Housemd - Blog Posts

@aaa-batteryy I had no idea other people watched House. Mind blown. And not because my neurons are fried.

You've infected me with a new blorbo. Im going to be so normal about House (blatant lie).

I blame you for this. Thank you.

YAYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!! i will accept the blame eagerly and with great pride

mmm we share a love for perv wilson… i would love to hear more of your thoughts on him. ;)

-💌

anon can we makeout instead? I'm not asking for a friend I asking for ME because we're too alike

YESSSS GIVE ME PERV WILSON ALL DAY HES SO UGHH

like this man is so so nasty in the bedroom and I LOVE it. I think that he would be very different in bed compared to his usual people pleasing, kind attitude. instead he would be mean and sadistic. he tell you that you're nothing but a slut for him, he'd made you cry, he'd slap you and then kiss your cheek because he's still himself in the end.

you're his release. his play thing. his toy. and let me tell you, he does NOT share. (house can be an exception on occasion) if he sees you talking to another guy, or if you mention one of your male coworkers, his jealousy goes insane. the best part about his jealousy is the way he fucks you after. he's rough, careless, and unforgiving. (he never loses his pleasure dom ways you're still going to cum atleast 3 times) he throws you around like you're weightless, he fucks your face until you're sure you're going to throw up. he'd leave the most disgusting hickeys on you, in places that are impossible to cover up. (house does more of this imo lmk if I should dedicate a post to him) he would make you beg for him, make you beg for him to touch you.

he loves how much you'll do for him. he thinks it's the hottest thing in the world. he'll buy you slutty outfits to wear around his friends, knowing that you’ll do anything he asks, just so he can show off what's his. (this led to a fun night with him and house)

if he had a bad day you better be waiting in bed when he gets home. because he has no mercy, taking all of his frustrations out on you. if you do something he doesn't think is appropriate, he'd be so mean that you'd cry while he fucks you. if you get too loud he'd shove his thumb in your mouth and tell you how much of a slut you are since you can't seem to shut up, how you must want everyone in the building to know what he's doing to you. (though I think he is a bit of an exhibitionist and he also wants everyone to know what he's doing to you, he gets off more on the control of forcing you to be quiet)

more on his exhibitionism, he'd love doing things to you in his office. that could be fingering you, eating you out, or fucking you. this all started with you sucking his dick in his office, under his desk while he was doing paperwork. it was amazing until house barged into his office, demanding to know why his door was locked and complaining that he was forced to use the balcony door. Wilson hadn't been thinking about locking that door since it never gets used. he starts to panic, knowing how house reads people, especially him. he glances back down at his paperwork, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. you continue to suck his dick despite his pulling of your hair. he swallows his moans with clenched teeth. house suddenly stops his sentence, turning his full attention to Wilson. "what's got you so flustered?" house says with a smirk before unlocking Wilson's door and hobbling down the hallway. for once, closing the door behind him.

he's so insecure, but it somehow adds to his appeal

okay 💌 anon I love you

hehe are you ok with spicy drops about wilson or house in your inbox… asking for a friend

ANON I LOVE YOU PLEASE SEND THEM THEY GIVE ME LIFE AMD MOTIVATION TO WRITE (especially the wilson ones he's my current obsession)

literally any and all spicy drops are welcome here we don't discriminate (unless it's cnc please keep those to yourself)

I will read and respond to them all as quickly as possible, I literally never get tired of them (you're welcome to dm me if you'd prefer that too 💗)

I NEED an edit of james wilson to "sharp dressed man" by zz top

everytime I hear that song all I can think of is wilson

Dress Dilemma

James Wilson x Reader

No Smut

948 words

Please leave any feedback in the comments I live for validation (and critiques)

“Honey are you almost ready?” I hear James’ voice carry up the stairs.

“Uhm… almost!” I yell back as I try to zip my dress yet again, rather unsuccessfully.

