Weird Chick Who Can't Drive

Ash | She/Her | 18

[actomyosin]

My ao3 and masterlist

I'm Ash. I'm just a gal who writes sometimes. Mostly for House MD. Mostly Greg House x reader

I have high myopia, fibromyalgia, and hEDS.

I love MCR, Nirvana, and Pulp (along with a few other bands)

I'm currently preparing for my medschool entrance exams.

Divider by @reevesoc

[actomyosin]

Baby, you're as cool as a cucumber

My masterlist

MDNI!!! Warnings: masturbation, sex

Summary: House is never home. What's a girl to do when she's horny, in love, and left alone too long?

Or, that one time when House caught you masturbating... and didn't leave.

The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife.

The knife could be plastic; could be metal.

 Ignoring the weird, hazy feeling in your chest, you briefly ponder upon the density and tensile strength of this tension—and then stop. What you're doing is irrational and desperate and—

and House has barely been home as of late. 

You know you're being stupid—being needy. You know his cases work him to the bone; you know his cases help him get his mind off his leg—but sometimes you find yourself wishing that he knew you could help him with that.

You're no diagnostic anomaly, but you do think you could keep him occupied. In more ways than one. 

Mostly in the dead of the night.

Like most nights, you toss and turn in bed. Your silk nightie goes woefully unappreciated, and the sheets are irritatingly unrumpled. The space next to you is glaringly empty when you throw an arm out in frustration. 

You won't be awake to see House when he comes home—but you can certainly imagine it.

You know how he'd look. Blue eyes bright against dark stubble, weary from sleep. Mouth tugged into a perpetual scowl—but you think he'd soften when no one's looking.

He'd unlock the front door quietly enough. Dim lights and the subtle thrum of the fridge would greet him. He'd take a second to take it in—the realization he no longer has to pretend—to keep up the pretenses of being okay—and his shoulders would subtly slump as he locks the door behind him.

The floorboards would creak heavily as he'd make his way down the hallway, and the ceramic would clink quietly as he'd drop the keys in their place and limp to the bedroom.

He'd tentatively push the door open. 

The room would be dark, but his eyes would be sharp enough to see your sleeping form in the bed. He'd sigh, leave his cane leaning against the wall, and limp closer to the bed.

House would often sleep in just his boxers and a shirt. You know because you're in charge of washing his laundry. You find yourself picturing how he'd take off his shirt, and blush.

You wonder if he'd ever feel disappointed you were asleep. That he'd ever hope you were lying awake, waiting for him. 

The thought makes your stomach flip. Suddenly very aware of the growing heat between your thighs, you gulp heavily and roll onto your stomach, but that only makes things worse. 

The bed smells more like him this way: the antiseptic of the hospital, and something deep and musky. 

You hesitate, and then slide a hand into your underwear.

Instead of jumping head-first into sensation, you take a second to trace your clit with a finger and wonder how House would do it. 

You're worked up enough that it doesn't take long until sensation rapidly blooms and you're wet. You slide a finger down to your slit, dip a fingertip in the slick, and go back to drawing circles on your clit. 

The sensation builds up and you hold back a gasp. 

House could be bad-tempered, ungracious, and condescending. Would that translate to his behavior in bed? 

You imagine him standing at the foot of the bed, leering at you as you strip. He'd tell you to show him how you touch yourself when he's not there—he'd smirk and say he wants to check if you're going it right. 

You shudder.

Would he take one look at how you tremble, mock you, and then push your hands out of the way so that he could do it better?

You think about House behind you, rasping and groaning into your ear as he grinds his hips against you. You see him pumping a finger into you with one hand and gripping your hip tightly with the other.

It's enough to push you over the edge. 

Going limp, you slowly push yourself back onto your back and exhale. There's a mess between your thighs and lingering slick on your hand, so you go to the bathroom to wash up. By the time you get back, change into a fresh set of underwear, and tuck yourself back into bed, the front door opens. 

It's a lot easier to be in the same room as House sexual want-wise. But it's a lot harder to look at his face, knowing that you were jacking off to it not five minutes ago. 

"Hand me the analgesic," House says, and you jerk. 

"What?"

He stares at you, blue eyes glinting even while partially shrouded in darkness. "Coffee crash? Told you this would happen."

