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catcherblocks · 9 hours ago

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Doctor, My Ovaries Are in Love With You (part 2)

The continuation of my silly House MD AU where Dr. James Wilson is a (very hot) gynecologist Here's the first part and AO3 link

Summary: She waits. He shows up. She's nervous. He's way too smooth. Wilson flirts with quiet authority. And before she knows it, she’s sitting in his living room with a glass of wine, legs draped over his lap, and a new kind of examination in progress... Bonus: House texting something wildly inappropriate.

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

Content Warning: 18+ content, age gap, slight m!domination, praise, degradation, dirty talk, oral sex (m! recieving / f!recieving), fluff, romance

Word count: ~3,5k

Chapter 5

“Doctor’s orders, dinner optional”

She spent the whole day half-convinced he’d flake.

Because, like — what man actually follows through on a flirty post-exam dinner date with a barely-legal girl he just edged on a clinic table?

Answer: Dr. James Wilson, apparently.

When he pulled up in a sleek silver sedan at precisely 6:03 p.m., wearing a blue button-down rolled at the sleeves and a bag of Thai takeout in hand, she had exactly 0.7 seconds to process “Oh no, he’s hotter in daylight.”

“Hi,” he said, leaning on the doorframe, all warm smiles and a hint of cologne that screamed I moisturize and also know where the clitoris is.

She tried to act chill. It didn’t work.

“Hi,” she replied, sounding like she was auditioning for the role of Girl Who’s Never Spoken to a Man Before.

He handed her the food like this was all completely normal — like he hadn’t given her the most clinical orgasm of her life that morning and then scheduled himself in for seconds.

“Thought you might be hungry,” he said. “Or at least too dazed to cook.”

“Wow,” she said, taking the bag. “You're charming and you insult me.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, already toeing off his shoes by the door. “Where should I set this up?”

She blinked. “You're just—making yourself at home?”

“You gave me your address,” he said with a casual shrug. “That’s practically a legal invitation to enter.”

That made her laugh. He was still so calm. So polite. As if this was just a colleague dinner. As if he hadn’t fingered her senseless and told her she was his.

They ate dinner on the couch, sitting just a little too close, their knees brushing, chopsticks bumping like nervous foreplay. He asked about her school, her favorite books, her opinions on pineapple in fried rice.

She answered — heart hammering, hands shaking, but starting to melt into the warmth of his voice, the soft cadence of his teasing.

And that’s when he shifted.

It happened somewhere between the second bite of curry and her reaching to grab a napkin. She leaned across him — not seductively, just thoughtlessly — and her tank top slipped slightly down her shoulder. Just a little. Just enough to make the line of her collarbone show, and maybe the edge of her bra strap.

Wilson went still.

And when she looked up?

His whole demeanor had changed.

Gone was the harmless-smile, careful-doctor routine. His eyes were darker now. Tracking. Slower. His voice, when he finally spoke, came out rougher.

“You comfortable?”

She swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Good.” He set his food aside. “Because I’m done pretending this is innocent.”

Heat hit her stomach like a thrown match.

He leaned in, forearm resting along the back of the couch, his body caging hers with just enough space to feel intentional — predatory. His fingers brushed her bare shoulder like a warning.

“You’ve been looking at me like that all night,” he murmured, thumb skimming the strap of her tank top. “Like you’re waiting for me to stop playing nice.”

She blinked up at him, every inch of her body screaming yes, please.

“I didn’t think you’d—”

“Sweetheart,” he said, eyes dragging slowly over her face, “I’ve been thinking about that mouth of yours since the moment you walked into my exam room.”

She whimpered. Literally whimpered.

Wilson’s smile turned sharp.

“I want you on your knees.”

Her breath caught.

“I want to ruin that lip gloss. I want to hear what you sound like when you try to keep your voice down because you know my neighbors might hear.”

Her knees were jelly. Her brain was static. But she still managed a breathless, “Then do it.”

He stood — cool, casual — and offered her his hand like a gentleman. Like a killer. And when she took it, trembling, he guided her to the carpet in front of him, settled himself on the couch, and looked down at her with calm command.

“Good girl.”

She nearly combusted.

He undid his belt with quiet precision, eyes never leaving hers. “You’ve got such a pretty mouth,” he murmured, thumbing her chin, angling her face up. “Think you can take me?”

She nodded, flushed and wide-eyed.

“I want you slow,” he said. “Lick me. Get me wet. Show me how badly you want to impress me.”

And she did.

She dragged her tongue along the underside of his cock, warm and reverent, and the sound he made — half hiss, half moan — was carved directly into her spinal cord. He gripped her hair gently, guided her down inch by inch, murmuring praise and filthy directions with clinical precision.

“That’s it. Deeper. Just like that.”

When she gagged slightly, he chuckled and pulled her off with a gentle tug.

“Careful,” he whispered, brushing her hair from her face. “We’ve got all night.”

She looked up at him, gasping, lips swollen, and he cupped her face with something dangerously close to affection.

“You like being good for me, don’t you?”

She nodded.

“You want me to fuck you like a patient who misbehaved during her check-up?”

She nearly moaned.

He smiled. “Then let’s get you back on that couch, legs open.”

And God help her — she obeyed.

Chapter 6

“Open wide and say Ahh”

She wasn’t sure how she ended up like this — half-naked on Dr. Wilson’s couch, mouth sore, thighs trembling, tank top twisted somewhere under her arms like fabric itself had just given up.

But here she was.

And he was looking at her like she was the most fascinating anatomy lesson he’d ever seen.

“Lie back for me,” Wilson said softly, brushing his fingers down her jaw, over the curve of her neck. “Let me take a look at what’s mine now.”

His words were tender, teasing. But the look in his eyes? Not soft at all.

He moved with slow certainty, like he already knew exactly how her body would react — and maybe he did. He had examined her clinically. Knew where her pulse raced. Knew how her thighs twitched when he circled just right. Knew what kind of pressure made her shiver, cry, open.

“Still doing okay?” he asked, kneeling beside her on the couch, his palm smoothing down her belly.

She nodded — breathless.

“I don’t just want to fuck you,” he said, brushing his nose against her cheek, lips a whisper at her temple. “I want to study you.”

God help her, she whimpered.

“You’re warm,” he murmured, palm splayed over her stomach like he was checking vitals. “Tense here. Breathing shallow. Are you nervous?”

“No,” she whispered, and meant it. “I want you.”

“Good.” He smiled, slow and crooked. “Because I already know exactly how to make you fall apart.”

She blinked up at him.

Wilson adjusted slightly on the couch, slipping his hand between her legs — fingers ghosting down the seam of her underwear with maddening restraint. “Do you know what the clitoral nerve branches off from?” he asked conversationally.

She stared at him like he’d spoken Elvish.

He grinned. “The pudendal nerve. Same one that innervates the pelvic floor. Which means—” he pressed down slowly, teasing a slow, aching circle that made her jolt “—I can stimulate you just right and get a reflex contraction so strong you’ll practically shake.”

“You’re lecturing,” she gasped.

“I warned you I was dangerous with knowledge,” he said, feathering kisses down her neck.

“And you’re hard,” she pointed out, clearly just trying to stay conscious.

“I’m a multi-tasker,” he replied smoothly.

Then he moved lower.

He took his time. Kissed her thighs like a man charting territory, slid her panties off like they were tissue-thin silk — even though they were definitely $6 cotton. He made her feel delicate, precious, worshipped. But there was a tightness in his jaw, a tension in his shoulders — like he was barely keeping control.

“This is going to be… specific,” he murmured, mouth hovering over her.

“Specific?” she echoed.

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” he said. “I know what makes a woman scream. What makes her beg. And what makes her black out for half a minute and then forget her own name.”