I hear James’ footsteps as he makes his way up the stairs. I take a deep breath as he enters our bedroom, his eyes raking over me.

“You…look…breathtaking…” He says with blown pupils as a goofy smile makes its way onto his face.

I blush at the attention, 3 years later and the way James looks at me never fails to make my cheeks red. “Could you help me with my dress, dear?” I ask him sweetly, turning so my back, and the zipper are now facing him.

He walks over to me slowly. His fingers delicately caress the fabric. “Is this dress new?” He asks softly as he clips the top of the zipper. I nod as I suck in, making it a little easier for him to zip the dress. “It’s from House of CB, I picked it up when I was in London for a conference.”

He zips the dress slowly, I feel his eyes following the zipper up my back. My skin heats under his gaze. “It looks amazing on you, and hugs your hips perfectly. God, you’re gorgeous…” He mutters as he places his hands on my hips, turning me to face him. “I cannot wait to take that off of you tonight.” He whispers before moving his lips to my neck, leaving a trail of gentle kisses down my throat. I moan softly as he does.

“Who says you’ll be taking it off of me, Dr. Wilson?” I question him teasingly, using his title to drive him a little more mad. He groans against my skin, now sucking gently at my exposed collarbones. “That rock on your hand says it for me…” He mutters cockily as smirk forms on his lips.

He grabs my left hand, making tantalizing eye contact as he delicately brings my fingers to his lips. “3.5 carat, princess cut, near-perfect clarity, all for my perfect girl.” I blush as he describes my ring and compliments me. Marrying a doctor definitely has its perks, but marrying a head of oncology who’s 10 years older than you comes with even more.

“I’m living a dream, do you know that?” I smile as his fingers graze my chin, tilting my head up to meet his curious gaze. “Oh? Why’s that, honey?” He flashes me a knowing smile as his head cocks to the side, teasing further. “Oh, I don’t know. maybe it’s my perfect ring, maybe it’s my perfect life, maybe it’s my perfect husband.” I place a chaste kiss on his cheek. “I’m leaning towards the last one.”

James looks at me with possibly the biggest puppy-dog eyes I’ve ever seen. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips. “You have no idea how much that means to me.” One hand settles on my cheek as the other finds my waist. I wrap my arms delicately around his neck as he leans down to kiss me. His lips find mine with ease, as they have so many times before. He kisses me softly as if my lips are the only thing grounding him.

He pulls away, resting his forehead against my own. “We should get going, don’t want to be late for dinner.” He says with a sigh. I nod as I turn towards the mirror and start to adjust my dress. James steps behind me after a moment, wrapping his arms around my waist. He rests his head on my shoulder with a huff. “How are you so beautiful?” James asks as he gazes lovingly at me, his fingers dancing across the fabric of my dress.

I smile in response as I tease my curls. “I don’t know handsome, how are you so loving?” I tease as I turn to face him. I grab his chin and squish his cheeks. “I need to eat you up. You’re just too cute.” He blushes as a smile creeps onto his face. “What’s a cute girl like you doing with an old guy like me?” I laugh at his futile attempt at distracting me.

“What can I say I’m a sucker for an old man with a cute tie,” I say as I grab his tie and pull him in for a kiss. He groans into the kiss as his hand finds my throat, applying gentle pressure to the sides. I pull away briefly, much to my disdain. “Easy there, I don’t need any hand prints on my neck before dinner.” I joke as I leave a gentle kiss on his nose before walking over to my vanity.

“You’re no fun,” he says with a dramatic sigh. “Maybe I want House and Cuddy to know that you like having my hand wrapped around your throat. That you like when I-”

“James! That’s enough, we need to go.” I say with an eye roll as I stand up from my vanity and grab my clutch, trying desperately to pretend that his words didn’t have me soaked.

