently than before while you undid his tie, and got to work on his dress shirt.

It was intoxicating, the feeling of the Doctor's erection against your clothed sex. Gone were worries of the Doctor thinking you saw less than him because of your attraction—gone was the suspicion that he didn't see you the same way—and for now, more present than ever was the fear of losing him. You just wanted more of him, more of his hands on you, more of his essence as close to you as possible. It created a frantic need to feel every inch of him.

Oh, and Christ, his mouth. He was natural with it, matching your cues without fail. He let you tell him exactly what to do, and he met it with such obedience. You managed with the rest of his buttons, and you ran your hands under his loose shirt, delighted to be met with soft chest hair. One hand crept to the small of his back and the other passed over one of his nipples. The Doctor gave a gratifying groan, and you did it again, slower. You could do this all day, drawing mewls from his mouth, causing him to get lost in pleasure. There was one issue, though, and that was that you couldn't see him. And what was the point of any of this, really, if you couldn't see the Doctor's eyes roll back into his head.

So you reached behind him and unlocked the door of your hiding spot. Immediately, light from the moons beyond this office-like building streamed in through the window. The first thing you noticed was the chaos of his feathery hair, more extreme than usual. Then, you saw the dusting of pink on his cheeks and especially the tips of his ears. But finally—and you couldn't look away—you saw his half-lidded stare, those big brown eyes fully entranced by you.

You closed the gap between your lips once again, pushing him out of the closet. You walked him backwards, and he stumbled into a desk near the window. The rest of your own clothes came off as he shoved off his slacks. You might have let him drink in your nakedness on another day. Today, you weren't feeling so generous. Besides, his eyes still hadn't left yours. They were impossibly fixed, barely blinking, as you made him sit on the desk and climbed into his lap.

The Doctor's hands felt your bare thighs, clenched around him. He squeezed your skin every few inches, as if trying to memorize your exact curves. Then, he rubbed a circle in your inner thigh. And for just a moment, everything went quiet.

You both seemed to hold your breath as those splendid long fingers of his reached your cunt and one pushed in. A small gasp left you, sound held back as if you were afraid you'd dissuade him from continuing. The only sound in the room was the wet thrusting of his fingers into your eager pussy, and those tiny gasps of yours. Waves of pleasure rushed out from your center to the tips of your fingers and toes.

"Doctor," was all you could think to say, and it was a plea. Your mouth fell open in pleasure, unable to voice anything but your pleasure. You wanted to reciprocate, somehow, but your limbs felt as paralyzed as before. It took effort, and immense focusing, for you to move your hand towards his cock. His gaze left yours to notice the intention of your hand. His eyes flashed back onto you, and he gave a small smirk as he pushed another finger into your cunt. You gave a vehement groan, your arm falling limp and your body feeling weak. His other hand caught your back and pulled you in towards him. His lips were on your neck, tipping you into absolute bliss. You were all but worshipping his fingers as you came. You kissed the freckles of his face and scraped your fingers through his hair, the existence of him before you being the answer to your pleasure.

You were still overcome by obsession with the Doctor. If you could feel that again, you felt sure you would. More than anything you needed him to feel good. You dared to imagine how his eyes might roll back in his head when he—

Legs trembling with need, you found yourself still unsatisfied. You were kneeling over him, and he leaned back on his hands, looking at you like you'd hung the stars in the expansive night sky behind you.

"You're awfully quiet, Doctor," you observed, hovering your cunt a few centimeters over his twitching cock. "Do you—"

He licked his lips, catching his breath, before answering: "I have nothing I need to say." His eyes swept across you. He had that same starstruck look in his eyes he might make at a particularly intricate piece of technology. That look was on you. Oh, fuck.

You sank yourself onto him, deliberately feeling every inch fill you to the brim. As he bottomed out, he let out a deep groan. You raised yourself again, gasping again at the way he rubbed against your unbelievably sensitive hole. His cock felt hot, filling, exquisite, a cup of hot cocoa on a winter's day. Irresistible, complimentary. "Fuck."

He whined your name. You found just the right slow, deliberate pace that had him shaking half the time and whining the rest. Distracting from the pleasure was the incredible realization you were having that you were fucking The Doctor. The Oncoming Storm. The Destroyer of Worlds. Your best friend.

"Oh, fuck, Doctor. All my fantasies."

Articulacy, for once, seemed to be out the window for him. Between moans and whimpers, he managed, "You feel amazing, darling."

You hadn't seen the Doctor drunk before. He abstained. You imagined part of it was out of a desire to stay alert. Or maybe it didn't do the same thing to his body that it did to yours. Or maybe he just didn't like the taste. It wasn't clear. What was clear was that the Doctor was absolutely drunk on how it felt to be inside you. You felt an imperative to commit the lewd, unspeakable expressions to your memory. If you could memorize just one of those obscene faces, you'd never be disappointed while touching yourself ever again. Especially for it to have that backtrack of clapping bodies.

That fixed gaze of his was wiped. Instead, his lashes fluttered in delayed, stuttering blinks. His eyebrows puckered at the bridge of his nose. His gasping mouth, you captured in a messy kiss, careful not to ruin your rhythm. The Doctor started to thrust reverently into you, breaking off the kiss. "Oh— my—" he managed.

"Yeah, yeah," you moaned, pace increasing in speed and strength. He was hitting depths of you that made your vision pulse. You felt a pressure rising, and again, you lost all your senses in pleasure. "That's it, Doctor."

In one final, full-bodied moan, he came into you, and the very sound of his pleasure put you over the edge. You buried your face in his neck, wrapping your arms around the Doctor's back. You wanted to absorb him, in that final, heat-filled moment. Then, the fever began to drift away, instead feeling that familiar warmth.

"Well," said the Doctor, voice muffled in your neck.

"Yes," you agreed. "It is well."

He giggled.

"Jesus," you said. "Give you the best fucking of your life, and you giggle at a pun immediately after."

"You think that was the best fucking of my life?" he asked haughtily.

You leaned out of his embrace and raised yourself off of his cock. Then, you looked him dead in the eye. "You're gonna try and tell me I didn't see your eyes fucking cross at how good you felt?"

He averted his gaze in a giddy sort of grin, the tint on his cheeks resurging. "First time I recall having someone ride my cock while I'm trying to save their life from Daleks."

"But you said they were gone, Doctor."

"Did I?"

You fell silent. And in that silence, you heard the quickly growing sound of a Dalek's movement in the hallway. And a distorted voice. "Doctor, you will be exterminated."

“Yeah, yeah,” You rolled your eyes, patting his chest, trying to make some room between you both, though Jack seemed a bit reluctant to let you go so soon. “You’d quite like that, wouldn’t you?” The only answer was the rise of his eyebrows and the slight squeeze of your hips before he took a step back, his smile widening into a toothy grin.

“Dontcha know it,” He winked before finally going back to helping fix the tardis. This was only temporary, you had to remind yourself. Not because he was a human who would wither and die, no he was special, tardis energy clinging to his cells and keeping them from dying. No, this was temporary because he was only hitching a ride with the Doctor until you all made it back to Earth. And the thought made your heart ache.

You bit the inside of your cheek as you did you damned hardest to ignore the way the Doctor had watched your entire interaction with a smugly raised eyebrow. Like he had any say, you internally grumbled. But you couldn’t help it, all these small moments kept adding up. Teasing glances, small touches, flirty remarks. You can’t say they didn’t mean anything, Jack wasn’t like that. It was how he showed he cared and it could get him out of a tough situation, and he was someone who had a lot of love to give. Who were you to judge? 

“You gonna tell him, or should I?” The Doctor jested, eyes twinkling with his usual mischief.

“Tell him what?” You asked, crossing your arms. If looks could kill he’d be about roasted right now.

“Tell him how you feel, duh,” He scoffed, the two of you watching Jack flirt with some alien, missing the way he glanced at you both, his grin becoming smuger. 

“Don’t you even dare,” You hissed, pressing a finger against his chest. “Don’t you dare try to lecture me about this Doctor, or do you want me to give you a list-”

“All right, all right, I get it,” He grumbled, waving you away, posture getting a little tense. “All I’m saying is I’ve known you for a long, long time, and I’ve never seen you so…” He waved his hands about, looking positively mad. “...you know.”

“Do I?” You asked unamused. 

“Taken!” The Doctor exclaimed, bringing stares towards you both. “Sorry,” He winced, before continuing on like normal. “I’ve never seen you so taken. Just can’t believe it’s Captain Jack Harkness out of everybody.”

“Is it really that hard to believe?” You mumbled, picking at the threads of your shirt. 

“No, no,” He shook his head, voice trailing off. “He…has a nice smile I guess.” Your eyebrows flew up, a surprised gasp leaving your lips.

“Did the esteemed Doctor just give me a compliment?” Jack asked, eyes dancing between you both. 

“Never mind that, did you get the disk,” Doctor dismissed, pushing himself off the wall and already walking away. 

You and Jack shared a look before following him, “Of course, what do you take me for Doctor?”

“A nice smile apparently,” You teased, bumping into Jack’s side playfully.

Jack let out a short whistle, “Ain’t that right Doctor.”

“Now there’s two of ‘em,” Doctor grumbled, hands tucked into his pockets as he ducked into the tardis. “I should leave you both here.”

“Awe, but you love us, dontcha doc?” Jack crooned, tossing an arm around my shoulders and shaking me gently as we followed him. 

“Oh shove it lover boy.”

— — — —

“This way! Quick!” Jack shouted, gun in one hand, yours in the other. The both of you turned a sharp corner, and you pushed him into the first door you could. Unfortunately for you both, it was merely a storage cupboard. The small room felt entirely too warm as you were forced to stand chest to chest, the both of you practically smushed together. 

“If you wanted a piece of me all you had to do was ask,” Jack whispered, trying to gather his breaths along with you. Perhaps Jack found this a bit more opportune than you. 

“I think you like this a bit more than you should,” You whispered back, trying to ignore how his arms wrapped around you, almost protectively. 

“Maybe I do,” Jack retorted cheekily. “Not everyday you get stuck in a cupboard with someone as lovely as you.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Jack.”

“Hmm,” He chuckled. “It’s gotten me this far.” The sound of footfalls echoed outside the, causing you both to hush, Jack managing to pull you in even closer. Only for the door to be yanked open revealing the Doctor.

“Oh come on,” He groaned, a look of disgust on his face as he backpedaled away. “What are you…seriously? Right now? In the middle of a chase?”

“Is there a better time?” Jack teased.

“You’re acting like you caught us snogging or something,” You rolled your eyes, trying to step away, only for Jack to pull you back in and place a kiss on your cheek. 

“Don’t worry sweetheart,” Jack grinned, sending you a wink. “We can save that for next time.”

“Next time?” You asked with a raised eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you plan on getting trapped in a cupboard with me again.”

He shrugged his shoulders, sending you a wicked glance, “Depends where the mood takes us.”

“You dog,” You gaped, smacking his chest lightly as he laughed. Gosh did he have a gorgeous laugh, but that’s not the only thing that made your heart flutter. Not with the way his eyes seemed to linger on you as you all ran back to the tardis. 

— — — —

“So let me get this straight,” Jack says leaning over the tardis railing, eyes watching you as you danced around the tardis console. “You were the Doctor’s first companion?”

“More like a hostage,” You grumbled, flipping a few switches. 

“I thought you let that go!” Doctor exclaimed from under the floorboards, fixing a few wires that got jostled during the last flight. “It’s been over…I can’t even remember how long ago that was!”

“Point still stands,” You huffed, glancing back at Jack who had a twinkling look in his eye as he continued to just stand there and look pretty. “He stole me and my tardis.”

Jack winced, “Oh Doctor, that’s one way to pick someone up.”

“I didn’t mean to!” He tried to defend himself. “I didn’t know they were on board.”

“Can’t really blame you though,” Jack continued to tease, looking you up and down before sending you a sharp smirk. 

“Buy me a drink first, would ya?” You rolled your eyes, biting your lip to try and suppress your grin. 

“Then it’s a date,” Jack winked, sending one last jab. “And that’s how you properly pick someone up.”

“Blah, blah, blah,” Doctor grumbled, head popping up from the floorboards. “Is that all you two do? Flirt? Can’t you make yourselves just a tiny bit useful?” Pressing a few more buttons, and flipping another switch the tardis lurched, causing you all to clutch the closest railing (or floorboard in the Doctor’s case). “What the hell did you do?!”

“I fixed your problem, Doctor,” You shrugged. 

“Wha-?” He ducked back down, his mad, muttered rambles echoing. “But…but…how on Earth did you do that?”

“We’re not on Earth,” You sniped back. “Did you forget that this is technically my ship?”

“Yeah…well…” He muttered, mind already wandering elsewhere. 

“Can never admit when he’s been bested,” You remarked, leaning next to Jack. 

“That’s our Doctor all right,” Jack agreed, the atmosphere warm and light. Just as it should be. 

— — — —

“I think you’re just as bad as the Doctor!” You shouted, once again finding yourself running from one enemy or another. It gets hard ro remember sometimes, and it starts to blur together after a while. 

“Oh, trust me sweetheart,” Jack shouted back. “Nobody can beat him.” A wide grin was plastered on your lips as you pushed past people, dodging into an alleyway, ignoring their shouts of displeasure. “Here, this way,” Jack urged you, but of course, it led to a dead end. 

“Boy are you good at this,” You mocked, the footsteps weren’t far behind, if you tried to get back you’d be caught either way.