Then — God help her — he winked. “So I’m going to try all three.”

And he did.

He kissed her like a diagnosis. Like every flick of his tongue was testing a hypothesis. He mapped her reactions — gasps, moans, those breathy little “oh God oh God” whimpers — and adjusted pressure like he was fine-tuning an instrument.

“Right there,” she choked, hips jerking up.

He smiled against her. “You pulse every time I hit that spot. That’s your internal clitoral structure. Not many men even know it’s there.”

“You’re lecturing again,” she sobbed.

“You’re coming again,” he replied.

And she did.

It was slow at first — like waves curling at her toes, building in pressure until she couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. She grabbed the couch cushion, thighs shaking, legs twitching like she was being tested — which she was, in the most delicious way.

When she came down, Wilson kissed her hip, her belly, her ribcage — soft, warm kisses, like a thank-you note in the form of breath.

“You still with me?” he asked, nudging her nose with his.

She blinked blearily. “I’m clinically dead.”

He smiled. “No, you’re just very, very relaxed.”

And then — finally — he undid the last of his shirt buttons and stripped off what remained of his self-restraint.

He was gorgeous. That unfair, smooth-chested, well-sculpted kind of gorgeous that usually only lived in romance novels and extremely explicit fanfiction. His cock was hard and flushed, precum already glistening at the tip.

She reached for him instinctively, but he caught her wrist, firm but smiling.

“Let me,” he whispered. “I’m not done proving myself.”

He nudged her thighs apart again, guiding himself to her entrance with practiced ease.

“I’m going to go slow,” he said. “Not because I think you can’t take it — but because I want you to feel every second of this.”

And then he pressed in.

God.

He was thick. Hot. Slow like honey poured over her nerves.

She clung to him, mouth falling open, breath coming in tiny, hitched gasps.

He buried himself halfway and paused, breathing heavily against her cheek.

“Still okay?”

She nodded. “More. Please—”

His smile was strained, shaky. “You’re already clenching like you want to keep me.”

“I do.”

“Good,” he groaned. “Because I’m not pulling out until you can’t walk straight tomorrow.”

“Oh my God—”

He kissed her. Deep. Languid. Like he wanted to anchor her through the storm.

And then he rocked his hips forward.

Slow. Intentional. Bone-melting.

Every thrust was precise. Controlled. Like he knew exactly how deep to go, what angle to hit, what rhythm to use to keep her dangling on the edge of bliss. His lips brushed her ear.

“Pelvic tilt. Cervical angle. Ribbed texture of the posterior wall…” His voice was warm silk and sin. “Your body was built for this. For me.”

She came undone again with a sob.

And Wilson — soft-smiling, science-wielding, devastating Wilson — just held her through it.

Chapter 7

“Clinical aftercare and other misuses of a heating pad”

Her body was humming.

Not like a pleasant background hum — more like a full-volume chorus of angels and muscle fatigue. She was limp across Wilson’s couch, blinking at the ceiling like it had just shared an intimate secret with her cervix.

Wilson, meanwhile, was entirely too composed.

He sat beside her, one arm hooked around her waist, lazily brushing his fingers up and down her hip while she tried to remember what year it was. His chest was flushed and sweaty, his hair slightly messy, but otherwise? Disgustingly calm.

Like he hadn’t just made her body rewrite itself in Latin.

“You alive?” he asked, brushing a kiss to her temple.

She groaned.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He smiled, pulling her closer into his lap until her head lolled against his shoulder.

“I’m gonna sue you,” she murmured.

He snorted. “What for?”

“Excessive medical skill.”

Wilson chuckled softly, pressing a hand to her belly. “I take no responsibility for side effects such as jelly legs, ruined underwear, or inconvenient attachment issues.”

“I think I saw God.”

“That’s not medically advised, but thank you.”

She giggled into his chest — giggling, post-sex, like this was normal — and he nuzzled her hair like they’d done this a dozen times already.

And then, casually:

“So, for your medical file,” he murmured, brushing his fingers down her spine. “How many partners have you had before?”

She blinked against him. “You’re taking a history now?”

“Of course,” he said, very seriously. “I’m extremely thorough with patient records. HIPAA would be furious if I didn’t ask.”

She laughed and hid her face in his collar. “God, like… one or two? Max.”

Wilson raised an eyebrow. “Max?”

She nodded sheepishly. “Yeah, but I mean… they don’t count. Not like this.”

“Bad experiences?”

“Not even,” she admitted. “Just… teenage nonsense. Clothes halfway on, weird music in the background, me faking an orgasm while the guy tried not to cry on my neck. You know. Romance.”

He burst out laughing.

“Oh God,” he said. “I forgot what high school sex was like. Thank you for that PTSD.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, poking his chest. “You’ve successfully wiped my memory of all of them.”

“Excellent. Your brain will now reclassify them as awkward fever dreams.”

She smiled — and then turned her head up to look at him. “So I guess you’re technically… my first real one.”

That gave him pause.

And then, slowly, that damn smile curled back into place. A little cocky. A little guilty. Deeply dangerous.

“Wow,” he said, soft and mock-reverent. “So not only am I your gynecologist, I’m also your first proper fuck.”

“Wilson—”

“I mean, that’s a lot of responsibility,” he went on, letting his fingers trace slow, lazy circles on her thigh. “No pressure, right? Just medically reprogramming your brain to associate orgasms with older men in white coats.”

“Jesus Christ.”

He grinned. “You’ll never look at a stethoscope the same again.”

“I’m genuinely scared to walk past the clinic now.”

“Oh no. That’s the fun part.” He leaned in close. “Every time you see me in a hallway, you’re going to remember how it felt when I had you whimpering over my couch arm like a goddamn patient file.”

She made a sound somewhere between a moan and a scandalized wheeze.

And then—he kissed her. Slow, deep, but softer than before. Like he wanted her to feel it all the way down. Like he meant it.

After a few seconds, he pulled away and murmured, “You’re going to be trouble.”

“You literally seduced me during a pelvic exam.”

“I was gentle,” he said innocently.

“You edged me for thirty minutes.”

“I’m thorough.”

She laughed, exhausted and blissed out, cuddled into him like her bones were made of pudding.

Then Wilson's phone buzzed.

He reached for it, groaning.

She looked over his shoulder as the screen lit up.

DR DUMBASS [House] (1 NEW MESSAGE) >> So now you're treating patients at home? Mind if I show up with a tingle in my special place tomorrow?

She stared.

Wilson stared.

He slowly tilted the phone so she couldn’t see it anymore.

“I don’t want to know” she chuckled in disbelief.

“Correct,” he said, sighing. “He probably tracked your location somehow. He can do that, you know,”

She choked on a laugh and curled tighter into his side.

“You hungry?” he asked, like a man trying to change the subject before some emoji assault from House arrived. “I brought leftover pad see ew.”

“I’m too boneless to chew.”

“Perfect. I’ll spoon-feed you in bed.”

“You’re a menace.”

“I’m a caregiver,” he corrected with a wink. “Now hush. Doctor’s orders.”

Chapter 8

“You’re not allowed to look that good in my shirt”

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that makes you suddenly feel naked, even when you’re wrapped in a borrowed button-down and cocooned in a man’s blanket that still smells like expensive aftershave and something warm underneath — him.

She sat on the edge of his bed, legs tucked up, one arm clutching the comforter around her chest like she might need it as a shield. Wilson had stepped out to the kitchen — “to make coffee, not run,” he’d promised with a little smile — but now the soft clinking of mugs and gentle whirr of a Keurig was making her feel weirdly…

Out of place.

Like she’d stumbled into something too big for her, too adult. This apartment with its clean bookshelves, old jazz records, hospital lanyards on the doorknob — this wasn’t some bachelor pad. It was a man’s home. And she was… well. A twenty-year-old who still sometimes forgot to floss.