I glance in the mirror one last time before I leave. I adjust the strap of my dress when I notice a reddish-purple mark on my collarbone. I groan loudly as I turn to face James, who is sitting on the bed ‘innocently.’ “Did you have to leave a mark on me right before we leave for dinner with your colleagues?” I meet his gaze with daggers. He blushes as he rubs the back of his neck. “Oops…?” He says with a shrug of his shoulders, his big brown eyes melting whatever rush of anger I’d felt.

this blog is a safe space for your most unhinged james wilson thoughts 🙏

(my asks, comments, and dms welcome you)

CAN WE TALK ABOUT WILSON AND CUDDY'S TENSION IN SEASON 3??

like holyy we know you both want to fuck house but you're eye-fucking each other like your lives depend on it

especially in 3x9 when cuddy was crying in her office

(I don't know who I want to be more)

concerned and confused, my favorite genre of wilson

pov house when he talks about foreman

should I write a wilson x reader fanfic ??

BRING ME THAT OLD MAN NEOWWW

hello freaky alex! 😃 can you draw more hilson mpreg so i can print it out and anonymously mail it to my best friend?

I wasn't sure which one you wanted to be pregnant... Please tell me their response if you do mail it...

House x m!reader

mostly angst , house isnt allowed happiness

You were the case he shouldn’t have taken.

Not because it wasn’t interesting—God no, you were fascinating. A rapid, degenerative decline with no clear cause, organs failing like dominoes, bloodwork that didn’t make sense. A real puzzle.

But you were also charming. Razor-sharp. Witty in a way that felt intentional—like you were sparring with him, not trying to impress. You didn’t flinch at his sarcasm, didn’t soften around the edges like most patients did. You met him eye to eye and made him feel seen, which was worse than being ignored.

And now you were dying.

No diagnosis. No answers. Just a firm deadline hanging over you like a guillotine.

House stood at the foot of your hospital bed, watching the slow, mechanical rise and fall of your chest. The monitors beeped softly—too softly. The air felt wrong without your usual quips, your dry smile, your “what do you want now, more blood?”

You hadn’t woken up all day.

Wilson entered quietly. “You know you can’t fix this one.”

House didn’t look at him. “People said the same about cancer. Then someone invented chemo. Maybe I’ll invent something in the next twenty-four hours.”

Wilson was quiet a moment, watching him. “You’re not angry because you can’t solve the case.”

House’s shoulders stiffened.

“You’re angry because it’s him.”

House finally turned, expression cold. “I’m angry because I’m surrounded by idiots who can’t figure out what’s killing a man in front of them.”

“You can’t figure it out.”

The silence between them stretched. Wilson, as always, wasn’t afraid to twist the knife.

House swallowed thickly and turned back to you. “He was making jokes about death three days ago. Asked me if I’d write his eulogy and call everyone at the funeral idiots.”

“That sounds like him.”

“He said he’d haunt me. Said he’d rattle my cane at night just to piss me off.”

House's voice caught at the end, almost imperceptibly. He cleared his throat like he could swallow the grief.

“You cared about him.”

“I don’t care.” The words came too fast. Too loud. “He’s a patient. A dying patient. Dying patients die. That’s what they do.”

“Greg—”

“He’s going to die, and I’m not going to cry over someone I’ve only known two weeks.”

Wilson looked at him for a long moment, then sighed and left.

House stood alone at your bedside, silence pressing down on him like gravity. His hand hovered above yours but never touched.

“I hate you for being smart,” he said quietly. “I hate you for being funnier than me. I hate you for looking at me like you saw right through all of it.”

Your breathing hitched in your sleep. Just slightly.

House leaned in, the tiniest crack in his voice:

“I hate that it's going to suck when you die.”

The room smells like antiseptic and late afternoon sun. You’re propped up in bed, barely able to sit upright without your lungs burning like you’ve run a marathon. Every breath feels like it takes negotiation. The beeping monitors have become your ambient soundtrack.