“I’ve got an idea…” Jack trailed off, glancing towards you, and you swore he looked a bit nervous. You can’t recall a time you’ve ever seen him look like that. “I’m not sure you’re gonna like it though.”

“Haven’t got much of a choice now, do we,” You replied, glancing over your shoulder once more before your back was pressed to the brick building behind you. Your eyes widened as suddenly all you could see was Jack and his stupidly handsome face. “Wh-what…”

“Sorry ‘bout this sweetheart,” He muttered before pressing his lips to yours in a feverish kiss. Your heart was hammering against your chest, and everything felt too hot, but it didn’t take long for you to kiss him back. He pushed his body against yours, his hand holding the back of your neck, thumb caressing your jaw. Slowly the need for oxygen began to consume you, causing you to pull away, only for Jack to try and follow you. 

You put a finger to his lips as you took a deep breath of air, “Give me a second, pretty boy. I need to breathe, you know.”

“Pretty boy,” He grinned against your finger, cheeks flushed and eyes dilated. “That’s a new one.”

You hummed absentmindedly, glancing over his shoulder to make sure you were in the clear, “You know, I have a feeling you're not sorry about that kiss at all.”

“And I have a feeling you don’t mind as much as I thought you would,” He responded in kind, watching you with fond eyes. 

You neither confirmed nor denied his claims, “Are you gonna keep layin’ one on me or are we gonna finish this job.”

“I think maybe just one more,” Jack pretended to think. “Y’know, just in case.”

“Just in case?” You repeated, unable to stop the grin from spreading across your lips. 

“Yeah,” He grinned back. “Maybe for a bit of luck too. Can’t be too careful these days.”

“It sounds like you’re trying to steal a second kiss from me,” You teased, running your finger under one of his suspenders. 

“Steal makes me sound like a scoundrel,” Jack grimaced.

“You are a bit of one,” You hummed, melting a bit as he pressed his forehead against your own, noses brushing ever so slightly. “And I suppose one more won’t hurt anybody.” Jack didn’t hesitate to kiss you once more.

— — — —

It was finally time. Time to say goodbye. Something you and the Doctor felt the same about. You absolutely loathed saying goodbye. The solemn looks, heavy hearts, the promise of seeing the other later which was rarely the case alongside the Doctor. Jack seemed to know better than most. 

“So this is it, huh,” Jack muttered, eyeing the blue box the three of you stood outside of. 

“For now,” Doctor muttered, with a tilt of his head. “You always have a way of finding me. Almost like a pest.”

“Oh shut up you,” You huffed, smacking his chest. “That’s his way of saying he can’t wait to see you again.”

“Oh I know,” Jack chuckled. “I’ve learned how to translate the Doctor a long time ago.”

“Well, all right. That’s enough of that,” Doctor clapped, turning to enter the tardis. “You comin’?” He popped his head back out, a knowing look in his eyes. 

“Give me a sec, would you?” You said, shoving his head back into the ship. You bit your lip as Jack stared at you, an intense look in his eyes. It was like he wasn’t sure if he should say something or not, looking at you a bit too fondly for your liking. 

“So,” Jack chuckles humorlessly. “This is it, huh?”

You paused, rocking back and forth on your feet. It was eating you from the inside out. You loved this blasted man, you could deny it as much as you’d like, but it wouldn’t change the facts. He had a home, people he cared for, places to be. You were a wanderer, traveling alongside the Doctor. Always wandering, always moving, seeing new places, meeting new people. Never ending, always going. That was the only life you knew. So this was dangerous, oh so dangerous. That little spark of hope in the back of your head, the thought of staying in one place, and all because of one dastardly man. 

You bite the inside of your cheek as Jack continues to watch you, he almost looks hopeful, “Doesn’t have to be.” You shouldn’t have said it. You shouldn’t have fanned that small spark. This never ends well, both you and the Doctor knew that all too well. It’s why you kept your heart locked up, why you stayed with the Doctor, he was a constant you could always depend on. The tardis, the Doctor, they were both your safety, but you were willing to uproot yourself, all for a single, little human man. 

“No?” Jack asked, raising an eyebrow. “Doubt the Doctor wants to stay for long.”

“That’s not…” You trailed off, starting to feel your nerves get the best of you. “Not even gonna try to convince me to stay?”

Jack glanced away with a tight grin, making your stomach drop. Perhaps this was more one sided than you thought, “C’mon, lets not pretend like you’d stay with me when you have the Doctor. I’m not that foolish.”

“I don’t think you get it,” You smiled bitterly. “I’ve always had the Doctor, I always will, but I’ve never…I’ve never…” Jack spoke your name breathlessly, taking a step towards you. The words were on the tip of your tongue, heavy like lead. 

“Just…tell me I’m an idiot,” You whispered, eyes searching his for any hidden emotions, any sign of you being foolish. “Tell me I’m being daft, to go back to the tardis and…”

Jack stepped even closer, palm cupping your cheek, “I can’t…are you being serious right now?”

“I love you, you big idiot!” You cried, all your frustration finally bubbling over, pressing your face a bit more into his hand. “I love you.”

Jack let out a breathy laugh, pressing your foreheads together, “Have I ever told you how gorgeous you are?” Then, without a word, he pressed your lips together slowly and passionately. His lips were so soft as they caressed your own, and he held you so gently against himself. It seemed he always had a way of stealing your breath away, and he sure as hell was making a habit of it. 

“Again?” The Doctor’s voice broke the little bubble you found yourself in. The two of you pulled away, and Jack couldn’t hide the grin on his face. “Blimey, can’t keep your hands off each other for a second can you.”

“I think someone’s jealous,” Jack chuckles, giving a squeeze to your hip before you turn around. 

Before you could speak a word, Doctor sent you a bitter grin, “I know.”

“I’ll see you again,” Your smile wavered ever so slightly, hand subconsciously tightening around Jack's coat lapels. 

“I know,” Doctor nodded, looking off into the distance before snapping out of it. “Off I go then, places to be, people to save.”

“Doctor,” You called out, but it was too late, tardis doors shut behind him, the familiar whooshing of the tardis. “You better take care of her, you hear! I want her back in one piece! And you as well!” Jack took a hold of your wrist, pulling you away from the blue box that was disappearing from sight. You let out a huff, turning back to the handsome captain standing behind you. 

“C’mon,” Jack muttered, beckoning you with his head. “I think I owe you a drink.”

“I’d like that,” You spoke softly back, taking his hand and threading your fingers together. 

“Oh,” He paused, looking down at you once more. “I love you too, by the way.”

“I’d bloody hope so,” You slapped his chest. “I just left all I know for ya.”

“Y’know, when you put it like that…” Jack rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. 

“Mhm,” You nod with a smirk, leaning up and kissing his cheek. “Now, where to, pretty boy?”

Just like that, you found yourself on a whole new adventure and you have never been more excited.

You were on top of him, your hands on his chest, your eyes staring down with a kind of lustful intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. Every bounce, every roll of your hips, it caused pleasure to erupt deep within him.

But that's not what he was waiting for.

Jack could tell that you knew what he wanted, from the smug expression on your face to the way you'd lean down every so often, your lips almost touching his before you pulled away again.

It was pure torture, and he was loving every minute of it, no matter how frustrating it was.

"God, you're killing me here," he breathed out while gripping onto your hips, not trying to guide your movements, just as a way to keep himself grounded.

"Am I?" Came your coy response as you batted your eyelashes oh so innocently at him. "Well, at least you can come back from it."

He huffed out a noise of a amusement at your words. Of course you would say something like that.

"Please," he begged, giving you his best puppy dog eyes. "Just one kiss, it doesn't even have to be a long one. You don't even have to spit in my mouth yet, I just want a kiss, please-"

"Alright, alright, drama queen." You rolled your eyes affectionately before leaning down and capturing his lips with an open-mouthed kiss, swiping your tongue against his teeth just to be a tease.

The moan he let out was pornstar worthy, his hands moving up to cup your face so you couldn't pull away from him too soon. Jack knew he said the kiss didn't have to be a long one, but he lied.

You could practically feel the way his cock was pulsing inside you, standing at attention even more than it already had been due to your tongue in his mouth. The kiss turned into something sloppy and desperate as you also couldn't bear to pull away just yet, your nails digging into his chest from where your hands still rested there.

He groaned in delight at the pleasure-pain mix, always loving it whenever you left marks behind of your encounters. The mere image of seeing bright red scratches down his back or dark purple hickeys on his neck in the mirror was enough to keep him hard for days.

The two of you finally parted with a soft pop, both of your lips wet and glistening with each other's saliva. But for him, it still wasn't enough. There could never be enough of you.

"Please spit in my mouth," he pleaded while trying to catch his breath, squirming around underneath you impatiently. "Please, I need to taste you again."

Pride sparked within your chest at the usually suave and flirtatious Captain Jack Harkness being reduced to a pitiful mess beneath you.

"So greedy," you murmured in a teasing manner, unable to keep the predatory look out of your eyes when watching him. "I could probably spit on your face and you'd like it, huh?"

Noticing the way he seemed to perk up like a dog hearing the word 'treat', you snorted and shook your head. "I'm not actually spitting on your face, so you can forget it. But-" you leaned in closer, speaking directly into his ear "-I will spit in your mouth... if you ask nicely."

"Please-" he immediately choked out upon fully processing your words, his eyes staring up at you in pure need. "Please please please-"

You let out a soft shushing noise while bringing your pointer finger down to press lightly against his lips. "Open your mouth," you commanded while pulling your hand away.

He obeyed as soon as you gave him the order, opening his mouth as wide as he possibly could. His body trembled in anticipation while he watched you gathering the saliva in your mouth before leaning down again and spitting right onto his tongue.

That alone was enough to send him over the edge, his cock spurting out a massive load of his hot and sticky seed inside of you. His eyes were closed in a blissful expression, his head tilted back as he allowed your spit to make its way down the back of his throat.

The taste of you was something he could never get tired of.

End notes: he's such a freak I swear /aff

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You were on top of him, your hands on his chest, your eyes staring down with a kind of lustful intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. Every bounce, every roll of your hips, it caused pleasure to erupt deep within him.

But that's not what he was waiting for.

Jack could tell that you knew what he wanted, from the smug expression on your face to the way you'd lean down every so often, your lips almost touching his before you pulled away again.

It was pure torture, and he was loving every minute of it, no matter how frustrating it was.

"God, you're killing me here," he breathed out while gripping onto your hips, not trying to guide your movements, just as a way to keep himself grounded.

"Am I?" Came your coy response as you batted your eyelashes oh so innocently at him. "Well, at least you can come back from it."

He huffed out a noise of a amusement at your words. Of course you would say something like that.

"Please," he begged, giving you his best puppy dog eyes. "Just one kiss, it doesn't even have to be a long one. You don't even have to spit in my mouth yet, I just want a kiss, please-"

"Alright, alright, drama queen." You rolled your eyes affectionately before leaning down and capturing his lips with an open-mouthed kiss, swiping your tongue against his teeth just to be a tease.

The moan he let out was pornstar worthy, his hands moving up to cup your face so you couldn't pull away from him too soon. Jack knew he said the kiss didn't have to be a long one, but he lied.

You could practically feel the way his cock was pulsing inside you, standing at attention even more than it already had been due to your tongue in his mouth. The kiss turned into something sloppy and desperate as you also couldn't bear to pull away just yet, your nails digging into his chest from where your hands still rested there.

He groaned in delight at the pleasure-pain mix, always loving it whenever you left marks behind of your encounters. The mere image of seeing bright red scratches down his back or dark purple hickeys on his neck in the mirror was enough to keep him hard for days.

The two of you finally parted with a soft pop, both of your lips wet and glistening with each other's saliva. But for him, it still wasn't enough. There could never be enough of you.

"Please spit in my mouth," he pleaded while trying to catch his breath, squirming around underneath you impatiently. "Please, I need to taste you again."

Pride sparked within your chest at the usually suave and flirtatious Captain Jack Harkness being reduced to a pitiful mess beneath you.

"So greedy," you murmured in a teasing manner, unable to keep the predatory look out of your eyes when watching him. "I could probably spit on your face and you'd like it, huh?"

Noticing the way he seemed to perk up like a dog hearing the word 'treat', you snorted and shook your head. "I'm not actually spitting on your face, so you can forget it. But-" you leaned in closer, speaking directly into his ear "-I will spit in your mouth... if you ask nicely."

"Please-" he immediately choked out upon fully processing your words, his eyes staring up at you in pure need. "Please please please-"

You let out a soft shushing noise while bringing your pointer finger down to press lightly against his lips. "Open your mouth," you commanded while pulling your hand away.

He obeyed as soon as you gave him the order, opening his mouth as wide as he possibly could. His body trembled in anticipation while he watched you gathering the saliva in your mouth before leaning down again and spitting right onto his tongue.

That alone was enough to send him over the edge, his cock spurting out a massive load of his hot and sticky seed inside of you. His eyes were closed in a blissful expression, his head tilted back as he allowed your spit to make its way down the back of his throat.

The taste of you was something he could never get tired of.

End notes: he's such a freak I swear /aff

Likes < reblogs | comments are greatly appreciated | requests are currently open | divider by @/thecutestgrotto

Main masterlist | Doctor Who masterlist | Torchwood masterlist | wanna be added to my taglist? | my Kofi

~~

Steven Meeks thought his feelings for you were quite subtle.