Suddenly, the shirt she’d borrowed — soft, navy blue, sleeves cuffed to hell on her tiny arms — felt less sexy and more like she was a kid raiding Dad’s closet to play pretend.

She was halfway to reaching for her phone when Wilson reappeared, two mugs in hand, smiling like the night hadn’t melted her into pudding just hours ago.

“Coffee,” he said gently, offering her the one with the little cat on it. “Because post-orgasm serotonin crashes are real, and I care about your brain chemistry.”

She smiled faintly, accepted the mug — but she wasn’t looking at him quite the same. Her eyes darted. Her knees pulled tighter to her chest.

Wilson noticed it instantly. His brows knit together.

“Hey. What’s wrong?”

She hesitated. Bit her lip.

“It’s nothing. Just…” Her voice dropped. “Maybe I should go soon.”

He blinked.

“…Go?” He sat beside her slowly, careful not to startle her. “Did something happen?”

“No, no,” she rushed. “God, no, you were… everything was amazing. I just—”

She shook her head, not sure how to explain it. The feeling creeping up her spine, whispering: You don’t belong here. He’s going to thank you and drive you home like a responsible adult and never call you again.

Wilson was quiet for a moment.

And then he did something she didn’t expect.

He reached over and tucked her hair behind her ear with the softest, slowest motion imaginable.

“Okay,” he said gently. “First of all — I’m not kicking you out.”

She opened her mouth, but he raised a finger, smiling a little.

“Second — don’t tell me you really thought this was, like… a one-night stand situation?”

She faltered. “I mean… yeah? You’re older, you’re charming, you’ve got the hot divorcee energy down to an art, and I was a very convenient emotional support brat with legs, so…”

He laughed. Honest-to-God laughed, then leaned back against the headboard with a look of total disbelief.

“You think I do one-night stands?” he said, eyes wide. “Do I look like I have the energy for meaningless sex and awkward goodbyes?”

“…Kinda,” she said, sipping her coffee with a shrug. “You’ve got that ‘emotionally stable rebound fantasy’ thing going.”

“I use a humidifier,” he said flatly. “I donate to NPR. My idea of casual rebellion is eating cheese at 2 a.m. I’m not built for hit-and-run flings.”

Her lips twitched. “So… what are you built for?”

He glanced at her, eyes warm now. “For cooking you breakfast. For asking too many questions about your minor injuries. For making sure you never feel like you’re just another body in my bed.”

Her throat tightened.

“Okay,” she said softly. “That’s really sweet. But…”

“But?”

She looked down at the borrowed shirt she was drowning in. “Sometimes I feel like you’re talking to me like I’m still a patient. Or a kid.”

That stopped him for a beat.

Wilson sighed. “Fair.”

She looked up, surprised he didn’t deflect.

“I am careful,” he said. “I’ve trained myself to be. I work with patients all day who are vulnerable. I’ve spent half my life being the ‘calm one’ in every room. So yeah — I might talk to you like I’m checking vitals sometimes.” He nudged her playfully. “But trust me. I don’t see you like one.”

“You sure?” she asked, half-joking. “Because you handed me a blanket and a cat mug like I was about to draw you a crayon picture of my feelings.”

“Okay, first of all,” Wilson said, completely straight-faced, “that mug is a classic. You should feel honored.”

She snorted.

“And second,” he went on, taking her empty hand, “if I really thought you were a kid? We wouldn’t be having this conversation. Or last night. Or the part where I plan on fucking you again as soon as you finish your coffee.”

Her breath hitched.

He leaned in, voice dipping.

“You’re young. Yeah. But you’re not fragile. And I think you know exactly what you’re doing.”

She stared at him — cheeks flushed, still uncertain, but a little steadier now. The way he said it… It wasn’t some line. It wasn’t patronizing.

It was gentle confidence.

It was trust.

It was a slow hand sliding around her waist again.

“So,” he murmured, brushing his thumb along the inside of her thigh. “Do you still want to leave?”

She shook her head, almost shy.

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I want to see what my shirt looks like on the floor.”

To be continued...

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catcherblocks · 9 hours ago

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Doctor, My Ovaries Are in Love With You (Part 1)

My silly multi-chapter AU of House MD where James Wilson is a gynecologist (don't ask how I came up with that) Here's Part 2 and Part 3 of the story and the AO3 link if it's you preferred website

Summary: She is just his another patient. But for her this turns out to be more complicated than just an exam...

A chaotic, smutty romp through Princeton-Plainsboro with snark, awkward gynecology, and Wilson being the soft-spoken but deeply flustered king of oh no she’s hot.

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

Content Warning: 18+ content, age gap, slight m!domination, praise, degradation, dirty talk, edging

Word count: ~3k

Chapter 1

“Doctor, my ovaries are in love with you”

In retrospect, she should’ve guessed something was off when the nurse at the Princeton-Plainsboro women’s clinic winked and said, “You got the good doctor.”

The “good doctor” in question? Dr. James Wilson. Yes, the James Wilson. Clinic's golden boy, rumored heartbreaker, and — as she quickly realized when he walked into the exam room with a clipboard and a smile that could dissolve panties — the hottest gynecologist in the tri-state area.

“Hi,” he said, voice warm and professional, eyes doing that thing. The thing where they look right through your soul and into your cervix. “You must be…?”

“Yeah. I mean. That’s me.” She cleared her throat. “The, um. Patient.”

So far, so good. Just play it cool. She was a mature adult woman here for a medical procedure, not someone who had spent fifteen minutes stress-sweating through the paper gown and Googling ‘is it normal to find your gynecologist hot’.

He smiled, sat down, and flipped through her chart like he wasn’t seconds away from seeing parts of her that had never even seen daylight. “So, this is your first time visiting a gynecologist?”

She nodded, then immediately regretted it because she could feel the blush burning up from her neck like a signal flare. “I figured it was about time. Y’know. Like an oil change.”

“Right,” Wilson said gently, suppressing a laugh. “Except slightly less greasy.”

“Debatable,” she muttered, then clapped a horrified hand over her mouth.

Wilson looked up, eyes twinkling. “I’m guessing humor is your default coping mechanism.”

“You’ll find out I have no other mechanisms.”

He smiled, and she died a little. Because that wasn’t a doctor smile. That was a man who just got handed a live grenade and decided to cradle it smile. Gentle. Amused. Slightly alarmed.

Then it happened.

The stirrups.

“Alright,” Wilson said, pulling on his gloves. “Scoot down for me.”

There were few moments in her life more surreal than locking eyes with a man while simultaneously inching her bare ass down a paper-covered table into foot-holsters like a human rotisserie chicken.

She was vulnerable. She was exposed. She was possibly leaking stress tears.

And Wilson? Perfect. Gentle. Warm hands. Professional tone. Except when he met her eyes during the exam and said, low, “You’re doing really well,” in a voice that absolutely did not belong in a sterile medical setting.

Oh no.

Because something in the air shifted. Maybe it was the way his fingers brushed against her inner thigh just a second too long. Maybe it was the way she instinctively bit her lip. Maybe it was the way his gaze flicked up — just for a moment — to her face. But there was heat now. Confusion. Definitely at least one forbidden boner between them, though she couldn’t say whose.

He blinked. “All done.”

She blinked back. “That’s it?”

“Well, unless you want me to keep going, but I’m legally required to stop.”

“Right. Laws. Ethics. Boo.”

There was an awkward pause as she sat up, trying to pretend like she hadn’t just imagined riding his lap in this very chair. Wilson looked like he was trying very hard to remember what year it was.

“Do you—” they both started at the same time.

“You first,” he said.

“No, you—”

“Okay.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I was going to say, uh… If you ever need a follow-up. Or have questions. Medical ones. I’m available.”