You grab the tube and throw it to him, crossing your arms. "Caffeine has absolutely no effect on me whatsoever," you announce staunchly as House surveys you warily. "I can go without it in the morning And I can sleep with it all night."

You suddenly realize he might think of the other reasons you might not be asleep, and then backtrack.

"I guess there's a first time for everything, though," you say and then flop pathetically onto your side, hiding your face from him. 

House hums and pulls off his shoes, settling into bed. You may or may not notice him groan softly as he lies down, and you may or may not want to masturbate again. 

Or straddle him. Or have sex with him. Now that House's here, the possibilities are endless. 

You know you'd never have the guts to actually act on any of them, though. 

What if he thought you were stupid? What if he wanted nothing to do with you that way? 

Morning, evening, and night. 

You'll cycle through.

The next day, House wakes up before you for once. You shower, have breakfast, and then he drives the two of you to the hospital.

You get home a few hours before he does, do your homework, and tuck in around the time you usually do.

Only... you end up getting too worked up to sleep. 

The bed smells like him. It's maddening. 

House almost walks in on you once.

You're on your back, fingering yourself. You moan as you brush against something that makes your whole body jerk, but it's not enough—never enough—your fingers are too clumsy or too small or just not House's—

 The front door opens, but the adrenaline from getting caught dangles a strong orgasm in front of you. The tap of House's cane and his uneven gait grow louder, come closer, and you huff as you wretch your hand away right before your climax crashes over you—right before the bedroom door creaks open.

You end up rolling onto the floor as you jerk your hand out of your shorts, but ignore the weird looks he shoots you when he sees your red face and mussed hair.

House blinks at you as you scramble up. 

“You scared me,” you tell him, still out of breath. “Knock next time, mister.”

House limps toward the bed, frowning at you. “I sleep here too,” he says, bemused. His eyes linger around your torso and pelvis, so you quickly get under the covers, still smiling. 

Oh god, you hope you haven't made a mess. 

“Well,” you cough, “good night.” 

You burrow into the sheets, staring daggers into the wall in front of you. Terror grips you like a beast, and you shake in its grip. 

House sighs, and then then sits on the bed. 

You relax.

You're more careful the next night, but you're still awake when House gets home. 

“Still awake,” he drawls, lips tugging into a smirk. He drops his cane onto the floor. “What happened, you wanted to stay up and kiss me goodnight?”

“Nope,” you say, your voice a little too shrill. “I need coffee to study, but it has its downsides.” You discreetly adjust your clothes under the blanket. 

You tell yourself you're imagining how he seems to come home earlier.

You're not that obvious.

Monday morning. 

You spill coffee on yourself. You can't risk being thirty minutes late to your morning lecture so you end up walking into class with a pink skirt stained brown. 

Y2K color pairing, anyone? 

Your classmates don't agree. You tense as they stare and snicker at you. 

You tell yourself it can't get any worse than this, and the universe immediately proves you wrong when a patient throws up on you at the very end of your shift. 

You stare at their sallow, sorry face in horror, and then slowly look down at yourself. There's barf—yellow barf— gathering between your breasts and dripping off your shirt onto the floor. 

Your trachea burns as the smell of bile wafts up to your nose. It's disgusting. 

“I'm so sorry,” the patient says, and against every instinct of preservation in your body, you gag. 

“You can go home early,” your attendant says stiffly, and you waste no time hurrying to the bathroom. 

It takes you ten minutes to scrub vomit off your skin and clothes. You’re pretty sure your bra is permanently stained.

It’s too bad. It was your favorite.

Your coat covers the stain on your shirt, and the bus ride is thankfully uneventful. 

The front door shuts behind you with a quiet click as you sigh in relief. Finally home. 

You toe off your shoes, strip, and shower. The water is borderline boiling, but it does wonders for the knots in your muscles. You play the radio as you dry off and moisturize. 

After you wear your pajamas, you're making coffee in the kitchen when you notice a box on the island. 

Feeling as though every fiber of your muscles stuck its fingers into a power outlet, you grab the parcel and examine it quickly. You almost drop it in your haste, but exhale loudly when you see it's just a brown parcel with your name on it. 

Nothing… inherently suspicious. 