Then the door creaks open, and Thirteen walks in with something big cradled in a to-go box, grinning like she’s just broken the rules. Because she has.

You raise an eyebrow. “Please tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

She plops it down on the tray table with ceremony. “Bacon double cheeseburger. Extra onion rings. Triple patty. I threw in a milkshake just to make nurses yell at me later.”

You let out a weak, hoarse laugh. “This is gonna kill my cholesterol.”

She doesn’t laugh back right away. Just smiles. Softly. The kind that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

You both know what this is. Not recovery. Not hope. It’s a parting gift. Something indulgent and alive, for someone who's already fading. It means: you mattered. It means: we’re saying goodbye, but not with tears just yet.

Your fingers tremble as you reach for a fry, and Thirteen gently helps you bring it to your lips. It tastes like everything you’ve been denied—grease, heat, life.

You chew slowly. “Tell House he still owes me a better eulogy.”

Thirteen nods, her voice thick. “He’ll pretend he doesn’t care.”

You manage a smirk. “He’ll write it anyway.”

And you both sit in the fading sunlight, sharing the best worst meal of your life.

God, this is such a soft, aching scene. The slow procession of goodbye, disguised in humor and shared memories. Here's how that might look:

You're not sure who sends out the signal, but somehow, one by one, they all come.

Foreman is first. Ever the professional, even now. He checks your chart, updates your IV with practiced hands. You pretend not to notice the way he lingers, as if fixing the machines might fix you too. He doesn’t say much—never really did—but his hand rests on your shoulder longer than necessary when he leaves.

Taub sneaks in next, looking like he’s trying not to be caught. He sits at your bedside, cracks a joke about how *you* should’ve been the one cheating death, not him cheating on his wife. It’s dark, but you both laugh. You knew way too much about that man's love life by now. He leaves behind a sudoku book you can’t focus on, but it smells faintly of his cologne and cigarette smoke. Comforting, in a weird way.

Chase comes just after sunset, sunlight haloing his golden hair. He grins as he flops into the chair beside you, casual as ever.

“You’re my favorite dying guy, you know,” he says.

You grin, weakly. “You’re my favorite Aussie. Don’t tell Hugh Jackman.”

He chuckles, and the sound almost breaks you. “You don’t get many people like you. Smart, sharp. Didn’t let House get away with shit.”

“He’s still gonna win.”

“Maybe.” Chase’s smile falters a little. “But you made it hard for him. He liked you.”

You nod, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “That’s the nicest insult I’ve ever gotten.”

He squeezes your hand before leaving, thumb tracing a slow arc across your knuckles. “Get some rest.”

The room is quiet when Wilson finally steps in.

No dramatic entrance. No clipboard. No comforting lie.

Just Wilson, clutching a coffee he hasn’t touched, standing in the doorway like he’s afraid crossing the threshold will make it real.

You manage a small smile. “Didn’t think you’d come. Thought you hated watching people die.”

“I do,” he says softly, closing the door behind him. “But I hate missing the chance to say goodbye more.”

He walks over, sits down where Chase sat before him. His eyes are tired. Red-rimmed. You don’t mention it.

There’s a long silence.

Then, his voice cracks like something inside him finally gave way. “I really wish it was cancer.”

You don’t flinch. You don’t laugh. You just nod, slow and steady, because you do understand.

Cancer, at least, comes with a playbook. Chemo. Radiation. Clinical trials. Wilson’s entire life has been about fighting it, taming it, coaxing one more month, one more year, out of the cruel beast.

But you—your body’s unraveling in ways no one can name. There’s no script. No treatment. Just time, and not much of it.

“I know,” you whisper. “Me too.”

He puts the coffee down. Takes your hand like it’s glass.

“You’re not alone,” he says, voice thick. “Even if you want to be. You’re not.”

You nod again. It’s all you can do.

And for a long time, neither of you speaks. He just holds your hand, thumb brushing over your pulse, as if willing it to stay.