“Thanks. I was just going to ask if you do house calls.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”

“I meant like House calls.” She waved her hands. “Like the doctor. You know. That guy.”

“You know House?”

“Wait. House is real?”

At that exact moment, the exam room door burst open and in walked a cane-wielding man in a wrinkled shirt and a smirk that could curdle milk.

“Oh, he’s very real,” House said, eyeing the two of them like a cat who just found two birds tangled in mating feathers. “Wilson, you’re taking too long. Either you’re diagnosing something or catching feelings.”

“I’m—she’s just—House, leave.”

“Can’t. This is the most action you’ve had in weeks.”

Wilson groaned and rubbed his temples. She, to her credit, merely pulled the paper sheet higher over her chest and said, “Hi. I’m the patient. But please, don’t let that stop your therapy session.”

House grinned. “Oh, I like her.”

Wilson sighed, defeated, then looked at her with an expression somewhere between mortified and aroused.

She smiled. “See you at the follow-up?”

He hesitated — then nodded. “Yeah. Definitely.”

House smirked behind him. “Just make sure she’s not pregnant when you do.”

Chapter 2

“I Think I’m Ovulating and It’s Your Fault”

The waiting room smelled like antiseptic and passive aggression. Again.

She wasn’t even pretending anymore — she’d shaved her legs, worn her second-cutest bra (because the first was too obvious), and brought a book she had no intention of reading. This was a mission now. A medical, maybe-mutual-horniness-based reconnaissance operation.

Dr. James Wilson, gynecologist and accidental sex symbol, opened the door precisely seven minutes late with the kind of expression that said I am calm, I am collected, I am not sweating bullets about this young woman who now lives rent-free in my frontal cortex.

“Hi again,” he said. “Right this way.”

She followed, because duh.

This time, the room felt different. Like it knew. The exam table creaked a little too suggestively. The gloves on the counter whispered, Don’t ruin this for him, he’s trying so hard.

“I wasn’t expecting you so soon,” Wilson said, settling on his stool with a smile that couldn’t decide if it was nervous or thrilled. “Everything okay?”

“Well, I figured I should… follow up.” She sat primly on the edge of the table, ankles crossed like a Catholic schoolgirl in heat. “Y’know. Medically.”

He gave her a look that said I know exactly what game you’re playing and I am deeply, deeply cursed by how into it I am.

“You said to come back if I had any questions.”

“Yes,” he said slowly. “Medical questions.”

She nodded. “Good. Because I’ve been having some… symptoms.”

He blinked. “Oh?”

“Mmhm. Fast heart rate. Trouble breathing. Increased moisture in… areas.” She let that hang. “And for some reason, it only happens when I think about you.”

Wilson froze like a man watching his ethics file itself for divorce.

She swung her legs a little. “Could be a reaction to latex?”

“Or,” he said hoarsely, “the result of chronic sexual tension in confined medical environments.”

She beamed. “You are a doctor.”

Then he stood. Slowly. Like a man making peace with a decision that would absolutely haunt him through every licensing board hearing.

“Lock the door,” he said.

She did.

Wilson stepped closer. “You know this is wildly inappropriate.”

“That’s my favorite kind of appropriate.”

He took her wrist — gently, clinically — and pressed two fingers to her pulse. “Heart rate’s up.”

“Maybe it’s the white coat.”

“Maybe it’s you being a goddamn menace.”

She gave him doe eyes. “Are you gonna write me a prescription, Doctor?”

He leaned in, voice dropping. “I’m gonna recommend immediate treatment. Hands-on. Full-contact.”

“Oh no,” she whispered, delighted. “Not hands-on.”

“Yes. Very hands-on.”

He kissed her before she could giggle again — soft but firm, like he was still half-convinced this was a fever dream with malpractice insurance consequences. His hands braced her thighs as she pulled him closer, her fingers tangling in his hair with zero respect for hospital hygiene.

“You’re gonna be the reason I get sued,” he muttered, mouth trailing down her neck.

She arched into him. “I’ll represent you in court.”

“You’re not a lawyer.”

“Doesn’t stop me from roleplaying one.”

He groaned. “God, you’re dangerous.”

“Dangerously wet,” she whispered.

There was a beat of silence. Wilson stopped, clearly trying to recalibrate his frontal lobe.

“…Don’t ever say that again.”

“Not even during?”

“Especially during.”

He sat her back against the table, parting her legs with all the calm authority of a man giving in to a moral freefall. She gasped as his hands slid under the edge of her skirt, fingers grazing up the inside of her thighs — slow, deliberate, reverent.

Then—

“KNOCK KNOCK — someone in here committing a felony?”

The door rattled.

“House,” Wilson growled, forehead dropping against her shoulder. “I swear to God—”

“Just checking!” House called through the door. “Saw the locked room and thought ooh, sexy war crime!”

“Go. Away.”

“Tell her to say hi. I liked her.”

The door finally went quiet.

She exhaled, giggling. “Does he do that a lot?”

“Only when he knows I’m finally happy.”

Wilson kissed her again — harder this time. Less doctor, more man on the edge. And this time, when his stethoscope fell off the counter with a clang and landed squarely between them, she didn’t even laugh.

Because he picked it up, wrapped it around her neck like some sort of absurdly professional collar, and whispered, “Guess I’ll check for abnormal moaning patterns.”

She moaned — purely for science.

He grinned.

Chapter 3

“Get On the Table and Say Ahh”

Okay, so here’s the thing.

She knew this was unprofessional. She knew it was inappropriate. She knew she was twenty years old, half-naked on a paper-lined exam table, skirt bunched around her hips, legs spread like an open book Wilson had just started reading with deep personal interest.

She also knew she was not going to stop this.

His mouth was warm and commanding as he kissed down her neck, and his hands — God, his hands — held her thighs like he was afraid they’d close again before he got his fill. Spoiler: they absolutely weren’t.

“Tell me something,” Wilson murmured, lips grazing the shell of her ear as he pushed her panties aside with two fingers and began rubbing slow, testing circles that made her hips twitch. “How old are you?”

The question lit her spine like a shot of adrenaline. Her breath caught. He was looking at her now, really looking — dark eyes pinned on hers, voice low and steady, fingers suddenly still.

“Twenty,” she whispered, her throat dry. “Just turned.”

He went still for a full beat. His jaw clenched. There was this pause — not hesitation, exactly, but calculation. Like he’d just realized what he was doing and was rapidly failing to find a single reason to stop.

“…Jesus Christ,” he muttered, half to himself. “You’re a baby.”

She smirked — bold now, emboldened. “You can still be my Daddy.”

His eyes snapped to hers like she’d just kicked open a door.

“Say that again,” he said, voice low, dangerous.

“Daddy,” she said innocently, and nearly yelped when his fingers pressed harder against her clit, slow and punishing, a rhythm meant to make her squirm.

“Fuck,” he muttered, and kissed her again — rougher this time. Hungrier. One hand gripped her jaw while the other worked between her legs with agonizing control. “You’re twenty and walking around with a mouth like that?”

“You like it,” she gasped.

“I shouldn’t.”

“But you do.”

He growled — an actual, low, disbelieving growl — and suddenly she was flat on her back, Wilson’s hand pushing her knee up, spreading her open like something he owned. She was soaked. Mortifyingly soaked. And the look on his face when he glanced down at her—

“You’re dripping,” he muttered. “Look at you. I’ve barely touched you.”

“You’re touching me right now,” she whimpered.

He stopped. Completely. Fingers still, heat hovering, but no movement.

“Exactly,” he said. “And you’re already whining.”

She whined again, instinctively, desperate for friction — and his smile went feral.

“You think you’re ready?” he murmured. “That needy little body of yours wants to come already, doesn’t it?”