You thumb at the edge, the cardboard scratchy to the feel. Should you open it now? You check your watch. You definitely have enough time. House won't be home for another two hours. 

You tiptoe quietly to the bedroom, simultaneously excited and anxious. The box is quickly torn open and you set the vibrator on the nightstand. After you've cleaned it, gotten naked, and belly-flopped onto the bed, you hesitantly turn it on and flinch violently as a loud buzzing fills the apartment.

It's way too loud. You switch it to a lower setting. 

Now what? 

With some pillows propping you up, you settle on your back and run the vibrator along your vulva. 

You inhale sharply and squirm. It's… intense. Intense enough you begin to wonder if you'll even be able to finish like this or if you'd overstimulate yourself and end up killing the possibility of orgasming today. 

Sighing, you try to think of House again. House, who would never even know you masturbate to him in his bed every evening. You try to imagine how it'd be like if he was here—if he'd let you touch him. House, who you'd straddle and rock against until he was hard in his jeans. House, who'd be reduced to a gasping, moaning mess while you suck his cock.

You're breathing hard now, and wet enough that the vibrator easily slips inside you. You keen and throw your head back as you slowly push it in all the way. If you close your eyes, you can pretend it's House inside you—fucking you—and you moan out his name as you begin to slide the vibrator out and—

And shriek as the bedroom door opens and House stares at you, open-mouthed.

You yanks the sheets over yourself and stare back at him, horrified. The vibrator buzzes particularly loudly in your hand, drawing the attention of both you and House to itself. 

It's coated in fluids. Your fluids. You hurriedly switch it off and look back at House in mortification.

"I'm—it's not—I wasn't—" You swallow. "It's not what it looks like."

"Right," House says slowly, finally snapping his jaw shut. He limps into the room. "So, you just recreationally store medical devices in your vagina? Is that a preventative treatment plan, or just lifestyle maintenance?" 

"What—" You shake your head. "No, I—"

He interrupts you. Again. ¨You've been acting off all week. Insomnia, prolonged agitation, vasodilation, chronic bedhead—" You blush again as he shrugs. "You blamed it on caffeine, I blamed it on having a Type A people-pleaser squatting in my apartment. Turns out you were just embarrassing yourself. I was wrong, you were lying."

You stiffen as House drops onto the bed, next to you. The mattress dips under his weight, and you're inadvertently brought closer to him. He looks at you expectantly as you prickle in self-consciousness. 

He smiles at you. It's a small and satisfied, and it makes your stomach flip hard enough that you think you'll throw up. "You've just got the hots for me.

Pursing your lips, you look away. "You weren't supposed to be home so early."

"Normal people would leave right above now."

You sit up straight, gesturing him towards the door eagerly. "Please leave." 

House frowns at you, insulted. "I said normal people."

You huff.

"Well?" He continues, cheerfully. "Don't stop on my account. I'm invested now." 

You're an unflattering bright red now. "I can't just—" 

"Mhm," he tilts his head. "Go on."

You stare at him, waiting for him to laugh and tell you he's joking. After several seconds pass, you hesitantly switch on the vibrator and settle on your back again. 

House notices how your hands shake. "Oh for God's sake—" 

"I don't know how to do this!" You tell him, and he rolls his eyes. "It's different when I'm not alone."

He gestures for you to scoot over, so you make space for him to awkwardly crawl between your legs. You're reminded of your fantasies involving you, him, and a clinic room, and wonder if there are limits to how hot your face can go. 

"Um," you say, making a fantastic contribution to human speech as House tosses the vibrator away and pushes your thighs further apart. 

You squirm as he parts your lips, peering between your legs with an unnerving intensity you'd only ever seen him direct at his cases. He thumbs at your clit—making you jerk—and pushes a finger into you.

"You know, if you wanted me to pet your kitty, you could've just asked." There's a humiliating, wet squelching sound as House scissors his fingers inside you, and you mutter the willpower to scoff and push lightly at his shoulder.

"That is such a weird way of putting it," you groan out, and muffle a whimper as he nuzzles into your neck. The sheet covering you was pushed away some time in the last two minutes, so the cold drafts from the AC make you shiver. His stubble is scratchy against your skin, and you jump as his free hand comes up to fondle your breasts.