You’re barely there when he comes.

Not that you weren’t expecting it—House was always late from what you've heard. To consults, to court, to apologies. You weren’t sure he’d show at all.

The door creaks open. A moment passes. Then the telltale thump of his cane on tile. Steady. Slow.

You don’t bother opening your eyes.

“Thought you were done with the case,” you rasp, voice more breath than sound. The words tug at your cracked lips, forming a crooked smile.

There’s a pause. Then—

“I don’t like unfinished puzzles.”

He says it like it’s a joke. Like it’s still just another day, another file. But the pause that follows is heavy.

He walks closer, and when he sits, the leather of the chair creaks under his weight. You hear him breathe out, shaky. Like he’s been holding it the whole way here.

Your breath rattles in your chest. You manage to crack one eye open—just enough to see the gray in his stubble, the pinch in his brow.

“You look like hell,” he mutters.

“Mirror,” you wheeze, “must be broken.”

House huffs a breath that might’ve been a laugh. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. Doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t need to.

“I ran your bloodwork again,” he says, almost absently. “Still nothing. No 'miracle.' No screw-up. You’re… you’re really dying.”

There’s something unspoken at the end of that sentence. And I can’t stop it.

You let your head roll slightly toward him. “You mad at me for it?”

“No,” he says. Too quickly. Then quieter, “Yes.”

He rubs a hand over his mouth, then down the back of his neck. He looks at you like maybe if he stares hard enough, you’ll get better just to spite him.

Then, finally, he says the thing that’s been clogging his throat the whole time:

“I don’t want you to go.”

And God, it’s not romantic. It’s not tender. It’s raw and bitter and laced with all the things House can’t say right. But it’s real.

You cough, and it hurts like hell, but you manage to smile again. “You’ll have to… find a new favorite terminal case.”

“Already told the others,” he says. “You’re irreplaceable. You bastard.”

You close your eyes, and for a moment, the pain slips beneath the surface. House stays. Silent. Watching. Waiting.

And for once, he doesn’t try to fix it.

He just stays.

Your grip is barely there, papery and trembling in his palm, but House doesn't let go.

He never does things like this. Never lingers. Never touches unless it's necessary—or cruel. But here he is. Sitting at your bedside with his calloused fingers wrapped around yours, thumb brushing idly over your knuckles.

You’re more shadow than substance now. Skin yellowed with jaundice, eyes glassy, voice a thin, rasping ghost of what it was. But when you smile, he feels it like a punch to the gut.

“I should get you a hooker,” he says, voice rough, grating. Still House. Still a dick.

You wheeze a laugh that dissolves into a wet, painful cough. “Only… if it’s one of the expensive ones.”

“Oh, naturally,” he says, faux-casual. “None of that street corner crap for you. I’m talking… a high-end escort. Ivy League education. Can quote Tolstoy while choking on your—”

You squeeze his hand. Barely. But it’s there.

“God, I’m gonna miss your mouth.”

House swallows hard. Looks away.

“Don’t,” he says.

You smile again, smaller this time. Sleepier. It’s all slipping now. Moments draining like sand in the glass.

“You were an asshole from the moment I got admitted.”

“Consistent branding,” he murmurs.

“But you held my hand.”

He looks down at where your fingers are intertwined. Doesn’t answer right away. Then, softly:

“Yeah. Don’t tell anyone. Ruins my reputation.”

Your breath hitches, not from emotion but exhaustion. He can hear it. Feels it. The end’s so close now it buzzes in the air like static.

Still, he doesn’t let go.

Doesn’t move.

Just stays. Holding on for as long as he can.

Your chest hurts more now, a pressure that suffocates rather than aches. It’s sharp, like a thousand needles, each breath a ragged gasp you can’t quite catch. The monitors beside you beep in a steady, heartless rhythm, their sound growing louder and more frantic with each passing moment.