Sure, he’d stare at you in class, but he always managed to look away before you caught him. Did his face turn pink with a brush of your hand? No doubt, but he just always acted  hot, even if the room was freezing. Steven would take extra time to explain homework to you, whereas he would’ve yelled at anyone else if they took up too much time.

But overall, he thought his crush was a secret! 

Well, of course everyone knew about it but you.

Neil would watch Meeks almost droll over you in class, Charlie watched him take detours to ‘accidentally’ bump into you between classes, and Pittsie straight up read his friend’s journal.

But hey, it’s not like you were any better.

You too would stare dreamily across the classroom at the redhead boy, unaware of everyone noting your interest. Todd knew that you could do a trigonometry equation in a second, but he watched you ask Steven for help instead. Then Knox noticed how you’d often ‘forget’ one of your books, giving Meeks the perfect opportunity to return it to you.

The group of boys would all gossip about your separate stupidity, while both being exceptionally smart! It was safe to say they were dumbfounded.

But god, were the poems the absolute worst part.

For the Dead Poets Society meetings, if you were reading a poem, it was always a love one. Whether it were one you’d composed or taken from a book, the group of boys would groan as you began reading off all the mushy stuff.

Of course, Steven was annoyed for another reason! You were talking fondly about some boy! A boy who wasn’t him. That made him huff and childishly pout, ignoring your gaze as you read the poem.

But your words were directed at him, as your eyes bore through him, silently thankful he refused to look at you.

It was the same for when he was reading aloud. Meeks’ eyes would stay glued to the paper in his hand, refusing to even glance at you, while you gaze up at him with your chin propped up by your palm.

Charlie and Neil would always playfully mock your expression, gushing over each other as the rest of the group stifled laughs. God, even Cameron was sick of your silent pining.

So, they hatched a plan.

Todd forged two letters, as directed by Knox, addressed to you and your boy. Each asking the other out on a date! Then, they rushed about to slip them under each of your doors.

You were getting back from the bathroom, drying your hair with a towel and greeting your roommate. She grinned up at you from her bed, holding up an envelope.

“You’ve got mail!” Her voice dragged out the words before she sat up.

You gave her a fond, but exasperated look as you reached for the letter. “Give it.”

She snatched it away before you could. “It’s from Stevieee!” She taunted, smiling widely.

Your eyebrows raised at that as you lunged again. “What? What’s it for?”

“He wants to go on a date!” She teased, continuing to dodge your efforts. You snorted at her words.

“Ha ha ha, very funny. Don’t hold this crush over my head.” You lunged again, this time managing to pull the paper into your hold with a triumphant grin. She watched you open the letter, your eyes skimming the contence.

It took a moment for the words to truly dawn on you, your smile slipping for a moment. You thought it might’ve been a prank, but it was undoubtedly his handwriting. “Oh..”

Your roommate giggled. “I know! He’s in looooveee!” This time you threw a pillow for her head.

Inside you were freaking out, doing backflips at the thought of a date with Steven. And it was set for tomorrow!

~~

When Meeks had received your letter, he immediately interrogated Pitts about it.

“Was she here? Did she give you the letter?”

Gerard glanced up from his homework, nodding at his best friend. “For the fifth time, yes.”

Steven flopped down onto his bed, rereading your letter for the 78th time. God, he was practically giggling at kicking his feet at the thought of tomorrow.

~~

Meeks stood outside the front of Welton, bundling up in his coat as he awaited you.

He was nervous as ever, fiddling with his gloved hands. What is you didn’t show? 

Steven shuffled on his feet, his head snapping around each time the door opened.

And the one time he didn’t bother to look, the persons footsteps stopped beside him.

When Steven looked it was you, smiling softly at him with snow already falling in your hair. “Hi.”

He nervously smiled back at you, his cheeks definitely dusted pink. “Hey,” breathed out the boy. “I uh.. didn’t know you liked me to be honest.” Meeks sheepishly muttered this.

You giggled lightly, nudging his arm with your own. “Of course I do.”

Steven smiled again, albeit this time proudly.

You two continued talking softly for a moment, until you started your walk to the town.

From their safe observation point, the poets celebrated at your disappearing frames. They gave high fives and whooped, glad to finally be rid of your torturous yearning.

~~

i hope you enjoyed! I adored writing this *cough send more DPS reqs cough*

You knew Charlie probably better than anyone else in the world. It was unintentional. You hadn’t set out to like each other, quite the opposite actually. You avoided him at all costs. You heard the rumors about Dalton and you had no intention of getting mixed up with him. 

He made sure never to look your way when you were around. You were exactly the kind of person he would actually get feelings for. So when you hung around Neil he left, arguing that he had homework to do or something. 

You avoided each other at all costs. 

Until one day you didn’t. 

You and Charlie were obsessed with each other nowadays. It was easy for anyone to tell by the way your eyes lingered on each other and the way you spoke without actually speaking. It was ridiculous. Everyone expected Charlie to be the least likely to actually have a steady girlfriend. Imagine everyone’s surprise when he was one of the first. 

You teetered back and forth on your feet as you stood out in the courtyard. You were waiting very patiently for Charlie to come outside of the school for your date. As you checked your wristwatch, you started to think perhaps he had been caught by a teacher or something. 

It was a dark and dewey night. You could feel the rain from earlier still on your skin as you shivered into your jacket. Your stomach was rumbling. You knew you should have eaten something earlier. You knew Charlie was gonna be late. 

As soon as you thought it, Charlie emerged from one of the downstairs windows. He was sent off by Knox who was waving in the window. You waved back at him, holding your arm close to your body as Charlie rushed over to you across the courtyard. 

“Took you long enough,” you whined, trying not to sound actually irritated but getting your annoyance across. Charlie threw his arm around you. 

“Sorry, Todd took forever to give me the signal. I’m giving him far too much responsibility.” You rolled your eyes. 

“I like him. I think he’s nice and respectable, unlike someone,” you joked. You got into the driver's seat of your car. Charlie rolled his eyes, a lopsided smile on his face. 

“I’m respectable.” He put his hand on your thigh jokingly. You swatted it away, laughing with him. 

“And I’m starving.” 

You soon came to a small 24 hour diner you two frequented. It was close to the school in case there was an emergency and there was usually only one waitress working so you two could mess around as much as you wanted before leaving. While Charlie was at school it was one of the only times you actually got to see each other. 

“Are you getting a milkshake?” you asked Charlie, sitting down in the booth across from him. 

“Of course I am. Two straws.”

“Because how dare we use one straw between the two of us. I have never touched your lips ever. It definitely would be awful if we swapped saliva.” Charlie smirked at you, leaning forward over the table. 

“Is that an invitation?”

“When is it not?” 

You missed him. You hadn’t seen each other in a couple of days because you were both so busy. It was hard getting him to sneak out of that prison masking as a school. You were about to kiss him, just because you wanted to, when the waitress approached. 

You looked up at her, startled to find it wasn’t the regular one that was working. 

“Good evening,” she said, voice chirpy. She looked about your age. You might even be going to school with her if you thought hard enough. “How are you two today?” 

“Fantastic,” Charlie said, grinning brightly at her. You glanced between the two of them. You didn’t like the subtle way Charlie was now leaning away from you. You didn’t like his charming smile or the way his eyes were twinkling. 

You weren’t a jealous person by nature. 

But you were dating Charlie Dalton. A person in that predicament is bound to have some worries. 

“Where’s Mabel?” you asked, voice curt. You cleared your throat. You hadn’t meant for it to come off that aggressive. She hadn’t done anything. 

Mabel was the normal older woman who took your orders. Though, you never actually ordered. She usually just brought out your regular orders. 

“She’s taking a couple days off! I’m Sel though. I may not be as quick as her but I swear I can write just as fast.” You smiled gently. 

“Well we’re gonna get two vanilla milkshakes to start off if that’s alright Sel,” Charlie said pleasantly. Your smile fell. 

“Sounds good! I’ll be right back with that.” Sel left as quickly as she had come. You gave Charlie a look. 

“What happened to our two straws?”

“You made such a big deal about it. I wouldn’t wanna give you any diseases.” 

You pursed your lips and nodded. Great. 

-

The Dead Poets meetings were something you had grown used to. You loved going. At first you felt like you were intruding on something rather private. They were all a close knit group, talking about genuine poems and they’re meanings. It wasn’t something you would expect from Charlie but as you met the others, you understood how much it meant to every single one of them. 

They had grown to like having you there. Todd took minutes and you held everything, helping out, flipping through a dictionary when you were asked. They were your friends now. 

You and Charlie walked through the cave together. You were behind him. You were running late, no surprise there. You had driven over and he had come in separately. When he tried to kiss you, you politely declined. 

Maybe you were still a little annoyed about the date a day before. 

“No need to clap! We have arrived,” Charlie announced as you walked inside. Everyone else was already there and seated. You rolled your eyes, putting your hand on Meeks’s shoulder as you walked past him. You got the courtesy nods and the chorus of ‘you’re late’’s. Charlie sat down at his spot in the corner, patiently awaiting for you to sit on his lap like usual. Instead, you walked past him. 

Maybe this was a bit much. But he needed to understand how much you meant to each other. 

You sat down between Neil and Knox. You crossed your legs, putting one foot underneath Knox’s leg, leaning against the back of the chair. 

You could feel his eyes boring at the side of your skull. 

“Did we miss anything exciting?” you questioned, putting your hand on Neil’s leg. He looked over at you, slightly startled. 

“Nothing yet. We just started,” he explained. 

“Good. I always love the first poem of the night. Really sets the tone.”

You watched very carefully as Charlie didn’t stand up. You looked at him, dead in the eye, letting him know that you both knew what you were doing. He clenched his jaw and tried to breathe evenly. 

But he waited patiently until the end of the meeting to say anything to you. 

You were all leaving, chatting over each other, muttering about classes and teasing about tests. You were walking back to your car, cleverly parked far away to avoid detection when Charlie rushed up beside you. 

“What was that about?”

“What?”

“You know what.” You gave him a thin look. He grabbed your arm, pulling you back to him. You quickly ripped it away. 

“Oh I’m sorry. Should I have sat next to you? I thought maybe because we’re separating our milkshakes we should also rearrange the seating arrangements,” you suggested. Charlie closed his eyes, breathing harshly through his nose. 

“I knew it was about that.”

“Good. Glad you can still read my mind. Can you read Sel’s too?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.” “Me neither.” You shook your head, stepping away from him. “And it hurt me. We only have so many nights together and you spend it ogling the damn waitress Charlie.” The boys were dispersed but you could feel them lingering around. Knox was probably hiding behind a tree to eavesdrop. 

“I’m sorry. You know I love only you.” He grabbed your hand. “I didn’t mean it. I swear.” 

“You swear Dalton? Because I won’t stick around if you’re lying.” “I’m not lying.” You gave him a look. He grabbed your other hand. “I swear it.” 

“Did you like feeling jealous Charlie Dalton?” 

“No. I absolutely did not.” 

“Remember that,” you whispered. He nodded. 

“You’re really scary when you’re serious. I don’t like it.” He paused. “I kinda like it.” 

You both laughed dryly, breaking the tension. 

“We’re gonna be okay yeah?” he whispered. 

“Yeah. Probably. Don’t be a dick anymore.”

He lifted his glass to the light, swirling the amber liquid with mock academic flair. “Right around the time peat smoke was proven to whisper dirty things in your ear,” He paused. Then, in the worst Scottish accent you’d ever heard—“Och, lassie, off wi’ yer knickers.”

It was part-Scotsman, part-drunk pirate, part… stroke patient.

Wilson, who had thus far maintained the dignified restraint of a man ignoring the fact that your legs were essentially draped across his thigh, promptly choked on his drink. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin, struggling to suppress a chuckle.

“That was less Braveheart,” he said between coughs, “and more brain hemorrhage.”

You burst out laughing.

House squinted, looking personally offended. “You think I sound weak? Offensive. That was a mighty Scotsman. A kilted god among men.”

“Mighty,” Wilson deadpanned, nodding with mock gravitas. “Mighty enough to trip over his own tongue and fall crotch-first into a caber.”

He shifted closer to you, casual as anything, chestnut eyes catching the light as they crinkled with an un-Wilson looseness that only showed up three drinks in. “Oh and by ‘whispering’, what House really means is ‘yelling like a drunk rugby fan with a megaphone and unresolved trauma,’” he teased with a laugh. The kind of laugh sober Wilson might’ve swallowed back with a polite cough and a change of subject. “Subtlety is not in his DNA- shocker, I know.”

You snorted into your glass. “That’s generous. I’d go with ‘public disturbance.’”

House raised his glass in mock salute. “Guilty. Though I prefer ‘force of nature’ to ‘traumatized rugby fan.’ Has a little more sex appeal.”

“Only to people with a head injury,” Wilson muttered under his breath.

“You say that like it’s a dealbreaker.”

House’s smirk kicked up a notch as he glanced back to you, head cocked. “Besides, subtlety’s for cowards. And the whole ‘sprawled-out goddess’ look you’ve got going? Wasted on ambiguity.”

Wilson scooted closer again, knee bumping yours. His hand grazed your leg. Not a grab, a mere fleeting touch. “Ignore him,” he said softly, but his tone didn’t quite match his composed veneer, a detail that didn’t escape your notice. “He’s got all the finesse of a sledgehammer, but he’s not wrong.” He paused, and he was close enough that you caught the faint cedar of his cologne and something else you couldn’t name but wanted to bottle. “You’re beautiful like this. Relaxed. Open.”