"Nice," he says appreciatively, and you roll your eyes. 

"I probably would have finished fifteen minutes ago if you hadn't interrupted, so the least you can do is make…" you gesture between the two of you, "this worth my while." 

House clucks in disapproval, and you yelp as he nips at your throat. "Needy," he rasps, and speeds up the movement of his hand before you can retort.

It only takes a few minutes before you're gasping under him. House's eyes are dark and half-lidded, flicking between your breasts and where his fingers disappear into you. He pinches one of your nipples, and you thrash in his grip as your orgasm washes over you. 

 You take a few minutes to catch your breath. House's body is still partially draped over you, and his eyes track the rise and fall of your chest. "That was… nice," you say. You shift slightly and swallow as your hip brushes against something hard. 

You purse your lip and give House a thumbs up. "Do you want me to return the favor?"

House rolls off you, grunting as he moves his bad leg. "Depends. Are you referring to anal fingering or penetrative sex?"

You shrug, trying your best to seem nonchalant. "Sex."

He crosses his arms below his head. "Condoms are in the nightstand."

You stand and walk over to retrieve a packet—without the sheet, and immediately regret it as House bites his lip and ogles at you until you're sitting next to him again. 

Part A) checked. Part B) ? 

"Do you need help with your pants?" You ask, and House shakes his head as he unbuckles his belt. He grimaces as he lifts his hips to push his jeans down, and you wait patiently for him to take his boxers off. 

He doesn't. 

Okay, then. 

"I still need access to, y'know—" you wave the condom packet— "so I can put this on." 

House sighs, and pulls himself out of his his boxers. 

Okay, then.

You hand him the condom, which he rips out of its sheath and puts on. You busy yourself in the meanwhile with brushing your hair back and inching closer to him. 

House huffs in surprise as you straddle him. "Wow," he says, placing his hands on your hips. "Five minutes ago you were dying of embarrassment. This was unexpected." 

You make a face at him. "I'm returning the favor," you say innocently. 

After you've straddled him, you hesitate and then gingerly take his cock in your hand. You make eye contact with him and grimace, and then awkwardly place your free hand on his chest as leverage and line him up. 

"Okay," you say, mildly hyperventilating.

"Yep, House retorts, and then grunts as you squeeze the head lightly in response. Funny. You take a deep breath and slowly sink down onto his cock, focusing on your breathing—it burns despite how wet you are—until he's inside you all the way and your thighs are flush against his hip bones.

The two of you are breathing heavily at this point. Your stomach flips as you think, this is real, you're having sex with house.

"Okay," you say, panicking, "am I supposed to move back and forth or bounce up and down—" 

"For God's sake—" House bites out, and the both of you howl as he thrusts up unevenly into you.

"House," you force out, rocking in his lap, rubbing your clit against his public bone until both of you moan from the friction. His hands slide across your back to grab at your waist, gripping tightly as you begin to ride his cock.

House throws his head back as you rake your fingernails lightly along the flushed skin of his chest. 

 "God," he grits out, and you keen as he presses love bites all along the top of your breasts. 

It's getting difficult to keep a rhythm now. Your thighs burn from the exertion but it feels good enough for you to keep going. You dig your nails into House's shoulder as he shoves a hand between your legs and rubs at your clit. 

The tip of his cock hits something inside you that forces a strangled sound out of your throat.

You press your mouth to House's for the first time, and moan wantonly into his mouth as a spring coils tightly in your stomach and snaps—just as he grips your head to pull you closer. 

House finishes inside the condom after a few more snaps of his hips into you. He pulses inside you as he comes, and you collapse on top of him.

 Your hair's sweaty and disgusting and sticking to your forehead. 

Your heart beats like a hummingbird trying to break free out of your ribcage. House's skin is damp and he's already rubbing his thigh hard as it spasms, but you're pressed into his chest and you're as happy as you've ever been.

You poke at his face, smiling shyly at him. 

"Tomorrow again?" 

"Go to sleep," House says gruffly, and you rest your head against his chest.

We got the good ending yayy.