She nodded.

“Too bad,” he said. “Not yet.”

Then he leaned in, lips brushing her ear. “You’re gonna come when I say so. Not before.”

Oh.

Oh no.

This was worse than she expected. Because he wasn’t just hot, wasn’t just kind — he was a monster. With apparetly innocent puppy eyes. The kind of man who spoke with gentle dominance and smiled like a saint while making her whimper and writhe for permission to fall apart.

He slid two fingers inside — slow, smooth, sinful.

She gasped, clenching down around him, back arching off the table. But every time her breath hitched like she was about to tip over, he stopped. Deliberately. Pulled back. Made her wait.

“Please,” she breathed, eyes glassy, hands grabbing at his wrist. “Please, Doctor…”

“Oh, so now it’s Doctor?” he teased, sliding in again — deeper this time, curling his fingers until she nearly sobbed. “Not Daddy?”

“Whichever gets me off faster!”

He laughed. A real, breathless, disbelieving laugh — right before he leaned down, kissed her flushed cheek, and whispered, “Not yet, sweetheart. You’ve got at least two more beggings in you.”

She moaned. Loud. Shameless.

Wilson’s free hand gripped her throat gently, possessively, holding her steady while he drove her insane with slow, perfect strokes.

“This little body’s all mine now,” he said against her neck. “You think any boy your age could fuck you like this?”

“N-no,” she choked out, trembling.

“Damn right,” he growled, suddenly pressing harder, grinding the heel of his palm against her clit while his fingers curled inside. “Because boys don’t know what to do with needy little brats like you.”

“I’m good,” she gasped, nearly breaking. “I swear, I’m good—”

“You’re filthy,” he whispered, kissing her temple. “But you’re mine now. And when I let you come? You’re gonna thank me.”

Her orgasm hit her like a tidal wave the second he allowed it — fingers fast and deep, palm grinding against her, breath warm in her ear as he murmured, “That’s it, let go for me, come on my fingers like a good girl.”

She did. Shaking. Moaning. Maybe crying a little. Definitely blacking out for a few seconds.

When she finally came back to Earth, he was still above her — hand resting on her thigh, lips soft at her temple, voice gentle again.

“You okay?”

She blinked. “Do people ever pass out in here?”

“All the time,” he said, amused. “Though not usually from orgasm.”

She groaned and covered her face. “This is the weirdest first appointment ever.”

He kissed her again, slow and sweet this time. “Oh, sweetheart. This was just your consultation.”

Chapter 4

“Silk-glove manipulation”

She lay there dazed, skin buzzing, skirt still bunched around her hips like modesty had left the building and forgotten to take her with it.

Wilson was calm. Too calm. Like he hadn’t just fingered a patient into another dimension between his oncology rounds and a tuna sandwich. He peeled off his gloves like a gentleman. Like he hadn’t literally knuckle-deeped her six minutes ago.

“Do you want some water?” he asked gently, handing her tissues.

She nodded. “And maybe a warning label next time.”

He chuckled, offered her a hand to sit up, and let his fingers linger just a little too long against her waist. It wasn’t just politeness. It was tactile appreciation.

“I finish clinic at six,” he said casually, like this was a line he dropped between cancer diagnoses and coffee refills. “If you’re free later, I could swing by. Bring dinner. You know. Private follow-up consultation.”

She blinked. “Are you serious?”

“Serious enough to ask for your address.” He passed her a clipboard with a wink. “Unless you’d rather pencil yourself in for a formal second appointment. I hear Tuesdays are good for sin.”

Her heart was sprinting. Not just from what he said — but how he said it. Soft. Direct. Like he already knew she’d say yes, but was giving her every graceful out. Like this was just another box to tick on her patient chart:

☐ Pelvic exam

☐ Mind-blowing orgasm

☐ Dinner at doctor’s house

“I…” she started, glancing toward the door. “Isn’t this a bad idea?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he said cheerfully. “But I’m remarkably good at bad ideas.”

“Is this something you… do?”

He paused, then looked her dead in the eyes. “I don’t invite patients over for dinner.”

She waited.

“…Usually.”

She gave him a narrow-eyed look.

“Alright,” he admitted, smiling. “Once. And that guy ended up marrying his gynecologist, so if anything, it’s tradition now.”

She laughed despite herself. “You’re the most unethical man I’ve ever met.”

“Give me time. I’m full of surprises.”

She stared at him. This man. This slightly-wrinkled, post-orgasm-giving, scandalously professional, impossibly charming man. And he looked so at ease — leaning on the counter, arms crossed, smiling like none of this was complicated at all.

“Is this a trap?” she asked. “Are you gonna turn out to be secretly married or, like, a vampire or something?”

He smirked. “I’d never do that to you. I’m way too tired to be mysterious after 6 p.m.”

She looked down at the clipboard. Her pen hovered.

“I don’t even know what we’re doing,” she said, half to herself.

Wilson stepped closer, voice quiet and smooth like he was coaxing her body open again — this time with words.

“Dinner,” he said. “Conversation. Maybe more. Or not. No pressure.” He tilted his head, grinning softly. “Though I am curious what you’re like when you’re not hyperventilating on an exam table.”

She covered her face. “Oh my God.”

“I meant that in the sweetest, horniest way possible.”

“…Fine,” she said, scribbling down her address like she was signing a contract with the devil.

He took the clipboard back with a pleased hum. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

“You don’t even know my last name.”

“I know your anatomy better than your barista does your coffee order. That feels like a good foundation.”

“Okay, well now I regret it.”

“No, you don’t.”

She didn’t.

He smiled. She blushed.

And when she finally left the clinic, knees still a little wobbly, she had no idea what to expect from 6 p.m.

Only that her gynecologist had better be on time.

To be continued...

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catcherblocks · 9 hours ago

Text

Office Phones

My attempt at James Wilson x Reader smut before returning to my Dana’s Daughter X Jack Abbot fic!!

Content: No use of Y/N, prob cringy pet names by reader for Wilson, phone sex obv, f!reader, reader works for House, established secret relationship >:)

Word Count: 1.3k

You and James had decided to keep your relationship a secret for several reasons. Paperwork through Cuddy, gossip amongst colleagues. But most of all, you hid on account of House. You’d seen first hand the way he loves to destroy anything he can get his hands on. Especially if that thing brings James any joy. So, you hide behind secret glances and hidden touches for the sake of your own sanity. As frustrating as it can be to hide from the smartest man -probably- on earth, every moment with James reminds you that it’s worth it.

Well… until there’s a week like this. You have a particularly difficult case on your hands, keeping you stuck too close to House to allow even a second with James. He’s always with one of you, always demanding something or going on about his newest hunch. Needing a break, you’ve locked yourself in your office while you wait for test results to come back. Luckily House is off doing something somewhere you couldn’t care less about, but he could come back at anytime, so you won’t risk actually visiting James in his office.

But you decide a phone call can’t hurt so you quickly punch in his extension, keeping a “It’s the lab” lie on the tip of your tongue just in case House does decide to interrupt as he so often does.

“Dr. Wilson.” He greets, barely hiding a sigh. You can hear the stress through his thinly veiled professionalism.

“Hey.” You smile.

“Oh, it’s you, thank God.” He groans.

You chuckle. “I’ve missed you too.”

“You’re calling. Does that mean good news?”

“No, not really. We’re still trying to figure this whole thing out but he’s out. For now.”

He grunts. You both know it could be minutes or until tomorrow when House shows back up. “Well, it’s good to hear your voice at least.”

“Yeah, yours too.” You say quietly. Silence settles between you. You forget how nice it is just to hear his soft breath. But of course, that can’t last. You sigh. “I’ll probably be stuck here overnight depending on what these results are.”