House didn’t even try to disguise his scoff, tipping his glass your way. “Open? She’s a neon sign screaming ‘ravish me.’ Don’t let Wilson’s choirboy act fool you- he’s already mentally cataloguing where to bite first.”

Wilson, to his credit, didn’t flinch. Just fixed House the kind of glare that said shut your trap in a gazillion different languages. He turned his attention back to you, laced with that careful warmth only he could manage. “He’s an ass. But… yeah. You’re making it real hard to behave.”

A giggle bubbled up from your chest, part-impish, part-menace. “God, you two,” you sighed, flopping back dramatically. “I can’t decide if I’m being seduced or prepped for a veeeery horny team-building exercise.”

“You knew what this was,” House said dryly.

“And you still showed up on time anyways.” Wilson added, less helpfully.

You stretched slowly, catlike, making a show of it just to watch both of them zeroed in as if they’d forgotten how to blink. “If I did want to strip,” you mused, syrupy-sweet. “I’d do it right. Spotlights. Music. Probably glitter.”

“Dear god,” Wilson mumbled, half in prayer.

“But…” you twirled the rim of your glass between your fingers, “I’d need a reason first, wouldn’t I?”You cocked a brow, eyes glittering as they bounced between the two doctors.

You weren’t subtle either.

You didn’t need to be.

House didn’t wait for permission. Of course he didn’t.

Subtlety required restraint, and restraint had been surgically removed from him years ago.

His palm slid beneath your skirt before Wilson could even think of filling the silence, cupping the curve of your ass with a lazy kind of ownership, one that screamed he’d done it a hundred times before and had yet to be reprimanded for it. The touch was almost dismissive… if not for the rough grope that followed, eliciting a small hitch from you. His thumb dragged invisible patterns against your flesh, each one a question: How far would you let this go?

Far enough. He knew that.

Eyes widening, Wilson caught the movement instantly, as if House’s hand might suddenly become a medical emergency. His mouth opened on might’ve been some half-assed moral objection, the kind that would make him feel like a better person for all of five seconds. Though it was short-lived, short circuiting somewhere between his brain and spine (and his hard-on). His hand joined the fray, settling higher up your thigh, skin leaving a line of heat through the flimsy barrier of your skirt.

You squirmed. Just a little. Not a word of protest on your tongue.

“Funny,” House tilted his head, brows knitting together in exaggerated thought. "You said you needed a reason, and now you’re practically writing me one in cursive on your thigh. Either I’m very persuasive, or you’re a liar.”

His blue eyes trailed down your body. “I’m voting liar.”

You huffed out a laugh, more breath than sound. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

But you didn’t move. Not away, at least.

“Maybe I’m bored.”

House’s grin sharpened. “And this is your idea of entertainment? Letting two men twice your age feel you up like it’s amateur hour at a strip club?”

Wilson’s lips pursed into a sulky pout, grumbling inaudibly. “…Well first of all- I’m not twice her age. I’m only thirty-nine.”

House shot him with a flat look. “Wilson, please. You’ve been thirty-nine since the Bush administration.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, but didn’t say a thing.

You swallowed, heat coiling deep. “Ooooor I’m just curious,” you offered, barely above a whisper. “Wondering how far you’ll go before one of you chickens out.”

House barked a cackle, full and unrepentant. “Don’t worry, I only stop until someone’s pushing up daisies.”

And just like that, Wilson’s hand moved again—with purpose now, challenged by your words, by House’s audacity, by the noiseless thrum that had weaved its way through all three of you. His fingers ghosted higher, brushing the edge of your panties—already moist, and not from nerves.

House surveyed with sharp-eyed approval, glass forgotten on the table. “That’s more like it,” a satisfied hum underscored his words. “Though let’s not pretend you wouldn’t look better on your knees.”

You turned toward him, a staccato thump seizing your heart. He wasn’t smirking anymore—just watching you, intense and unblinking, probably replaying every filthy possibility in his head.

He sat up, rising and squaring his shoulders with a lazy grace that verged on smug. “How about this,” he started, the lilt of his tone as causal as ordering coffee. “You get on your knees. I enjoy the show. And Wilson gets to lie to himself about being the one you really wanted. Fair trade, right?”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s your version of fair?”

“I’m the smoke and mirrors. Wilson’s the mop and bucket. Try to keep up.”

Behind you, Wilson let out a choked laugh. “Jesus, House—”

“Wrong deity,” House cut in. “But keep calling out names if it helps.”

You rolled your eyes, but your hands were already on the button of his jeans, fingers skittering with greedy impulse. House didn’t lift a finger to help. He simply leaned back, legs spread as an unspoken invitation to draw you nearer, observing with open appreciation as you worked.

“Atta girl,” he husked, tone dropping to a low and sandpapery timbre.

When you freed him, you saw it—already thickening fast in your palm, bleeding with heat that you swore had a pulse of its own, the weight of it settling heavy over your digits. Not massive, no, but enough to fuck you up, with that slight upward curve that practically begged to bully the back of your throat in all the right ways and a tip that blushed a deeper shade of red with every second you lingered. Deceptively pretty, almost rude in how it owned the space between his thighs. A grower, definitely. But now? Very much grown.

Wilson’s warm, steady hands curved around your waist. His touch didn’t push—it guided—subtle pressure coaxing you forward, down, into position. The leather of the couch creaked softly beneath you as you sank to your knees between House’s legs, the sound nearly eclipsed by the rabbit-quick beat of your heart.

He crowded in from behind, his slacks doing little to dull the throbbing, insistent press of his erection against the dip of your back. He rocked against you once, unrushed yet teeming with exhilaration, partially terrified that if it felt this good with clothes on, actually being inside you might just ruin him for life.

But then he stilled.

“You sure?” his breath stirred the fine hairs at your nape, barely audible over the blood in your ears.

You nodded. That was all he needed.

Hiking your skirt up with a breathless little scoot, Wilson peeled your panties down as gentlemanly as he could in such a scenario, the damp cotton catching briefly on the soft give of your thighs before pooling where your knees bit into the cushions. His fingers followed instantly—kneading the plush swell of your ass, spreading you wide until your wet folds parted like ripened fruit split under thumb.

Exposed, your cunt fluttered uselessly in empty space, spasming in a mindless pulse that wafted a hot, narcotic wave of scent. Your arousal clung in the air, intoxicatingly so, punching the sanity clean out of Wilson’s skull. He exhaled so sharply it rattled his chest, pupils blown, every last coherent thought fragmenting into a haze of pussy-induced delirium.

“O-Oh wow,” he blurted, hoarse and awestruck. “You are… soaked.”

Amusement flickered across House’s features, his thumb skimming the arc of your cheekbone as your mouth hovered mere inches over the swollen head of his dick. The tickle of your breath drew a feral little tremor from it, precum coating him in a viciously glossy sheen. “Told you,” he said. “She’s been dripping since I made that Scotsman joke.”

You huffed in disbelief, smirking despite the ways your thighs were trembling. “You’re disgusting.”

“And yet, here you are.”

Emboldened, you bent forward and sealed your lips around his fat tip, your tongue teasing delicate kitten licks over the slit—solely to feel him shiver beneath you. Flicking, swirling, savoring the way you wrung hushed, reluctant moans out of him with every pass, you worked with surgical precision.

However, he tasted… well, not exactly gourmet. Bitter, briny, drenched in that unmistakable aftershock of something indecently male, enough to wrinkle your nose on reflex. But you were too shitfaced to give a fuck. If anything, the mess of it egged you on. You ventured on inch by inch, halfway down a single sweep as he fed easy into your mouth, while fists squeezed and twisted at his veiny base in rhythmic circles.

Air whistled harshly through House’s clenched teeth, chest lurching, his hand flexing in restraint at his thigh as he battled the almighty urge to grip your hair and slam you down until your nose was buried in his wiry curls. But he didn’t. Yet.

Behind you, Wilson gave in. You heard it in the clatter of his belt hitting the floor, the hiss of his zipper yanked down too fast to care, the rustle of fabric shoved aside with the grace of a man losing the fight to keep his hands off you.

Then: heat. The soft planes of his body blanketing you, his member nudging your entrance with shameless intent—a tad bit stubbier than House’s (if we’re being petty about it-) but girthy enough to stretch, to quell that blistering ache in your womb in a toe-curling way. He dragged himself through the weeping slit of your vulva, cockhead gliding right over your puffy clit, before lining up and sheathing in you with a stroke so bone-deep, it scrambled your mind into a buffering screen and left your mouth full of static.

A garbled gasp bursted from your lungs and vibrated around House’s cock, spine bowing as you struggled to adjust to the intrusion, momentarily unsure whether to take it or tap the hell out. House jerked, faltering in a sudden unsteady surge, a low bitten off curse slurring out of him.

“Ngh!-… mm… you feel unreal,” Wilson whimpered into your shoulder, quiet desperation creeping up the edges of his voice. “remind me t-to write you a…. Hah… thank-you note after this—formal stationery, maybe a wax seal.”

“Uh-huh…” you answered absentmindedly, too far gone to process his incessant babbling. You were busy trying to survive the way he and House were pummeling your insides from both ends, your body caught in the relentless piston-esque snap and grind that haven’t even hit its stride yet.

Wilson’s hands, once so measured and clinical, were now splayed across your ribcage hard enough to brand you with his fingerprints, knuckles blanching as if he’d been edging himself for hours instead of minutes. He buried himself to the hilt with a gluttonous shove, cock lodged deep that the blunt crest of him prodded nerves you didn’t know had a name. When he retracted his hips, only the tip remained, nestled in your drooling hole. He paused to take a glimpse, unable to help himself—transfixed by how your juices clung to him in translucent webs, adorning his shaft like lacquered silk.

He gulped, crimson crawling up his neck as the sheer volume of it hit him: how fast he (and house) reduced you to such a state.

He snapped forward, pelvis colliding with your tail bone, picking up a pace with a foggy, half-drunk determination—sluggish at first, all clumsy momentum and no finesse, each thrust a feverish motion that rocked you onward in staggered bursts. Your lids drooped, the room careening at the corners of your vision in loops. Nerves alight. Blood whirring. Your senses awash in a whiskey blur and the spectral, shivery fog of it all.

You swallowed around House further, allowing yourself to slump into the metronomic rhythm they built between your holes—blitzed on cock, alcohol, and the brain-dead high of being used just right. Every sturdy push and pull from Wilson drove you farther down, until House’s dick was battering the roof of your mouth, the squishy crown ramming the very back of your soft palate nonstop.

Your mewls resonated along House’s length, drawn out and giddy, the pitch climbing each time Wilson bottomed out. It was pure pornstar-grade debauchery: spit dribbling unchecked down your chin, your sweaty body rocking like a buoy in a storm, anchored only by the cocks working you from front to back.

“Agh—-ah… Fuck… don’t you dare stop. Keep going,” the swear fled House on an airless murmur, pleasure unspooling at the seams of his composure. His jaw clamped shut as your tongue skimmed the underside of his dick, tracing near a particularly sensitive vein before delving lower to lick a filthy stripe onto his testicles, suckling one of them until it slipped free with a lewd pop.

“…Even if you are slobbering like a saint bernard.” He snickered, glassy eyes glazing over your disheveled moving form.

Glowering up at him, you whined a sharp, wounded noise around him, partly from offense, mostly from being too cock-dumb to coordinate a middle finger without choking.

He grinned, all mean affection. “There it is. My favorite sound.”

Meanwhile, Wilson had narrowed his focus to a single, frantic mission: making the absolute most of tonight. He undulated his hips to the tempo of his rapid heaving, jackhammering into your tender g-spot with a kind of dumb, reverent devotion—not so much to you, but to your pussy, which he might never get the honor of visiting again. He was so lost in the moment that a sound tore up from the well in his chest—raw, croaky, and almost humiliating in its sincerity.

He sank deep with a stuttering grind, balls snug against you, and just froze there—as if he was internally bargaining with himself not to bust already.

“Oh my god—-” he wheezed, still unable to believe his dick had landed him here. “She’s—she’s milking me to death!… I almost saw my life flash before my eyes.”

Then, quieter and borderline-delirious: “I think I’m being spiritually harvested…”

You blinked once. Mildly confused. Though kept going.

And House, who had been casually tugging the loose collar of your shirt down to spill your perky tits free, made a noise like a judge scoffing from the bench. “You know, I once had a hooker ask if she could write me off on her taxes. That was less depressing than what just came out of your mouth.”

Wilson gave a ragged laugh, breath catching. “You think she’ll still be able to stand after this?”

“I’m hoping not,” House replied, dragging his thumb along your moist bottom lip as you pulled back, gasping for air. “Dead weight’s hotter when it’s earned.”

You dove right back in, rear jolting backward vigorously, chasing the molten pressure crushing low within the depths of your loins. Your hamstrings had long since liquified, but that didn’t stop you—it couldn’t. One couldn’t say the same for Wilson, who was clearly struggling to rein himself in, and you, ever the conniving brat, clenched down on him the second he tried to pull free. The embrace of your spongy muscles held him hostage, walls all suffocating squish and suction, amplifying the plap-plap-plap of skin meeting skin, a soundtrack so shameless it bordered on illicit just hearing it.

Teetering over the edge, Wilson shut his eyes, clinging to his dwindling resolve behind pinched lids. His hands fumbled blindly up your writhing torso, pawing your breasts with the panicked fervor of a man gripping twin stress balls—palms clutching, fingers knotting, in need to ground himself in the middle of an absolute neurological wipeout.