Please like or reblog f you enjoyed :)

This was my first actual proper smut fic so please be nice. I love comments so feel free to scream about anything you liked

this fic was set loosely in my house x reader fic turnabout, where we imagine if this happened instead of reader pining over house for ages. But don't worry, this oneshot did not provide you with any spoilers and you don't need to have read turnabout to understand this. that being said, if you like angst, do check that out! :)

@bitchy-bi-trash

[k1swass]

[layerafterdusk]

Study (~23 hours)

[actomyosin]

Thought this was a picture of house's eyes for a second absolutely breathtaking

[thnksfrthpoison]

"They should remaster Bullets-" NO LET ME STOP YOU RIGHT THERE BUDDY ✋️

I think we should DEMASTER Bullets, if anything. Give me the ugliest, NASTIEST takes from those sessions.

#reblog if you agree

[flareonfloof]

reblog this to pet the user you reblogged from please

[vanillabean5645]

yeah!

[evetyentirety]

Anne Dudek as Amber Volakis in House md

source

[make--it--gayer]

[veztemporana-deactivated2019061]

bonus:

[scumbagsblog]

I’ve never seen this with the update and it makes it so much funnier

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

Hello! Not sure if you've answered a question like this before, if so, sorry for asking again.

But I recently just found out that one of my friends thinks that my writing ‘feels like ai’ bc I write too proper and go into details over everything little thing.

I learned how to write though criminal justice and law courses, so I feel like that has played a role into how I write, but I also nerd out about certain things, which is why I go overly into detail about certain things!! Basically my question is, is there a way to make my writing sound more human? Or make it sound less like ai? I properly use punctuation, and use fairly large words in my works so am I hopeless?

P.S. I am fully agasint AI!!! I was fairly insulted when I found out but I don't want to sound like ai slop, so should I make more mistakes in my writing???

I don’t think anybody should “deliberately make mistakes in their art” just to not make it look ai-generated. that’s “deliberately lowering the value of your own art just to make the products that copied yours sound better” and it’s both sad and dystopian in my opinion.

*to be clear, I am NOT saying works that have mistakes in them are any less valuable than works that are “perfect”. my point is, it’s sad and dystopian if artists, writers included, feel like they have to deliberately make mistakes in their works just to make ai-generated ones “something completely flawless and perfect, and cannot be achieved by humans”.

I have already talked about this before, but no, as long as you write it yourself, your works do not sound like ai. ai sounds like you. the unfortunate truth is that I don’t think anybody can really make their work look “nothing like ai”. because ai was trained on millions of human-made works, it was trained to mimic how real humans actually write and talk. so of course, one way or another, it will sound like you. and me. and everybody else.

and if I’m being honest, I never care about “avoiding sounding like ai”. because that’s not a thing. ai sounds like me. not the other way around. and I don’t care if someone thinks I or my works “sound ai” because ***I*** know I don’t let ai speak or write for me. and that’s all that matters to me.

I refuse to change how I speak or write just because ai decided to copy me and everybody else. ai may have copied and mimicked me and everybody else, but it can’t take away how I write and create my art.

[apple-of-my-house]

prison house owns my heart 💌

[darkmasterlistyouneveraskedfor]

Knights, Kings, and Knaves (Medieval AU)

A collection of medieval themed drabbled featuring King Bucky, Duke Steve, King Thor, anon...

Bucky Barnes: Steadfast | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

Steve Rogers: Wayward | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

Thor: Indulgence | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

Loki: Affinity | 2

[001x456]

btw you’re a pathetic bully with mean girl attitude if you screenshot other people’s fics to repost and mock them and the authors. you’re the reason fandoms become toxic when they’re supposed to be a comfort zone and a safe space for people. and you have the audacity to say it’s a shame more and more writers decided to no longer share their works. you’re harming fanfic community and you’re driving writers and fan artists—whose works you’re privileged enough to consume for free—away until the ones that are left are bullies like you. just because a fanfic is not for you doesn’t mean you have the rights to mock or shame it. not everything is made specifically to tailor to your personal liking. so disrespectfully, if you do this, grow tf up.

either respect fanfic writers and fan artists or be quiet.