His sigh is ragged, almost growling. “For the love of…” He trails off but his frustration is nearly palpable through the phone.

“I know.” You cringe, wishing he could see the apologetic look on your face. “I’m sorry, lover.”

“No, it’s… it’s fine.” His tone screams that it’s clearly not fine. “I just… it’s hard being without you this long.”

“It’s hard for me too, but-“

“I know.” He mutters.

“You’re getting sick of this.”

“What? No.”

“You are.”

“I’m not. As much of a pain in the ass as this is… House knowing would be so much worse.”

“Yeah…” You can only whisper because it’s the truth. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I am sorry, though. I’m sorry that neither of us can get away from the psychotic fuck.”

He just sighs.

“I’m sorry that all of our conversations end up being about him…” You mumble, slumping back into your chair.

A scoff comes through the phone. You can tell he’s thinking about him. He’s always thinking about House.

“What should we do this weekend?” You try to change course. “I was thinking something with… ties and heels and candlelight.”

“That sounds nice.” His voice falls flat.

You sigh, knowing it’s pretty much hopeless. You’re both too frustrated, too fed up with all the secrecy and being kept apart. “I could come to your office?”

“No,” He groans, tone bitter. “He’ll just show up.”

“Okay, fine.” You roll your neck, tension built up from the last two weeks. He’s frustrated too, you can hear it in his breath.

“I just… I just need a few minutes with you without having to worry so damn much.”

You nod. “I know…” You let your eyes fall closed. The tension in your body is a heavy weight. You just need somehow to release just a little of it… “James…” You almost whisper.

“Hm?”

“You’re right. We’d just be wasting time trying to get to one of our offices… And he’d only catch us heading back.”

You almost hear the grin spreading on his lips. “Baby… Are you saying what I think?”

“I think you should lock your door.” You’re smiling yourself, and even more when you hear his office phone clatter onto the desk. Quickly, you get up and do the same. When you settle the phone between your cheek and shoulder, you hear him ruffling with his pants. Heat blooms in both your face and core as you slide your hand beneath your own waistband.

“Talk… talk to me.” He’s already breathing a little heavier between the physical rush he was in and the excitement coursing through him. You hear him spit.

You chuckle, shifting your hips for a more comfortable angle. “I think this is a two way deal, hot stuff.”

He gives a laugh of his own. “Right. I guess I should start by telling you how much I’ve missed you.”

You imagine him leaned back in his chair, long legs stretched, cock in his large hand. “Every day has been absolute hell not being able to come home to you.” Your fingers slide between your wettening folds.

“Home,” He hums. “I like the sound of that, you know.”

“Yeah, me too,” You smile, soft pants coming from your parted lips as your fingers work gently, loosening yourself up from the long week of stress.

“When-“ He grunts, “When this is all over, I’m taking you home and not letting you leave my bed for a fucking week.” A satisfied sigh draws out from his lips.

With a hum, you slide fingers into yourself, reaching for the spot he knows so perfectly while your thumb works at your clit. “You promise?”

He practically whines a “Mhm”. His breath hitches and you can hear the wet slapping as he pumps himself. “Oh, I wish you were here.” He says once he remembers to breathe again.

“You have no idea,” You move your hips against your slick-covered hand. If it wasn’t for his grunts and groans egging you on, you don’t think you’d be near as close as you are- not that you’re as close as you would be if he were really here. Imagining him beneath your desk, his fingers in place of your own. His tongue-

This spurs you on, making you pant and mewl into the phone’s mouthpiece between pathetic “I miss you”s and “I wish you were here”s.

“God, baby, you sound so good.” He says through his teeth, a sign giving away his own closeness. “So good- I’m-…”

You nod, eyes shut tight to picture the way his face scrunches right before he finishes. “Me too.” You say, desperately chasing that building pressure in your core.

“Let me hear it.” He grunts. “I want to hear you cum for me. Even when we’re apart like this.”

Biting your lip to stifle anything loud enough to be heard from the other side of your office walls, you ride your hand. Even still, a high pitched moan escapes you.

“Shh,” He coos, and you can almost see the smirk on his face. “You don’t want anyone to hear how needy you are, do you?”

“No-“ Your voice cracks, breath catching in your throat as you bite down another -would be much louder- moan, white hot pleasure making your entire body tremble. “Oh, James.”

“So desperate for me-“ He goes on, voice thick with closeness. “Can’t even- even wait till- Ah,” You hear his chair squeak, his breath change as he spills out into his fist. “Fuck.“

Panting, you slide your soaked hand out from your equally wet underwear, body practically collapsed in your chair. “I love you.” You whisper.

“I love you too.” He sniffs and grunts, surely reaching for a Kleenex. “So fucking much.” He chuckles.

You smile as you sit there, giving your heart a moment to calm. “You know something?”

He hums.

“When this case is over…” Your head is already going over all the desperate, needing ways you two will fall over each other the second you get the chance. “I don’t think we’ll be making it to your bedroom.”

He chuckles. “No. We won’t be.”

Divider Cred: @enchanthings

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catcherblocks · 9 hours ago

Text

Need someone older ﾟ☆ James Wilson x F!reader

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Pairing: James Wilson x F!Reader

Summary: You and Chase have been best friends since u two met at a medical conference. He put a good word in with House, and since then you were part of the best diagnostics department of the United States, but a certain dr catches your eyes.

Warnings: Kinda spicy? I’d appreciate if minors don’t interact! :)

Length: short

Important: This takes place in like the first season, so Wilson is 38! And y/n is 25, just like chase is in s1! Oh and I also am not a professional medical person, so if u want extreme accuracy don’t read this lol.

A/N: I’m back from the dead!! (I mean I hope so) keep in mind English isn’t my first language. If u guys want this to be a series pls say so!! :) and sorry if its shit, Its been a while since I wrote something.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It was late. You we’re sitting next to Cameron, who was in deep discussion with Foreman on why it couldn’t be the sickness he described.

“I’m telling you, it doesn’t add up!” Foreman said as he rubbed his temples in annoyance.

“Sometimes I’m wondering if all of you guys share one stupid braincell.” House said as he rolled his eyes, which made you chuckle. He leaned onto his cane and sighs.

“Chase, Cameron, do tests. Foreman, search his house.” He said as he waved them off. He grabbed the file and shoved it into your arms.

“Y/n, go to Wilson and rule out some different type of cancers.”

“What are you going to do?” You asked, a bit puzzled. He looked back at you.

“I’m going to brainstorm in my personal bubble.” He said as he walked away towards his office. He’s definitely gonna play videogames. You sighed. You didn’t wanna go to Wilson, he was probably busy himself as it was quite late and he was still here. And if you were completely honest, being around him made you feel a certain type of way. The way he leans against the wall in the hallway, his big brown eyes in which u could literally lose yourself, his arms, you could go on forever. Some things about him just makes your body flutter in excitement. Your whole body.

You hold the file loosely in your left hand as u walked towards Wilson his office. Luckily it was next to the diagnostics department so you didn’t have to walk far.

You arrived at his office door and softly knocked with the back of your right hand.

“Dr. Wilson?” You softly spoke against the door.

“Come in!” You heard from the other side of the door. You grabbed the door handle and slowly opened the door. Wilson wasn’t sitting in his office chair. You peeked your head around the door and saw him sitting in the chair across the couch. His hair was a bit ruffled, his sleeves rolled up and his tie was laying on the couch. All different kinds of files were spread across the coffeetable in front of him.

“Are you alright?” You chuckled as you stepped inside his office, closing the door behind you. He turned his head towards you.

“Ah, y/l/n.” He said and smiled, which made your heart skip a beat.

“Uh, yeah kinda.” He quickly said as he looked back at the table. “Alot of stuff I have to finish in the next couple of days so it’s quite uh- chaotic.” He chuckled, which made you smile. You walked towards his desk and leaned against it.