Calm down, Wilson.

Pace your breathing.

Think about baseball. Or the mountain of charts waiting on your desk. Or—no. That made it worse-

He tried to mentally wrest back focus—the kind he’d rely on mid-panic in an oncology consult, except he’s now balls-deep in a threesome he still wasn’t entirely convinced was real.

Just… focus. If you can tie a suture in a chest cavity, then you can last another minute without losing your goddamn mind.

Don’t screw it up like some—god, some overeager pre-med who’s never seen a real breast before!

House picked up his forgotten glass and took a long, unnecessarily noisy sip—sluuuurp—purely to make sure Wilson knew he was being scrutinized. He leaned back with a shit-eating grin, eyes flicking to Wilson like he was watching a nature documentary: ‘Man Losing Grip in Real Time.’

“I—dammit—think I’m going to…” Wilson grit out, strained and unsteady, as if the admission cost him. His hips quivered, a clumsy twitch that made you arch slightly, pressing back into him as if to say—keep your shit together or else!!

“What, blow your Hippocratic Oath all over the place?” House interjected, likely been waiting to use that line all night. He looked downright gleeful. “God, Wilson. At least try to last long enough for her to gag on it.”

“You’re not even doing anything!” Wilson snapped, grappling to preserve his dignity as your cunt clasped around him like a vice.

“I’m coaching. Like any great man in history.”

Wilson grunted, jaw slackened and too blissed out to argue. His balls tightened, cock pulsating while his thrusts into you grew shallow and sloppy. The world funneled into a brilliant flare—white-hot and crackling—pinpricks of stars jittered behind his eyes, ready to detonate. The tide surged, and he barely managed to yank out in time, his climax overtaking him as white ribbons violently painted your back.

The feeling of him spurting onto you tipped you headfirst into your own high, a muffled moan escaping as the coil in your belly unraveled, erupting trails of goosebumps over your skin.

He collapsed onto you, forehead thunking against your shoulder blade, sweat-matted wisps of his once-neatly styled hair sticking to his temple. His arms went boneless to his sides as he tried to remember how lungs worked.

House let out a breathy chuckle—not quite kind, but not entirely cruel—his hand lazily cradling the back of your head, fingers threaded into your hair like he was petting a pup that did a trick. “Aw. Look at him. Poor thing’s gonna need a juice box and a nap.”

Wilson groaned, not bothering to lift his head. “Screw you.”

House saw how you were still obediently taking him to the root like you hadn’t just been railed senseless. He Idly massaged your scalp as you bobbed your head—a sign of affection, maybe. Or he simply needed something to fidget with while getting head.

“Don’t mind Sleeping Beauty here,” he drawled, his voice thinning as his hips gave a roll against your tongue. “He always finishes the race before the rest of us even put on our running shoes.”

Wilson exhaled a weary huff, cheek still mashed against your back. “Big words from someone who’s spent this entire ordeal horizontal.”

“Delegation of labor,” His tone tightened as the treatment subjected to your poor mouth grew rougher. “Besides- someone’s gotta counterbalance the limp. Be a shame if I went toppling over like bambi on ice.”

Wilson snorted, laughter tangled in a cough. “Right… tragedy of the century. They’d write eulogies.”

House ignored him, his attention locked on you, and the fact he was on the brink of losing control.

One hand clawed into the backrest for leverage, the other cinching your hair with a force shy of brutal. The flow of his thrusts splintered, erratic and uneven, each movement punctuated by wrecked sounds he didn’t bother to bite back. “Look at you,” he panted. “Didn’t even flinch. Even after lover boy back there nearly folded you in half. And you’re still taking me so well…”

He hovered right above his seat, limbs taut, breath sawing between his teeth. He trapped your skull in place, fucking your face with abandon as his cock drilled mercilessly into the confines of your throat. You were stretched to your limit, tears needling at your waterline as you blinked up at him, doe-eyed and so ruinously eager.

He choked on a noise that was a blend of groan and laugh. “Agh-… overachiever...” his head lolled back over shoulder, the last word dissolving into a strangled sound. With a final, forceful pump, he held you close and spilled his seed inside you. You steadied, gullet flexing around the gooey burn of it, swallowing him in practiced pulls while he trembled through the comedown.

House eased you off him with surprising gentleness before sagging back into the sofa. His gaze flickered down to yours again, bleary but bright with the afterglow of post-orgasm satisfaction. “See?” He managed between shallow puffs. “Eighty-three percent success rate. Science bows to me.”

You face-planted into a throw pillow, voice muffled but laced with reluctant amusement. “…Worst… study… ever.”

House gave your bare asscheek a light, celebratory smack, earning a pitiful whine from you.

“Oh come on,” he drawled. “That was a landmark trial. Peer-reviewed by the neighbors.”

From the other end of the couch, Wilson groaned, one arm slung over his eyes like he was warding off the world. “Don’t even start. I think I pulled something.”

“You pulled out. That’s the part I’ll never forgive.”

pssst- likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated in this household and keep me motivated! <3

🏷️ : @do-double-g @igalol @crimin4llyins4ne @yourgirlcarol @corrosive-agent @ceces-pizza @kitkat272 @shemsworth01 @wildgirllz @metalsbites @crashoutqueenie @svp625 @discombobulateddisco007 @jiqsaww @cyacola @crikeyitschase @mychemstat @emotionallybruisedx @catharticdesire @slut4jlgibbs @ikissm1kasa @d1sgr4c3ful

A/N : I tried to tag everyone who commented for this fic! sorry if some of u guys are over it tho as it’s been months. feel free ignore if so. and ye I’m finally back blah blah, yall know the drill, but this time I was dealing with some personal stuff 🫠

“This is so interesting,” you murmur, barely containing your excitement as you review the preliminary lab results. “I mean, it’s tragic for the patient, obviously, but from a medical standpoint, this is an incredibly rare case. Look—this deletion on chromosome 15? That could indicate Prader-Willi syndrome, but given the patient’s lack of speech development, the ataxic gait, and the characteristic happy demeanor, I think it’s more likely Angelman syndrome.”

You glance up, half-expecting Chase to be looking at the clock or zoning out like most people do when you go on a tangent.

Instead, he’s watching you.

He tilts his head slightly, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And what makes you think that?”

Encouraged, you straighten and turn the file around, pointing to the genetic test results. “Well, it all depends on which parent the deletion came from. Both Angelman and Prader-Willi syndromes result from imprinting errors on chromosome 15. If the deletion is inherited from the father, it causes Prader-Willi syndrome. But if it’s inherited from the mother, it results in Angelman syndrome.”

Chase hums in acknowledgment, his gaze still locked on you, but you’re too deep in thought to notice the way he’s studying your face rather than the test results.

“The cool thing about imprinting disorders,” you continue, “is that they show how genes aren’t just about inheritance but also about which parent they come from. It’s not just about the presence or absence of a gene—it’s about whether that gene is supposed to be active in a particular parental copy. The same genetic region can cause two completely different disorders depending on whether the missing part came from the mother or father. Isn’t that wild?”

You pause, catching yourself.

You’ve been talking non-stop for at least two minutes.

Most people don’t last this long.

Your excitement fades slightly as you glance at Chase, expecting polite disinterest. Instead, he’s still looking at you, arms still crossed, that small smirk still lingering.

Your face heats up. “Uh—sorry. I tend to… ramble,”

He exhales a quiet chuckle. “I noticed,”

You chew the inside of your cheek, looking away. “You could’ve stopped me, you know,”

“Why would I do that?”

You glance back at him, surprised by his tone—warm, easy, almost fond.

His smirk softens into something more sincere, and you suddenly feel very aware of how close he’s standing. Close enough that you can smell his cologne—something clean and subtle, like cedar and soap.

You quickly look down at the machine running the genetic test. The results are almost ready, the sequence data processing line by line.

A small beep signals the final printout.

You grab it, scanning the page with an eager intensity that momentarily pushes Chase’s gaze from your mind. “A maternal deletion,” you murmur, eyes widening. “It is Angelman syndrome,”

Chase straightens slightly, stepping closer to glance at the results over your shoulder. “And that means…?”

“It means we need to tailor the treatment accordingly. Angelman patients benefit from seizure management, physical therapy, and specialised communication support since they often have minimal verbal speech—” You stop yourself, pressing your lips together.

There you go again.

“Sorry,” you mumble. “Rambling again,”

Chase shakes his head, smiling. “No, keep going. You were saying?”

You blink, caught off guard.

He actually wants to hear more?

“…Right,” you continue hesitantly. “So, one of the main issues in Angelman syndrome is the loss of function of the UBE3A gene in neurons. Normally, the maternal copy of UBE3A is the only active one in the brain because the paternal copy is silenced. So when there’s a deletion on the maternal side, the patient essentially loses all functional UBE3A expression in their neurons, which leads to the neurological symptoms—seizures, developmental delays, lack of speech,”

You pause again, gauging his expression. He’s not just listening—he’s engaged.

You exhale softly, almost disbelieving.

“…Most people don’t let me talk about this stuff,” you admit.

Chase shrugs. “Most people are missing out,”

Your breath catches for just a moment.

Before you can respond, there’s a soft knock at the door, and you both turn as House steps in. “I’m gonna guess by the look on both your faces that the test was positive,”

You straighten, holding out the test results. “Yep. The patient has Angelman syndrome due to a maternal deletion on chromosome 15,”

House nods approvingly. “Good. Go and tell the parents that their child will have the mental capacity of an 8 year old forever,”

—

The patient’s parents sit across from you in the consultation room, their hands clasped together anxiously. The mother looks exhausted, her eyes red-rimmed, and the father’s knuckles are white from gripping his knee.

You take a deep breath, softening your voice. “We have a diagnosis for your son,”

Chase stands beside you, his presence steadying as you walk the family through the diagnosis. You explain Angelman syndrome carefully—what it means, how it happens, what treatments and support are available.

And when the mother, voice trembling, asks, “Is there any hope? Will he ever speak?”

You hesitate, choosing your words carefully. “Angelman syndrome affects speech development, but many children learn to communicate in other ways—gestures, pictures, assistive technology. With the right support, he will find ways to express himself,”

Chase steps in then, his voice calm and reassuring. “And because we caught it early, you’ll be able to get him the right therapies sooner. Seizure management, physical therapy, and specialised communication support will all be extremely useful,”

You blink, surprised.

You hadn’t expected him to remember that part.

The mother swallows thickly, nodding, and the father squeezes her hand. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “Thank you for explaining it so clearly,”

You smile gently. “It’s what I’m here for,”

—

Later, as you walk out of the consultation room, Chase nudges your arm.

“You did good in there,” he says.

You huff a small laugh. “We did good,”

He tilts his head, considering. “Yeah. But I meant you,”

You glance up at him, and for a second, the usual teasing glint in his eyes is replaced with something softer. Something that makes your heart skip a beat.

“…Thanks,” you say quietly.

He smirks, stepping back, slipping his hands into his pockets. “By the way,” he adds, “I think you almost finished your whole genetics lecture before we got interrupted. You’ll have to tell me the rest later,”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re making fun of me,”

Chase grins. “Maybe a little,”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the small, warm smile tugging at your lips.

Because for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you’re too much.

You feel understood.

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.

House doesn't even glance up from his Gameboy. "It's never sarcoidosis."  

You try to focus on the case—a 42-year-old woman, muscles failing, fever with no cause—but the whiteboard's scribbles swim in your tired eyes. Thirteen hours straight on call, and that last case... Christ. That kid, sixteen years old. You threw everything at it. Still watched his mother's face crumple when you told her.  

Foreman's looking right at you. "What do you think?"  

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Your hands won't stop shaking now, and that old familiar vice grips your chest. Shit. Not here. Not with everyone watching.

"I need to—" you start, pushing back from the table.  

"Coffee run," Chase cuts in smoothly, already standing. "I'll tag along. Legs need stretching anyway."  

House's eyes flick up from his Gameboy for half a second, but he stays silent. You're too busy holding yourself together to catch the sharp look that crosses his face. Chase follows you out, keeping it professional until you turn the corner into the empty hallway near the clinic. Only then does his hand settle low on your back—warm, steady.  

"Breathe," he murmurs, that Aussie accent softening the words. "Just breathe." You slump against the wall, and he shifts to block you from view. His blue eyes lock onto yours, watching you fight for air.  

"The kid from last night?" he asks, voice low.  

You nod, throat tight. Words won't come.  

"You did everything right," he says, steady. "You know that, yeah? Sometimes... we just can't save 'em. No matter what."  

His hand slides from your back to your shoulder. His thumb traces those small circles through your lab coat—same as always. A hundred times before, this quiet touch. Always tucked away: empty hallways, supply closets, your apartment after the worst shifts.

"I keep seeing his mom," you whisper. "That look she gave me... like I killed him myself."

Chase ducks his head, his firm gaze locking with yours. "Hey. Don't do that to yourself. You're a brilliant doctor—seriously, one of the best I've ever worked with. That kid was lucky to have you fighting for him."  

You manage a weak smile. "You're biased."  

"Doesn't make it less true," he shoots back.  

For a second, you just stand there, letting his presence settle you. His hand stays warm on your shoulder.

"Better?" he asks after a minute.  

You nod. "Yeah. Thanks."  

"Anytime." He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before stepping back, the professional mask sliding into place. "Come on. Let's actually grab that coffee before House sends out a search party."