[aurguries]

headcanons — james wilson enabling your neediness

pairing: james wilson x reader (enabling 🤝 each other) author’s note: guysss, i just started watching house a week ago and oh my god. was no one going to tell me how fine robert sean leonard is in it?! he was so cutie patootie in dead poets society but in house it's just next level oh my good lord. needless to say, i am completely and utterly obsessed (like pls cheat on me ha ha ha). arghhh, is this what all house fans feel like??? he has completely bewitched and consumed me to the point where i just don't know what else to do other than to write my feelings out into this piece of headcanons, so please suffer with me, fellow james wilson enthusiasts warnings: age gap, cheating?? (technically he and wife no. 3 are on the verge of divorce lmao), toxic relationship (reader and him are both red flags let's be fr)

It’s only been a few months, and yet, he’s embedded himself so seamlessly into your life that you feel as though you wouldn’t know how to function if he were to walk out the next day. 

Used to be you ate a pack of biscuits to get through the morning or skip breakfast entirely, but now — now you get to enjoy freshly-made pancakes as your first meal of the day, courtesy of your new boyfriend, who apparently is not just an oncologist (he told you it means he helps cancer patients) but also a great cook, a great lover, a great everything, really.

And this includes being great at his job — you’ve seen the evidence — been in the spare room turned his makeshift study, browsed through all the medical books (you took one out when you were bored one afternoon, flipped it open to a page, didn’t know what most of the words meant, so he must be really smart to know what all of them mean. After all, he’s an oncologist — you really can’t stop saying it), examined the fancy certificates, toyed with the little trinkets his former patients gifted him, and skimmed the many letters of appreciation from them. 

In the mornings, he flits around the apartment before leaving for work, making sure everything is taken care of. The bathroom — all dry and clean, the bedroom — sheets that smell faintly of you and him, of sex — they’re all nicely folded, and the kitchen — lunch and dinner both neatly packed and labelled in containers in the fridge (he always makes some dinner just in case he has to work late, in case he can’t be home on time).

The maid who comes by once a week probably doesn’t do much. Her name’s Lady. She reveres him, calls him Dr. Wilson. He told you that his ex-wife (soon-to-be actually, divorce papers aren’t signed yet, so technically, he’s still married — this is something to think about) fired her. You figure he’s just keeping her employed in the meantime because she needs the money.

James is always nice. Nice to his patients. Nice to the maid. Nice to everyone. Nicest to you. 

Maybe this is his modus — getting you hooked, making the thought of living without him unfathomable, because truly, at this point you can’t imagine living without him and neither can your apartment. For once, it’s not the equivalent to the remnants of a hurricane. 

He comes by to fuss over you before he leaves — briefcase in hand, already dressed in his suit and tie — and you catch a whiff of his cologne when he hovers over you, kissing you on the temple, on the top of your head, then on your temple again, fingers expertly smoothing down the wayward strands of your hair that got mussed from sleep. 

He’s always hovering, always touching and kissing you like you’re going to wither without just one second of his love. You don’t mind, really. You like all the fretting, all the tending to. It makes you feel like some rare and delicate thing, always in need of maximum care.

He seems to revel in it too — coddling you. You think it turns him on sometimes — taking care of you, doting on you. Or maybe he’s just that selfless, that much of a giver. Maybe it just comes naturally because you’re that much younger than he is. Even in bed, he’s always so incredibly tuned in to your needs, practically devoting himself to you. 

Needless to say, the sex is fantastic. 

And so is your life with him.

It feels safe, easy.

He doesn’t seem to mind the fact that you don’t have a real, serious job. That you mostly spend your days lazing about at home, looped up on your meds — he reminds you to take them after you’re done with the pancakes, strokes your hair when you swallow, sympathizes with you afterwards when you complain about how bitter they taste.

Maybe there is no modus — maybe he just thinks you need him. 

And you can’t deny that you have a tendency to be needy. That’s what your exes called you. When you phoned them multiple times throughout the day asking for reassurance (your anxiety at an all-time high, your fault, you skipped your meds), when you got upset at them for making plans without you and insisted they cancel them, when you couldn’t make decisions, however big or small, without their input — you were always deemed too needy.

James, on the other hand, carefully labels such behaviour as a result of you going through a difficult time — a rough patch. He answers all your calls even when he’s busy (the number of calls you make isn’t quite as high as when you ditch your meds, but it is still quite substantial), cancels plans like giving a talk at an oncology conference when you cried about how you didn’t want to be alone for too long that night (you said you didn’t feel well), and steps in to make all the tough and not so tough decisions for you (should I go out today or stay in? Should I get this or that? Should I quit my job or just stick it out?).