“You got a file u want me to check out?” Wilson said as he nodded towards the file in your hand.

“Uh- yeah. Sorry-“ You apologised, which gave Wilson a small smirk across his face. You quickly gave your file to Wilson, who opened it. While he was quickly scanning the file, you couldn’t help it but to stare at him. The way his sleeves are half rolled up, exposing his underarm. How his fingers smoothly slide across the paper in front of him, how his blouse is a bit open which made you fantasize even more. A small cough quickly made you come back from your fantasy, a bit flustered. Wilson softly chuckled.

“It’s not cancer, thats for sure.” He said as he closed the file. He stood up and walked towards you. “Is there.. Something else you’d like to discuss?” He asked, his voice a bit lower then before. You could sense a bit of curiosity in his tone.

He walked even closer, the space between you and Wilson was now completely gone. Your hips softly pushed against the desk. You could feel the warmth of his body on yours. Wilson placed his hand on the side of his desk, next to yours.

“You shouldn’t stand so close-“ You murmured, but your heart told you otherwise.

“Maybe not,” He said with a half smirk. “But you aren’t moving either.” He teased. The smell of his faint cologne almost made you faint. He placed his other hand on the other side of the desk, which made you be placed in between them. The tension was unbearable until you gave in. He slowly leaned in, giving you all the time in case you wanted to pull away but of course you didn’t want that. You softly melted into the kiss, it was tender at first but the second kiss was alot sloppier, messier with the second like he was holding it in for too long. Your hand traveled across his body, tugging onto his blouse to pull him closer. He slid his hand across the desk, steadying you both as the kiss deepened.

You finally broke apart, both catching your breath. He smiled before he crashed his lips onto yours again, but this time with more urgency, like he couldn’t keep it in anymore. Wilson softly placed his hand on your jaw, tilting you a bit to deepen the kiss. His thump softly brushing your cheek. You kept tugging him closer, wanting to feel him as close as possible until his hip bumps into the desk. He lifted you upon the desk. You wrapped your legs around his waist. His hands on both sides of your hips, slowly travelling towards your ass.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmered as he started to kiss your jaw.

You didn’t say a word as a moan softly escaped your lips which made Wilson smirk against your neck.

Then the door bursts open, which made Wilson and you jump up. Chase stood in the doorway with Cameron behind him, both in shock.

“Oh” Chase said and chuckled.

“Ehm, we.. uh.. came to ask if you guys had any ideas already.. But we’ll- uh come back.” She said awkwardly as she grabbed Chase by his wrist, pulling him towards the hallway and closing the door behind them.

Wilson and you exchanged the same look and chuckled. His hair was a mess, your hair was a mess.. everything was a mess.

“This-“ He said while looking back at you, smiling. “Isn’t over.” He said which made you smirk as you quickly pulled him in a short, sloppy kiss.

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catcherblocks · 9 hours ago

Text

Health anxiety comfort *.☽ ft James Wilson

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Pairing: James Wilson x Hypochondria!reader

Summary: Your boyfriend comforts you after he finds you mid-anxiety attack.

Warning: Medical anxiety stuff.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It's kinda ironic isn't it? Having a boyfriend who works as head of oncology while you on the other hand worry every day if the small change in breathing could be lung-cancer or the headache that lingers a bit too long could be a tumor. Living with hypochondriasis, or as most people would call it health anxiety sucks. Some days are worse then others but the smallest thing could trigger your anxiety. For example what just happened; Your heartbeat felt irregular and you felt a sharp pain in your chest. You felt your heartbeat rise and your hands started to tremble and get sweaty. You put down your phone on the coffee table in front of you and curled up in fetus form on the couch, trying to get your mind off of the wave of anxiety that creeped over you.

"I'm home,' You heard from the hallway of your apartment. He walked inside, scanning the room.

"Oh honey." He said as he saw you. He walked towards you and got down on his knees in front of you, now being on eye level. He placed one hand on the side of your body, softly rubbing trying to make you comfortable. "You okay?" He softly said, giving you a weak smile.

You shook your head. "It's back again" You muttered while clenching your chest. He stood up and sat down next to you. He pulled you up, wrapping his arm around your shoulder pulling you closer to his chest. You listened to his heartbeat, which was quite comforting. "The weird pressure in my chest. Can it be my heart?" You muttered.

"Alright, try to take a deep breath first. I'm here, we're gonna figure this out together.. Okay?" He said as he softly rubbed your shoulder. You took a deep breath and when you felt that it felt alright, you repeated a few times.

"I know it's probably nothing.." You softly said. "But I'm just scared that it's a small symptom that indicates to something bigger. I don't want to miss that."

"Of course, that makes sense." He said, pulling you closer. "You're not making it up. Your body is telling you that it's scared, even if there's no danger." He listened to your chest.

"Your heartrate is steady. It's a little fast, but that's because of the anxiety. Nothing to worry about." He smiled, which made you smile.

"Let me get you a hot chocolate, It will make you feel better."

"Thank you, I hate how real it feels."

"I know, it sucks." He said as he softly strokes your hair. "But you'll never have to do this alone, because you have me and I love you." He smiled. You gave him a kiss.

"I love you too, thank you for the comfort and being the best boyfriend in the world." You said. He gave you a big smile.

"alright, I'm gonna make the hot chocolates. You can pick out any movie you want and use me as your personal pillow alright?" He said and smiled. You chuckled and nodded.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

a/n: Hello!! this is super-duper short bc I'm working on 3 different wilson fics atm and it's taking longer than I expected because writersblock is reaaal!! so I wrote this because I wanted to post something and I suffer myself from hypochondriasis and I kinda used this to rant (and for some comfort) <3

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catcherblocks · 3 days ago

Note

Can we get a Daddy Dom Wilson fic?

Someone to own

ᴊᴀᴍᴇꜱ ᴡɪʟꜱᴏɴ x ꜰᴇᴍᴀʟᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ (NSFW)

“Now walk to me, slowly.”

You stood in crimson red high heels, an inch or two above your ability, clad in a thin, lacy piece of lingerie that left nothing to the imagination, your nipples pricked up against the uneven fabric. You weren’t the most comfortable, but you would do anything to please Him.

James was a married man, a doctor, an oncologist, tasked with saving those who were most frequently classed as un-saveable. However there was nothing he loved more than, after a long day of playing saviour, driving his little toy out to a hotel room and making her cry for mercy. He was viewed as docile, sometimes weak, by those who had the pleasure of being with him day by day, but in bed with you, he was king- he was Daddy.

Time together had to be perfect, James planned every minute meticulously whenever he was bored at work, counting down the days until he could see his sweetheart, his angel. He bought you fine lace from shops you could never even look at while walking past before, there was only one rule for his extravagant spending, he had to approve every item: every bra and pantie, every heel, even every purse. There was no real punishment for disobeying him, he had spent so much time learning you that he knew making you feel like you had disappointed him was punishment enough.

There was an occasion, in the early days of your arrangement, where you had decided to wear your favourite club dress, completely scandalous, yet it made you feel good. You remember his face dropping as you entered the hotel room, and the sour pang of regret running down your throat.

“Do I not look good?” You had questioned, an uncertain tremor in your voice.

“Close the door.” He replied, blank-faced.

You complied without a moment of hesitation.

“You look.. like a cheap whore.”

A lump caught in your throat, you wondered if this was even real, the man who had been ever so gentle with you over the phone, who had made love to you so tenderly at your first meeting, talking to you as if you were trash.

After a good hour of being tied to bedposts bare under the critical glare of Dr Wilson, like a specimen stuck to a Petri dish, it was ensured that you would never disobey his strangely specific requests again.