You had no idea; House already sent a search party—himself. He watched you leave with Chase and decided to tail you. From his spot around the corner, cane silent on the linoleum, he saw it all: Chase's hand lingering on your back, how he leaned in too close, and that soft tone in his voice.  

House limps back to the conference room, a smirk tugging at his mouth.  

"Where are they?" Cameron asks when he walks in alone.  

"Getting coffee. Or screwing in a supply closet. Your guess." House drops into his chair.  

Foreman and Cameron swap looks.  

"You think they're together?" Cameron tries to sound casual but fails. Hard.  

"Does a bear crap in the woods? Does Wilson have a savior complex? Does Cuddy wear push-up bras to distract me from the fact that she's wrong about everything?"  

"So... yes," Foreman translates.

"Chase has been playing white knight for months," House says, "every time our dear doctor here has a rough shift, there he is—floppy hair, puppy eyes, the whole pathetic routine. Makes me wanna puke."

Cameron shifts in her seat. "Maybe he's just being supportive?" Her voice wavers like she doesn't buy it either. 

"Right. And I'm just being a good boss when I make you break into patients' houses." House looks at her, his blue eyes sharp

Foreman crosses his arms. "Then why hide it?"  

"Probably because they know I’d probably break them up or do something.” House shrugs.

You walk back in with Chase a minute later, coffees in hand. The diagnosis resumes. But now House is watching.  

Chase's eyes follow you across the room. You drift toward him when things get tense. He magically finds reasons to linger if you're on call. You both clock out together but pretend it's a coincidence. Cameron scowls when he laughs at your jokes instead of hers. Foreman just rolls his eyes hard enough to see his own brain.

It was a soap opera, and House loved soap operas.

Over the next few days, House starts noticing a pattern. Whenever you have a rough case or things go sideways, Chase just... appears next to you. Out in the open, he keeps it professional enough to play dumb—a quick touch on your elbow that could be chalked up to work stuff, asking if you're okay like any coworker might. But House sees right through it. He catches how Chase's jaw clenches when you're upset, how his whole body turns toward you. And he definitely notices how you look at Chase when you think nobody's watching.  

It's painfully obvious. Kinda pathetic, really. And House decides he's going to poke this bear.  

At lunch in the cafeteria, he drops it on Wilson mid-bite. "Twenty bucks says I can get them to admit they're together by Friday."  

Wilson lowers his sandwich. "Who?"

"Chase and our emotionally fragile fellow. Keep up, Wilson."

"They're together?"

"Are you blind? Or just stupid? Wait, don't answer that. I already know."

You hear Wilson sigh. "Come on, House, just leave them alone. If they want to keep things private, that's their call."  

House snags an ice cream sandwich right off Wilson’s plate. "Where's the fun in that? Besides, all this sneaking around is affecting their work. Chase has been distracted for weeks. And the good doctor has been an emotional mess. They need to either commit or break up, and since Chase is clearly in love with her, I'm betting on option A.

"You're going to meddle," Wilson says, shaking his head.  

He smirks. "Call it helping. There's a difference."  

"Yeah? Not when you do it."  

House waves him off. "Twenty bucks?"  

Wilson pauses, then shrugs. "Fine. But I'm betting you screw it up before you fix it."  

"Deal."

They shake hands on the deal, and Wilson instantly hates himself for agreeing.  

Two days later, House gets his chance when a case blows up. The patient—a fifty-year-old guy with seizures—was misdiagnosed. By the time they realized it was cerebral vasculitis, he'd already taken serious brain damage. Honestly? Nobody screwed up. The symptoms were weird; tests didn't give clear answers. But you're still tearing yourself apart over it.  

House watches you in the conference room after they stabilize the guy. He sees the guilt plastered all over your face, and bam—he knows his move.  

"Well, that went spectacularly wrong," he chirps, way too cheerful. "Gold stars all around. Truly elite medical work."  

Cameron tries to cut in—"House—"  

But he steamrolls her, jabbing his cane toward you. "Especially you. Amazing how you blew right past those glaring vasculitis clues. Sure, they weren't glaring at all, the whole case was bizarre, and three other hospitals missed it too—but hey. You should be drowning in shame right now."  

You flinch hard. Chase's hands curl into fists on the tabletop.  

"That's not fair," Chase says, his voice strained. "We all missed it."  

"But I'm not talking to all of you." House leans forward on his cane, eyes locked on you. "Tell me, doctor—how does it feel knowing your screw-up gave a man permanent brain damage?"  

"House, enough," Foreman cuts in.  

But House ignores him. He sees how close you are to breaking, and he knows exactly where to push. "Maybe this job's too much for you. Ever think about pathology? Hard to kill patients when they're already dead."  

You shove your chair back so fast it screeches against the floor. "Excuse me," you choke out, voice shaking.  

Chase stands too. "I'll—"  

"Sit down, Chase," House snaps. "We're not finished."  

"Yeah, we are," Chase says flatly. He follows you out, not caring who's watching.  

House smirks. Phase one done.  

Chase finds you in the stairwell—your usual spot for falling apart in private. No professional distance this time. You're slumped on the steps, his arm tight around your shoulders, your face pressed into his chest.  

"He's dead wrong," Chase says fiercely. "You're a damn good doctor. This wasn't on you."  

"He's right, though," you mumble into his shirt, the fabric muffling your words. "Should've seen it coming sooner."  

"Nobody could've predicted this," Chase counters, his voice steady. "The symptoms were all over the place. House is just messing with you—it's what he does best."  

Your breath hitches. "I can't keep doing this, Chase. Losing patients... this guilt is eating me alive..."  

"You can," he insists, pulling you closer. "Because you're tough as hell, and you care deeper than any doctor I've met. That's not a flaw—it's why you're amazing at this job."  

You lean back, tears tracing paths down your cheeks. "How do you always find the right words?"  

"Because I get you," he says simply. His palm cups your face, thumb brushing away a tear. "Better than anyone ever has."  

"Chase—"

His words hit you out of nowhere. "I'm done hiding this," he blurts out, voice tight. "Done pretending we're just coworkers. Done with only being able to hold you when no one's looking."

Your breath sticks in your throat. "What... what are you saying?"

"I'm saying I love you," he pushes on, fierce now. "I'm saying I want to be with you properly—not just quick hugs in empty hallways. I'm saying screw House and screw hospital politics and screw everyone who might have an opinion about it."

"You... love me?" It comes out shaky.

"God, yes," he says, like it's the most obvious thing. "How could I not? You're brilliant. You care so much it hurts. And you're strong, even when you're falling apart. You make me want to be better—at everything. I love you. And I'm not hiding it anymore."

You just stare, your heart hammering against your ribs. "I love you too," you whisper, the words finally free.

That soft smile spreads across his face—the real one, the one only you ever see. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

His lips meet yours—soft, sweet, promising everything. And he doesn't care you're in a public stairwell where anyone could walk in. Doesn't care about anything except that you're in his arms and you love him back.  

"Touching," House's voice cuts through the air, bouncing off the concrete walls. "Seriously, straight out of a Hallmark movie. I'm choked up."  

You and Chase jerk apart, faces burning.  

House stands a few steps above, leaning on his cane with that smug smirk. "Don't stop on my account. I was just getting invested."  

"How long have you been there?" Chase snaps.  

"Long enough to win twenty bucks off Wilson. Thanks for that." House hobbles down until he's level with you. "Look, for what it's worth—you're not a terrible doctor. Actually decent. That patient's brain damage? Not your fault. Vasculitis is a nightmare to spot, and we caught it fast."  

You stare, stunned. "Then why—"  

"Because you two have been eye-fucking for months, and it was getting sad. Someone had to shove you off the ledge." He nods at Chase. "You're welcome."  

"You orchestrated this," Chase says, though he sounds more amused than pissed.

House gives you a little shove—not hard, but enough to make his point. "That's a nudge. There's a difference." He heads down the stairs, then stops halfway and glances back over his shoulder. "Oh, and next time you two decide to make out in this hospital? Pick a spot without security cameras. Just a tip."  

You and Chase just stare after him, completely frozen. The silence hangs thick between you.  

"Did House... just give us relationship advice?" you finally whisper.  

Chase lets out a breath you didn't realize he was holding. "And a suggestion for where to hook up. I think I need to sit down."  

A shaky laugh escapes you—half nerves, half genuine disbelief. "He's completely insane."  

"Yeah," Chase agrees, pulling you back against his chest. His voice drops low. "But he’s not wrong. About us. I’m sick of hiding this."  

"Me too," you admit quietly. "But what about work? What if—"  

"We'll figure it out," he cuts in, firm but gentle. "Together. That’s how this works, right? Figuring it out as we go?"  

You bite your lip. "I wouldn’t know. Never really... done this before."  

"Neither have I. Not like this." He presses a soft kiss to your forehead. "But I want to. With you."  

"Okay," you murmur, leaning into him. "Together."

You're deep into diagnosing a new patient when Chase's hand slides under the table and finds yours. His fingers lace through yours, warm and solid. When you present your findings later, he doesn't hide his admiration anymore—he just watches you openly, like you hung the moon. And when House slices you with one of his razor-sharp comments, Chase jumps in to defend you before you can even blink.

After the case wraps up and the patient's stable, Chase pulls you into the hallway right outside the room. Doesn't care who's watching when he kisses you—really kisses you—where anyone walking by can see.

House is leaning in the doorway watching, feeling something weirdly like... satisfaction.

"You're getting soft," Wilson says, popping up beside him.  

House scowls. "No idea what you're talking about."  

"You helped them. Actually nudged those two together."  

House shrugs. "Won a bet. That's not helping—that's capitalism."  

Wilson smirks. "Could've broken them up. Easier. More your style."

House was quiet for a moment. "Chase is a good doctor. She's a good doctor. They make each other better. It would have been a waste to let them keep dancing around each other."

Wilson stared at him. "Who are you, and what have you done with Gregory House?"

"Shut up." House turns and limps away, but not before Wilson catches the small smile on his face.

Chase Masterlist

She'd had some kind of reaction to something. Her hands had been itchy and tingling for a day or so, but today they had gotten worse as if a switch had been flicked.

(Y/n) knew she had to come and get some kind of cream or ointment before she ripped and tore her hands to shreds.

This wasn't something she wanted to message Chase about, not when he was at work and he was busy. The clinic would help her just fine and then she could go back home and see Chase sometime tonight when he finished his shift. His shift times always varied depending on what kind of work they were doing and whether or not it was serious enough that they had to pull long hours working in the lab for a patient.

When she realised she was scratching the back of her hands again, (Y/n) chided herself and quickly dropped her hands to clutch the edge of the bed she was sitting on in the assessment room. Her nails started to dig into the foam beneath her and her knuckles strained as she tensed her fingers, begging for the ache and uncontrollable itching to disappear.

Her eyes lifted back to the blinds again and she tried to look out to see if she could recognise any familiar faces, although she didn't know many of the staff here. Chase didn't socialise much with his colleagues outside of work and he was mainly associated with House's team, not the health care assistants and nurses who worked in the rest of the hospital.

Surprise flooded (Y/n)'s chest when she looked towards the door when it clicked open. She had been expecting to wait a while, but she had barely been in here five minutes. She knew what it could be like in this clinic at times.

A gnawing feeling erupted in her chest when she saw who walked in.

Oh dear.

Nerves ignited in (Y/n)'s stomach and her nails dug down into the foam bed she was sitting on until she left crescent moons in her wake. She felt a great desire to drag her nails down the back of her hands until her skin was peeling off in great chunks.

Out of all the doctors or nurses who could have walked in, why did it have to be Cameron?

There weren't many occasions where (Y/n) had the chance to talk to Cameron or bump into her. Chase didn't go out with his work colleagues that often and (Y/n) didn't socialise with them either, she would feel much too out of place around them.

If it had been Foreman or even House who walked through the door, then (Y/n) would have felt a little more at ease. But it had to be Cameron who walked in. It had to be the one person who (Y/n) really didn't want to interact with for fear of how unnerving and awkward this was going to be.

Cameron had tried to kiss Chase at the Christmas party.

Although (Y/n) had been at the Christmas party, she hadn't seen the interaction. She had been confused when Chase found her among the throng of people and said they should head home, but (Y/n) found it rather sweet how bashful Chase had been when he told her what happened once they got home.

(Y/n) trusted him, they were married and she had a lot of faith in Chase and the fact that he told her what happened rather than just keeping it to himself to brood and worry over told (Y/n) that he wasn't lying.

She knew since the party, Chase had been a little unnerved going back to work and having to be around Cameron. He didn't want things to become uncomfortable at work or for either of them to have to think about transferring.

Somehow, they had both managed to be professional so far and had tried to act like nothing was wrong, although Chase was now starting to keep his distance from Cameron a bit more, just to be on the safe side. It was clear that Cameron fancied Chase and her trying to kiss him while knowing he was married just proved that point even further.

Cameron's hand tightened around the door handle and her hip pressed so harshly against the door that it would surely leave bruises later.

Her teeth sank down into her lower lip as she dithered in the doorway for a moment, trying to gather her senses and decide what to do.

It was just her luck that House was making her do some of the hours he owed here in the clinic so he didn't have to do them. She knew it had been a mistake to come down to the clinic when he paged her, but she had gone and done it anyway.

Now here she was, about to be stuck in a room treating Chase's wife; this wasn't a situation Cameron wanted to find herself in.