House’s face has morphed into something you didn’t think was possible. His usual cocky, sarcastic demeanor has melted into something raw. Something… afraid. His eyes flick to the monitor, then to you, back and forth, as though willing it all to stop, willing time to go backward, for you to just wake up from this.

You can see it in the twitch of his fingers, the flex of his jaw. He wants to save you. He wants to break every rule, every order, and fight for your life as if it’s one more case to solve. But he can’t. Not this time.

You can’t hold back a weak cough, the sound of it pathetic and wet, escaping your lips in a desperate attempt to make it better—but there’s nothing left to save.

“I—” He stops. His breath catches. “I could—”

“House…” Your voice is barely a rasp, a shadow of sound. It’s hard to form the words, hard to make them come together in your failing throat.

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.

You know what he wants to say. I could break the rules. I could fight for you. I could save you.

But you signed a DNR. A part of you—the part that really knew it all along—is grateful for that. Grateful that you won’t have to endure any more pain. That you’ll be allowed to go. To leave this behind. Without being hooked to machines or held hostage by the life you’ve outlived.

You squeeze his hand—weakly, pathetically, but you do it. The touch is almost nothing. But it’s everything.

“I’m here,” he says, voice thick with something—grief, regret, tenderness—maybe all of it. His thumb brushes over the back of your hand, something like a prayer.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. A whisper. Too quiet. But you hear it.

You blink slowly, feeling your body grow heavier, the world dimming at the edges. It’s time. You know it is. But you want him to know, somehow, that you’re okay with this. That it’s okay for him to let you go.

With a final, shaky breath, you exhale the words you’ve never said before, not like this.

“I’m not scared.”

His hand tightens around yours in the final moments. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. There’s nothing left to say as the heart monitor flatlines and the machines scream in silence.

But he stays there, holding your hand, because that's the only thing he knows to do when the one person he couldn’t save slips away from him.

Y’all! Imagine if Chase was there on a work visa, imagine Cameron and Forman finding out and desperately trying to get him a job after he gets fired, walk with me here

FIGHT THE POWER ‼️‼️

+ house says trans & gay rights bc I said so

Here's a little animation I made and forgot to post here

What Pokémon do you think the house MD characters would have?

could we see more of sick hilson? i think it could be funny if house is even more of an ass and wilson is just miserable having to take care of him.

He needs to be crushed

Thanks for the request!!

Hii can you draw more mouse md? I absolutely adore hilson as mice!

Dr mouse thinking of his mouseband

I love drawing these guys, will be posting more mouse md in the future hihi

Thanks for the request!!

House and Wilson cooking together ❤️

I might have gotten a little carried away with this one...

Soup and burnt bread!! This was so fun to make, Thanks for the request!

House using Wilson's chest as a whiteboard because he recieved a call about the patient while they were having sex, had half an epiphany and needed to see the symptoms all in the same place lol.

(@/unfrozenpeas here on tumblr has a little sketch about that scenario but it's so funny so I kinda wanna know what your take on it is)

This was so fun to make, feels like something that would happen

Thanks for the request!! :D

i know it’s really easy for us to look at chase and dibala and be like ‘killing dibala was an objective moral good!’ but i wish more people would recognise that for cameron (and foreman) it is actually incredibly difficult if not impossible to look at it objectively. it wasn’t ‘just’ a murder; it was one that took place in direct violation of a hippocratic oath they all swore. it’s one that happened in their workplace, on a patient they were all treating. it wasn’t just a stranger killing another stranger, it was cameron’s husband. foreman’s colleague. surely the trolley problem becomes infinitely harder when the people on the tracks are your friends. surely it becomes infinitely harder when it’s someone you love pulling the lever. how do you begin to disentangle that. the dibala arc was never actually about killing dibala. you know that, right?

dude 😭😭😭 losing jt

what is he chewing here. it's too thin to be a pen. is it a straw? is it a random piece of plastic he found on the floor? chase??