That you brought you to standing back at the doorway of the en-suite, for the fifth time, with James having sent you back because he didn’t like your walk. You swallowed your pride and all your inhibitions, in the way you had to, to sashay towards him with full confidence and stand between his spread legs, as he sat at the bottom of the bed. You held your breath, awaiting orders, yet he didn’t give any, only caressed up your torso admiringly, studying how the lace hugged your body.

He planted a kiss against the middle of your chest, and then pulled away slowly, holding eye contact throughout the whole action.

“Now undress, completely. Slowly.”

You waited for him to withdraw his hands and place them beside himself on the mattress before you began the peel the lace bodice off your shoulders. Eyes mingling with one another, in a way so intimately erotic, it almost overruled the whole action go what you were doing. It was the ritual, the wait that made it sexually fulfilling. James chose you because you were broken, needing. Needing a sugar daddy, needing a lover who was stable, older, someone to rely on, under the guise of a need for casual sex. You were his everything and he was yours because the pair of you had settled from ever-flowing, never accomplished lava, to rock with edges in a shape only the other could complement.

“Lie down on the bed and don’t move or Daddy will have to tie you up. Can you behave for me, sweetheart?” He stood and looked down at you in a way that made your heart pound even louder.

Nodding, you assumed position on the bed, on your back, ass slightly hanging off- just the way he likes it. The way he looked at you, you felt adored but you were just too naive to see that it was primal objectification. Grazing a careful hand up the underside of your leg, he closed the gap between the two of you and slowly, achingly bent your leg back. You bit back any wince or protest about to form from your lips and simply allowed him. Once he was satisfied that you weren’t about to crack, he released your leg and flattened his body upon you, his punctuated crotch impaling yours.

Unleashing a kiss of raw, trapped hunger, the wetness of his mouth drowned you as his hands swam about your sides, he fumbled with his belt buckle, and you helped him undo it. James liked to put up a facade of being strong and in control, yet the minute he gave in to his true desires he was sloppy, desperate and pathetic. His newly freed cock pressed against your stomach, leaving webs in the crevice of your bellybutton.

As you laid splayed beneath him, nude and submissive, he pressed his face against your left breast and kissed it tightly, as you worked to remove his shirt, he didn’t do anything to make it easier for you, writhing across your chest as your fingers slipped on his buttons. Audibly panting now, he helped with the final button and peeled his shirt off his heaving torso. He shuffled off the bed, grasped both of your legs in his firm grip and attempted to insert himself in you, having to manually line himself up by hand from his unsteadiness. When he finally bottomed out within you, he let out a groan that covered any hint of you pleasureful sigh.

Wilson fucked with a signature deep but slow rhythm, shuddering and whining with every thrust, some women may have found it off-putting but you loved it. Soon into his penetration, the curses under his breath began to multiply, as his pace saw an unexpected quickening. You caressed his shoulders as he jolted restlessly, chasing his high, and when he came he planted two arms either side of you against the bed to hold himself up. His post-orgasm breath was suffocatingly dense, yet it was what made it worth it- to feel one with he who you loved when realistically, you could never be together.

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catcherblocks · 4 days ago

Text

A Contract With The Devil 2

The Gotham night pulsed with energy as the club's neon lights flickered and hummed, the air thick with cigarette smoke, the heavy beat of the music vibrating through the floorboards. The Black Mask's club was one of the city's most infamous spots, a place where deals were made, secrets were traded, and dangerous people went to unwind. You'd been there countless times, but tonight, something felt different.

You sat at a table in the VIP section, surrounded by plush velvet and dim candlelight. The familiar hum of the crowd buzzed around you as you observed, ever the silent watcher. A glass of whiskey sat untouched in front of you, the amber liquid catching the light as you swirled it slowly, eyes scanning the room.

Roman's absence had been noted. He was usually hovering nearby, watching over his domain like a hawk, keeping things in check. But tonight? He was nowhere to be seen. You didn't think much of it. After all, you were here for business—nothing more. The job was done, Dutton had been eliminated, and you were owed your payment. But as your thoughts drifted, you didn't expect the interruption that was about to come.

A man, tall and sharply dressed, slid into the seat across from you. He was smooth, confident, and far too bold for your liking. His eyes roamed over you like you were the prize of the evening, and the smile he gave was one of far too much interest. You could tell right away that he wasn't the type who liked to take no for an answer.

"Are you lost, sweetheart? Or just enjoying the view?" he asked, his voice slick and teasing.

You didn't answer right away, just giving him a look—a glance that spoke volumes. Not interested. You had no time for men like him, especially in a place like this. But he wasn't deterred.

"I'm Marco," he continued, leaning closer, his breath warm against your ear. "I own a few businesses around here. Maybe you'd be interested in a private tour sometime?"

You felt his gaze linger on you as he leaned in, too close for comfort. But before you could respond, a shadow loomed over you. Roman.

His presence was like a cold wave that swept through the room, silencing everything in its path. His black mask gleamed, his sharp eyes focused on Marco, who looked up, stunned at the sudden interruption. Roman's gaze flicked from Marco to you, and the tension between the three of you thickened in an instant.

Marco straightened, suddenly realizing his position was precarious. He had miscalculated. Roman Sionis didn't take kindly to competition, especially not when it came to you. He quickly excused himself, offering a hasty retreat as he disappeared into the crowd.

Roman's eyes remained on you, but there was a shift in them. A dark flicker of something more possessive. You felt it before he said a word.

"You're causing a scene," he muttered, taking the seat Marco had just vacated without asking, his body angled towards you. The smile that tugged at his lips wasn't one of amusement—it was cold, dangerous, and sharp. "Flirting with men in my club? Getting too friendly with the customers?"

You rolled your eyes, but before you could retort, Roman reached forward, his fingers brushing your jaw with an almost unsettling gentleness. The touch was possessive, a statement without words.

"I don't share, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice low and commanding, sending a shiver down your spine. "Not when it comes to you."

His gaze was intense, burning into you like he was staking a claim—like you were something to be owned, to be kept. You leaned back slightly, your breath catching in your throat, but before you could say anything, his fingers slid down to your neck. The heat of his touch seared through your skin, sending an electric jolt through your body.

His lips hovered close to your ear as he spoke, his tone no longer cold, but laced with something darker, something more primal.

"I'm not the jealous type, sweetheart," he whispered, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck. "But when I see someone else touching what's mine... it gets to me. Understand?"

You felt his breath against your neck, and despite yourself, a rush of heat spread through your veins. His lips pressed softly against the skin beneath your ear, the kiss light but lingering, as if he were marking you—claiming you in some subtle, yet undeniable way.

Roman's fingers tightened slightly around your neck, not in threat, but as if holding you there—holding you to him. It was a silent demand, and the world seemed to fade away as he kissed you again, this time more firmly, his lips leaving a trail of heat on your skin.

It wasn't the type of kiss you expected from someone like him—there was no romance in it, no gentleness. It was raw, possessive, a reminder of who controlled this space.

You swallowed hard, your heart racing. "Roman..." you managed to whisper, your voice shaky, but the rest of your words trailed off as he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze.

His mask gleamed under the soft light, but his eyes were dark, full of something unreadable. "I've been patient," he said, his voice dangerously quiet, "but I won't share you. Not with anyone. Not again."

You could see the hunger in his eyes, the jealousy that burned beneath the surface. You understood then—he wasn't just angry. He was territorial, and that was a power in itself.

You didn't know what game he was playing, but you felt the pull, the unspoken tension, building between you both.

Roman was dangerous. Roman was unpredictable. And as his lips brushed your neck again, his touch possessive and unyielding, you knew that this contract, this job, was far from over. There were no clean lines when it came to Roman Sionis—only blurred edges and dark desires.

End of Part 2.

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