"Hi," her tone was full of awkwardness as she stepped over the threshold as if she knew she was about to make some kind of big mistake. She closed the door behind her and found a pair of gloves before she moved towards (Y/n). "What can I help you with?"

(Y/n) wordlessly held her hands out in front of her when Cameron came to stand beside her. She didn't dare look up at Cameron and instead kept her eyes deathly focused on her hands.

Part of her felt like climbing down and heading home and just waiting for Chase to get home so he could take a look for her instead. But (Y/n) knew that wasn't going to solve anything. She needed some kind of steroid cream or medication, she needed it today so she didn't tear her hands to shreds and make them any worse than they had turned out to be this afternoon.

This shouldn't take long anyway, Cameron could just assess her and give her a prescription and send her home, then there would be no more awkwardness for either of them to endure.

"When did it start?"

(Y/n) began to tap her foot against the floor, needing to rid some of the nervous energy from her system when Cameron tried to look and observe her hands. But it was as if Cameron thought she was contagious or that touching (Y/n) would fracture some sense of reality.

She was extremely hesitant when she held onto one of (Y/n)'s hands and started to inspect the broken, peeling skin. She lightly prodded and tapped where her hands were beginning to swell and crack and pinched the end of her fingertips, presumably checking for reaction and blood vessels.

"They've been itchy for a few days, but it got worse today." Again, (Y/n) resisted the urge to scratch her hands, but the tension in the air felt almost as bad.

"Looks like you've had an allergic reaction to something. Have you been using anything new? Cream, wash liquid, soap?"

(Y/n) tried to think. She'd never had an allergic reaction to anything before, she had always been rather lucky like that. She hadn't eaten anything different, and they used the same brand of wash liquid and clothes softener at home that they had always used. There was nothing different that she could think of that she had used… except for a new hand cream.

"Um… Rob got me some new hand cream, I've used it a few times though." It didn't seem like the kind of thing that would cause a reaction like this, but it was the only thing that was different.

Since Chase gave her that rose scented hand cream, (Y/n) had been using it after washing up and a lot at night for about four days now. He knew she was always getting dry hands and randomly came home with creams and lotions every now and then. It was a sweet gesture that (Y/n) loved.

Maybe the cream had done this, after all she had used it last night when the itching got worse. The cream didn't make her hands blister or burn or feel tingly straight after using it, (Y/n) wouldn't have thought a reaction would take its time and build up like this.

She caught Cameron nodding out the corner of her eye and heard her hum, but her eyes were still intently focused on (Y/n)'s hands. Making eye contact seemed like it would break some kind of silent rule between them.

"I'll give you an antihistamine, you should wait in here for a few minutes afterwards as it can make you drowsy."

That was all it took? A tablet and this reaction would fade? Hopefully (Y/n) could get some prescription cream too because that tablet might stop the reaction, but she doubted it would help the skin that was already peeling and the raw itch she desperately wanted to scratch away.

When Cameron held out a little paper cup with one circular tablet in the centre, (Y/n) took it with a soft look in her eyes that finally lifted to meet Cameron's diverted gaze.

"Thank you."

As soon as she downed the tablet, Cameron hummed something along the lines of 'okay then' and turned, abruptly and silently leaving the room along with the chart that had been on the side unit.

Was that her job over with then? (Y/n) might have to find someone else, a doctor or a passing nurse before she left to see if they could prescribe her some cream. There was no point in (Y/n) going home or trying to find a pharmacist on her way home to get some cream when it would be much easier for someone here in the clinic to give her a prescription. She needed something to help with this antagonising itch.

When she looked down and realised her nails were dragging along the back of her hands, (Y/n) sighed through gritted teeth and scrunched her hands up in the hem of her shirt instead.

How long was she supposed to sit here and wait? Would she still be alright to drive home? She couldn't exactly leave her car here and take the bus home. It was an allergy tablet, how drowsy would it really make her feel, what was the dosage and strength?

Clearly Cameron had felt as unsettled around (Y/n) as she was around her. She hadn't stuck around to write in the notes here in front of (Y/n) and check whether the tablet was going to work and reduce her symptoms or not. Maybe she would check back in with (Y/n) in a few minutes. Perhaps she would tell (Y/n) in five or ten minutes that she was good to go.

(Y/n) might just leave and go find someone else for a prescription in five minutes. There was no point sitting here forever.

Her eyes glanced towards the window ahead of her and she tried to see through the partially closed blinds, seeing a few figures passing by.

But as she stared ahead of her, (Y/n) found her shoulders tensing and rising high while she started to lean forwards unintentionally.

It felt like there were brackets on either side of her chest that were starting to tighten and press in on her ribs.

In an attempt to ignore the feeling, (Y/n) closed her eyes and bowed her head forward and for a few seconds, she thought it was working. But then the feeling increased. A horrible ache spread through her ribs and her lungs felt like they were inhaling acid that was burning with each breath.

(Y/n) suddenly realised that she wasn't breathing deeply anymore; her breaths were shallow, like there wasn't enough space in her lungs to fit anymore in, but she couldn't exhale any more either. Her lungs were burning but they weren't working at maximum capacity anymore. Her throat was suddenly parched and horribly dry.

Her hand rose to clamp around her throat, fingers pushing and squeezing to try and gage whether her throat was swelling like it seemed to feel, but it wasn't. Her muscles weren't swelling, they were starting to close up.

Spots danced in front of her eyes and she blinked furiously to try and clear her vision as she jumped to her feet that were suddenly numb and tingling.

Her knees quaked and her hand stayed around her throat like she was trying to keep her head from falling off.

(Y/n) stretched her free hand out and shoved the door, using it as leverage to prop herself up when her body felt like it was weighing down and her legs didn't feel strong enough to keep her upright. More spots blurred (Y/n)'s vision and mingled in with the tears beginning to trickle from her eyes and distort her view of the glistening white corridor.

Her head turned from left to right, the action causing her throat to ache as wheezing, ragged sounds scratched past her lips and her hand moved down to pat her chest rather than grip her throat.

"H- he- help." She took a croaky inhale, feeling her skin flush and light up with heat from both panic and exertion and whatever reaction she was now having to what Cameron had given her. (Y/n) had never been allergic to anything before, but now she seemed to be having two allergic reactions in one day.

She wasn't sure she would be able to make it more than a few steps out into the corridor, but thankfully, she didn't have to.

The reception desk was only five feet away from the room she was in and stood there, leaning against the desk looking both bored and perplexed, was Cameron.

At the sound of (Y/n)'s voice, Cameron's head snapped up and her fingers abruptly pulled away from her hair where she had been propping her head up with her elbow resting on the desk. Her face contorted into a frown with worry lines creasing her forehead when she looked in (Y/n)'s direction.

The uncertainty and awkwardness she carried with her earlier faded out like a morning mist when she realised something was wrong and she glided across the corridor until she was standing in front of (Y/n).

(Y/n) couldn't help but close her eyes when she felt Cameron's gloved hands pressing over her chest before they moved to cup her throat. Feeling if her muscles were closing up and what her pulse was like.

"You- you're having an allergic reaction to the antihistamine." Moving her hands to (Y/n)'s shoulders, Cameron carefully yet firmly turned her around and helped guide her back into the room.

She pointed towards the bed but (Y/n) didn't try and sit down, she didn't want to. She shook her head, both hands moving to her chest as she leant back against the wall and closed her eyes. She didn't want to keep seeing black spots blurring her vision or feel the tears welling up in her eyes.

"I'm going to give you a dose of epinephrine to stop it."

There was barely any energy within her to nod to what Cameron was saying, but at least she understood.

She could hear a rustling, the sound of hinges creaking when a drawer opened and then slammed shut. (Y/n)'s arm stiffened and it felt like claws raked down her nerves when a needle punctured into her arm a few inches below her shoulder.

The back of (Y/n)'s head was pressing so harshly against the wall that it felt like she was going to make a dint in the plaster, but she couldn't bring herself to care about that or the headache it was going to cause. Her muscles were as stiff as clay and she bound both arms around her chest, knees quaking to try and keep her stood upright, leaning against the wall.

She tried not to cringe when Cameron's hand found her neck and she forced herself to stay still, letting her feel the sudden, gulping breaths (Y/n) was now able to take.

"It's working."

When Cameron's hands left her skin, (Y/n) forced herself to open her eyes and wait for the stars to stop twinkling before her eyes.

Coming to the hospital was supposed to make her feel better, not worse. If (Y/n) had known her reactions would have been this severe she would have persevered and waited for Chase to come home tonight and get his opinion. But at least this had happened while she was here in a hospital, where help and medications were close at hand.

Pressing her hand against her chest, she tried to slow down her erratic heartbeat and take deep breaths. In through her nose, out through her mouth.

Her lungs were aching like they had been stabbed and pins and needles were flowing through her hands right to the ends of her fingers.

At least her legs didn't feel so shaky or hollow anymore, (Y/n) could hold herself up without needing the wall there for support. She pushed forward so she was standing up straight, but her stomach tensed and pulled in and her chest felt like it was throbbing with every pulse of her heart.

"Should… oh, should my heart feel like this?" Her hand ghosted back across her chest as she grimaced.

The feeling of hearing and sensing her heartbeat was something that (Y/n) didn't particularly like. It made her feel uneasy, but this was different. This feeling wasn't just (Y/n) sensing and taking note of her heartbeat. This was the feeling of her heart thrashing against her ribs like it was trying to impale itself on them. This was her blood pumping furiously throughout her body and thundering in her ears until it was the only thing she could hear, sense and understand.

Her heart had never felt this rapid and strange before. (Y/n) had never sensed her heartbeat like this before. Was this a normal reaction? Should she be feeling so faint and unsteady and have such a rapid heart rate like this?

"It's just adrenaline in response to the reaction. You're fine." Cameron's voice was back to having that curt tone that could cut through the air like a knife.

(Y/n) grimaced as she felt like telling Cameron that this had never happened before. She'd never experienced any kind of reaction or shock like this, how was she supposed to know if it was normal or not? And even if this was meant to feel normal, it certainly wasn't calming or something that (Y/n) could just ignore.

The pounding of her pulse was starting to make her tremble on the spot, and this surely couldn't be normal or all down to adrenaline.

Her muscles stiffened and her stomach clenched when she saw the way Cameron was now looking at her through narrowed, scrutinising eyes.

Just, lie down for a bit and let it wear off. I'll go get your chart."

Cameron seemed to sigh through her words as she pointed towards the bed in the middle of the room before she walked out the still open door. In her rush to stop the allergic reaction, Cameron had left (Y/n)'s chart on the reception desk. She would have to note this down, that she'd reacted to the medication and needed a further injection to stop it.

This would have to go on (Y/n)'s medical file so any other visits to the clinic didn't end the same way; so other doctors knew that she now had a few allergies.

Part of (Y/n) was glad that Cameron had left the room because she wasn't the person (Y/n) would want to be around when she wasn't feeling her best. But the other part of her was screaming because her body now felt horrid.

She didn't want to sit down, not when she felt like this in case she passed out or couldn't get herself back up again. Her legs had gone from feeling hollow to now feeling like two lumps of metal that she could barely keep under her control. Her heart was pounding so furiously in her chest that she was surprised no one could see it trying to break apart through her ribs.

A thumping sound that surprisingly couldn't be attributed to her heart caught her attention and (Y/n) managed to clear her vision enough to look out into the door to her right and into the hall.

A cane. It was House passing by, either just arriving or just about to depart from the clinic.

He was better than no one. House might be just as curt and probably a lot more cynical than Cameron, but at least he might listen when (Y/n) said something didn't feel right. And he was the kind of person that would hand out a prescription no questions asked if (Y/n) calmed down enough to ask for some cream for her hands that suddenly didn't hurt anymore compared to the ache in her chest.

Getting out the doorway was a lot harder than (Y/n) anticipated, considering she was so close to it.

Her legs caved barely one step over the threshold and suddenly, (Y/n) couldn't get her thoughts in order. She couldn't call out for House, she couldn't make a scream or even force a breath of air past her lips. She couldn't move a muscle or try and make a feeble cry out for Chase.

When House turned on his heels he was anticipating a patient falling over, a child pushing their parent or someone tripping up a passing orderly. He was all set to smirk and feel an inward chuckle at something happening so close by, and he was already prepared to carry on walking out of the clinic and head back to his office without lending a hand at all.

His plans were thwarted the moment he saw her laid out on the floor.

Despite the very few, limited times House had met (Y/n), he recognised her straight away. And there was that lingering part of his identity that try as he might, he couldn't shift. That part of him that cared about the patients and wanted to contribute to medicine. There was a patient on the floor and House was the closest person; the doctor in him wouldn't let him back away or stand around idle. He would help until someone else could take over.

His teeth grated together as he tossed his cane down to the floor and pressed his hand to the wall, gripping his thigh with his free hand so he could slump down to his knees on the floor. It made his thigh scream in agony and he had to resist the urge to punch the wall to focus on a different sense of pain.

His hands reached out for (Y/n) and he carefully turned her head so her cheek was no longer pressed against the floor and it was the back of her head that rested on the floor. But when he pressed his fingers into her neck and then shifted so his palm was flat on her chest, he grimaced.

"I need a crash cart over here! She's got no pulse."

She had flatlined. House couldn't feel a heartbeat beneath his fingers and her chest wasn't rising and falling with breaths either. She had crashed.

His jeans scuffed along the floor as he shuffled to the left so he was knelt at the side of (Y/n) rather than behind her head. There wasn't time to be careful as his hands found her arm and hip and he rolled her from her side and onto her back before he yanked at her shirt. He heard a few buttons snapping off, but that wasn't his problem.

Once her chest was exposed to him, House interlaced his fingers and started compressions. At least it was him who had been passing by and not Chase; he would undoubtedly be panicking in this situation and it was better for an outside professional to assist rather than someone too close to the patient.

He waited a fraction of a second after ten compressions, but there was no rise and fall of her chest. His fingers expertly pushed into her chin and tilted her head back while his other hand pinched the bridge of her nose and gave two breaths. Then he was back to compressions again.

That familiar sound of a trolley with a squeaky wheel caught his attention and he turned, not stopping his administrations, to see two nurses skidding across the floor with a crash cart between them. But then House spotted Cameron running over.

Her ponytail was swaying behind her like it was swatting imaginary flies, her complexion was now tainted with a deep blush and her lips were parted in horror as her hands pointed down in (Y/n)'s direction.

House wasn't stupid. He had sent Cameron down here to do his clinic hours for him- part of him had been surprised that she had given in so easily- and he could see (Y/n)'s name on the chart in Cameron's hand that she quickly dropped onto a spare chair next to her.

"House- oh my God, I-"

"Step away." There was a dangerous look in House's eyes that glared daggers into Cameron to make sure she didn't get any closer and try to intervene.

He wouldn't have her getting involved and having a malpractice suit on her hands. She had been the doctor to treat (Y/n) up to now, if something had happened Cameron would be liable.

He uttered "finally," under his breath when the defibrillator was laid out beside him and if this weren't such a dire situation, he might even have rolled his eyes at how long they had taken to assist him. But he didn't have the time for that.

House set to work placing the paddles over (Y/n)'s chest, one beneath her collar bone and the other to the right side of her chest. With a curt nod of his head to the nurse, she charged the machine and the electric charge surged through (Y/n)'s chest. Her back lifted with the shock and her head lolled to the right, but then House saw it.

That subtle rise in her chest that caused him to set down one of the paddles and press his fingers to her neck to feel for a rhythm.

"She's back."

He let the nurse reach across and take the paddles from him to tuck away back into the medical cart and she exchanged it for a pulse clip which she handed to House. Watching as he clipped it onto (Y/n)'s index finger before he sank back on his heels and finally took a proper breath.

"Find a gurney, she needs to be admitted onto a ward for observation." It wasn't quite clear who House was talking to, but at least three different people moved to do as he'd asked.

And he was sure that one of them was running off to find Cuddy, since her office led right off the clinic.

When House lifted his head, his eyes narrowed on Cameron who was stood to one side, both arms cocooned around her chest with one hand raised to her mouth. She was chewing her nail and looked to be holding herself in a tight hug to stop it from being clear that she had started to shake. If House didn't know her, he wouldn't have known that she was on the brink of tears.

"What did you give her?"

***

There was an electric charge in the air this afternoon, Chase could feel it buzzing around him.

He could hear some kind of commotion before he stepped through the doors into the clinic and it made him wary to carry on. There was more hustle and bustle down here than usual; Chase was used to seeing the clinic full but rather silent with patients sat around waiting for appointments.

It wasn't like that today. Very few people were actually sitting down, most of them were hovering near the reception desk where Chase could see a nurse and security trying to create a blockade to keep everyone back.

Oh God, what had House done now?

Chase had been in the middle of running a DNA test in the lab for their latest patient- just as House ordered- when he got a sudden and rather confusing message on his pager from House.

Clinic. Now.

He presumed it was House trying to get him to come down here and work the hours that he owed to the clinic and that thought made Chase want to ignore the pager, but curiosity got the better of him and he found himself making his way down here.

His eyes finally locked on House, stood to one side opposite the reception desk, but his boss looked rather ashen. His lips were pulled into a thin line and he was taking his fingers on his cane like he was getting ready to weaponize it in case of an emergency.

"Dare I ask what you've done? Whatever it is, Cuddy won't let me take over your hours for you."

"That's not why I paged you."

There was something in House's tone that set Chase's nerves on edge. It was almost as if he were remorseful for something, but Chase had no idea what.

"What's going on?"

The colour and complexion in Chase's features drained to an awful shade of charcoal grey when he leaned around House to see what everyone was gathering to see. There was a gurney a few paces behind house where two nurses were fluttering around a patient. And then he realised who that patient was.

"(Y/n)?"

House made no attempt to get in Chase's way when the younger man weaved past him, feet skidding on the floor in his haste to get towards his wife.

He seemed to take (Y/n) by surprise when his hip bashed against the gurney and his hands instantly reached down to cup her face in his palms. Chase brushed his thumbs across her cheekbones, his fingers nudging and scraping against her hair to brush it away from where it was sticking around her ears.

His eyes analysed her, taking in how clammy and warm her skin was in his hands and that dazed look in her eyes that could barely focus on him without rolling towards the back of her head. There was an oxygen mask held in her hand that was resting on her thigh, but (Y/n) was making no move to press it to her lips that were chapped and discoloured on the inside.

"Baby, wh…" Whatever Chase was about to say fizzled out on his tongue when his rabid eyes glanced down.

Her shirt was ripped open. There were marks on her chest; Chase recognised those kind of marks, the ones that would blossom into bruises within the hour. And when Chase looked to his left, a bewilderment flooded his eyes and a nasty snarl curled on his lips.

"What happened? Did- did someone use de-fib on her?" There was a crash cart behind one of the nurses. (Y/n) had marks on her chest. She was breathing shallow and looked like she was about to be sick. Someone had used the defibrillator on his wife. What happened while he had been up in the lab? Why was (Y/n) even here in the first place?

House let out a sigh as he tapped his cane against the floor like he was casting some kind of spell. "She had an allergic reaction, Cameron gave epinephrine and then her heart stopped. We only had to shock her once, she's fully responsive now-"

"Yeah, House she looks perfectly fine now." Chase's snarky voice was dripping with sarcasm before he looked back down to his wife.

He was still cradling her face in his hands but he could feel (Y/n)'s free hand trying to grasp his elbow, presumably to try and gain his attention.

When he looked down, Chase's features went from fury to confusion when he caught sight of her hands. His touch left her face in favour of carefully holding onto her wrists which he raised so he could inspect them. She'd had an allergic reaction to something alright, her hands were torn to ribbons as if she had dunked them in scalding hot water for over a minute.

That had to be why she had come down to the clinic, but that didn't explain why they had all used the defibrillator on her. If she came to the clinic then (Y/n) only suffered a mild allergic reaction, she hadn't taken herself to the emergency room or been brought here by ambulance. What happened since she came here for this situation to escalate?

He looked to his left and suddenly realised Cameron was one of the few doctors hovering around here. She didn't look very settled. Her back was pressed up against the wall and she was biting down on her nail until there was bound to be nothing left. She was anxious and she wouldn't look Chase in the eye. It was usually him avoiding eye contact with her, not the other way around.

"How much epinephrine did you give her?" The accusing tone in Chase's voice made Cameron wince.

Her arms dropped from around her chest, but her hands chose to fiddle at her sides, scrunching and gripping at her lab coat in a vain attempt to keep herself calm.

"Point one, the smallest dose for a reaction."

"Point one? You sure it wasn't one?"

It wasn't like Chase to be this accusing. Usually it was House throwing accusations and remarks around and the rest of the team scrambling to prove themselves to him and show him that they knew what they were doing. And in the beginning, Chase had always stuck up for Cameron when she spoke her mind or made a decision.

But this wasn't about a decision being made, this was about whether or not she had made an error that had put (Y/n) at risk. This kind of reaction didn't just happen out of the blue, especially not when such a small dose of that particular medication had been given like that. Either there was an underlying cause, or Cameron had made a mistake.

She certainly didn't like the dark look in Chase's eyes that were narrowed in on her, or the accusing tone to his voice, because she scoffed.

"Oh please, I know what I'm doing-"

"Well it doesn't look like it. Her heart wouldn't stop from a mild reaction or zero point one of epinephrine." Chase untangled his hands from (Y/n) and stepped closer to Cameron as his heart started to pound in his ears and sent red hot heat enveloping around his body.

Something had happened here for his wife to be in such a state, and Chase didn't like the fact that no one had a definitive answer or a reason. There was always a reason, working with House had taught them all that so they needed to find the explanation here.

Sensing a storm brewing, House stepped forward until he was hovering beside them both like a teacher in the playground. He used his cane to nudge Chase back a few steps before he turned his attention on Cameron.

He pointed towards the assessment room that (Y/n) had come out of after her reaction. "Show me which needle you used."

There were medications clearly labelled and set out in the drawers and cupboards in each room. All Cameron had to do was show them which needle she had picked up and they would know the dosage and whether she had done her job properly or not. Then once they knew, they could figure out their next steps and make sure (Y/n) wouldn't have any other adverse reactions and what was causing them.

It was clear by Cameron's expression that she wasn't impressed about having to explain herself. They worked together, they were some of the best in their field, they had solved countless cases that other doctors couldn't fathom. And now she was having to prove that she had done a simple injection properly and given the right dosage.

And she suspected that if this were any other random patient that had come in off the street and not Chase's wife, she wouldn't have to explain herself. Clearly the team only trusted her when they were treating strangers.

Cameron's lips pursed and her heels thumped against the tiled floor as she stormed into the room and headed towards the drawers on the right hand side. She pulled open the drop drawer and made a big motion of pointing towards the tray held inside.

There were six different sections, all containing pre-filled needles of different medications and dosages and each one had a different sticker label and different coloured cap on the end.

"See? Green." It was clear that Cameron was talking to House rather than to Chase and she stepped aside so House could stand beside her and take a look where she was pointing.

But Chase didn't bother to try and lean over and take a peek. He turned away from the pair of them and looked around the room instead. There was a metal tray resting on the side unit beneath the window to the right of the door, and Chase immediately spotted an empty needle resting on the tray.

He could understand Cameron had been in a rush to get the medication into (Y/n)'s system to stop her reaction, which was why the needle was there for the time being and not already put away in the yellow sharps bin. He couldn't stop himself, Chase reached out for the needle and picked it up, narrowing his eyes as he scrutinised the label.

"You gave her the wrong one."

Such a dark, incredibly violent edge cut along Chase's voice as his hands began to shake and he turned to look over his shoulder at them.

Even after Cameron had tried to kiss him and cosy up to him at the Christmas party, Chase had still been professional towards her. He didn't hold it against her. Of course he had been wary those first few shifts together afterwards, he didn't want her to try and do that again or become resentful towards him or feel uncomfortable and not speak to him.

He had acted like it was nothing, like it didn't bother him and he didn't tell anyone. Chase had been professional and courteous towards Cameron, but this was something he couldn't overlook or forgive. Not this.

"No I didn't." Cameron's voice was a lot weaker than it was a few seconds ago and a round of trembling tore through her system when Chase's furious eyes blazed on her.

"You gave (Y/n) ten times the dosage," he thrust the needle out towards House to examine before his tremoring fingers tore through his hair and started to tug and yank on each strand in his fists. "You could have killed my wife!"

His fist rammed into the wall, earning a violent echo to shudder through the room and tremble in his wake when he stormed out. The longer Chase stayed in there, the more resentful he would grow towards Cameron and then he would end up saying or doing something he truly shouldn't.

Every part of him was shaking and his nails were cutting into his palms from how tightly his hands were clenched into fists at his sides. His jaw was grinding so much that his teeth were chattering and aching like he had chomped down on a block of ice. He didn't know what to do with himself, until his sights set on (Y/n).

She was still laid on the stretcher that hadn't gone anywhere yet, presumably because they were waiting for him to accompany (Y/n) since they knew he was her husband.

There was a fearful look in (Y/n)'s watering eyes that were locked on him and when she feebly shook one hand out in his direction, all of Chase's resolve faded away. He crossed the short distance until he could weave his fingers through hers and cocoon her hand towards his chest.

"S'alright babe, we're gonna get you sorted out." His free hand moved to graze the back of his fingers against her temple and he managed a small smile when (Y/n) tilted her head towards the touch.

He tried to slow down the erratic rise and fall of his chest and let some of the anger fizzle out of his blood, he needed to calm down if he was going to stay with (Y/n) and get her up on a ward and checked over.

When Chase lifted his eyes at the sound of approaching heels, he wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or not at the sight of Cuddy aiming their way. She looked very perplexed, caught between wanting to smile and wanting to look around at the madness happening in her clinic. Clearly she had been informed of some of the situation, but not everything.

"Oh- oh, you were our patient who coded?" There was something soft entwined with Cuddy's disbelief at realising it was (Y/n) who had been the cause of this emergency.

But (Y/n) didn't bother to answer, she wasn't sure she trusted her voice when her throat felt like it had been shred with razors and her chest was aching and throbbing horribly as if she had been whacked with a baseball bat.

She didn't need to answer; not when Chase beat her to it. "You'd better call your insurance and suspend one of your doctors, unless you want another patient going into cardiac arrest."

Venom dripped from Chase's words that were like poison on his tongue that he wanted to be rid of, and he didn't bother to explain any further. Not when he could see House and Cameron appearing in the doorway out the corner of his eye. He didn't want to deal with them any more.

With (Y/n)'s hand clasped against his heart as if he was showing her how frantic his heartbeat was and his other hand now tangled in her hair, Chase leant over her until he could press a longing kiss to her burning temple.