Naturally, House thinks that Wilson enables you — thinks that Wilson optimistically expects that just by loving you enough things will somehow magically get better. 

And, House, like all your exes, is quick to diagnose you as needy.

“She’s not needy,” Wilson will scoff, hands on his hips, tone somewhat defensive. “She’s just — going through a bad patch — emotionally.”

“Right, so she needs the oncologist to baby her back to feeling emotionally stable again.”

Deep down, Wilson knows that House’s snarky remark rings truer than he’d like to admit. He does, in some ways, baby you — but only because you wouldn’t know what to do without him. Who else is going to remind you to take your meds? Upkeep your apartment? You’re not the best at keeping track of your pills and you can’t even change a light bulb. You can’t cook. You’re not good at cleaning. You cry when you can’t find something. You can’t sleep alone. 

So yes, perhaps he does baby you, but who can really blame him when you seem to need him that much?

author's note: also, i would just like to include this gif here for no particular reason at all other than i think about it 24/7 🤭🤭🤭

[actomyosin]

Rewatching season 2 and just realized House's apartment doesn't have elevators—but it does in my fic what do I do 😭 the elevator was pretty important symbolism (I'm just too lazy/busy to rewrite) 😭

[rowanisawriter]

that “negative kudos” poll really got me lol i have a full time job and a family. do you know what that means lol. I don’t think many people know what that means? it means i have maybe 1 hour MAYBE 2 hours a day that are mine unless i sacrifice sleep. and i use them to write fic most of the time and then i chose to post it online. And there is a subset of people that exists out there that thinks they can and should be able to publicly dislike or negative kudos your fic if they don’t like it instead of just continuing to scroll or hitting back. man no wonder so many people are so easily turning to AI, this unfeeling unflinching thing that just gives and gives more and more slop but who cares about the quality or the person who made it as long as you can just demand more and more and be given more and more. Fic and fanart are not products, you do not get to “review” them. We call it commenting because it’s not a review. And kudos doesn’t reflect on quality, it means thank you for sharing. if you feel the need to complain about something someone used their precious and rare and still valuable time to create for you for free, keep scrolling or literally just die

[erimeows]

Yeah... I try not to bitch about this stuff on main, but I have a husband who works an on call service job with long hours and a 2 year old to take care of at the house + minimal family support so aside from my husband and best friend I'm essentially doing it by myself. Life could be busier, but I think it's pretty busy, and despite this I try to post at least bare minimum once a month if not considerably more.

I have a lot of wonderful and supportive readers who leave kind comments and kudos my fics, and who are understanding of my personal life and grateful for the updates I do post- so I usually try not to focus on the negatives, but just to give everyone some insight into the fact that literally everyone who writes is dealing with this- across the board, the last 6 or so months have had some really rough spots on ao3 for me personally.

On top of the seemingly endless spam/scam bots being half of the comments I get, I've also had constant comments pressuring me to update certain things that got bad enough for me to delete two of my most successful FMA fics off of ao3 just to get away from it, and a really mean and fucked up essay-length "review" of a multichapter fic I wrote when I was 16 that was just the OP bitching about the fact that my well-tagged fic did not meet their personal preferences. Said person has done this to multiple people in the FMA community as well and has been blocked by them for it, I told them this because I thought they might be unaware and genuinely tried to explain that while they were maybe well intentioned, what they were doing was rude and hurtful to fic authors who are doing this for free. They sent my response to their friends online, insisted they were right, the whole thing. I ended up blocking them too.

I'm going to continue writing fic because I love it and for me personally the support much outweighs the negative comments/spam, but fandom has taken such a bad, entitled, capitalist-like turn since COVID- so much so that I know if I were writing for a rare pair, smaller fandom, etc., I just wouldn't be motivated enough to keep going. I can't even tell you the amount of friends I have who are SO excited about a fic, talk about it on Tumblr/Discord/Twitter/whatever, have people who say they're so excited to read it and do read it, but then don't comment, so it's like they're posting into a void. Not to say that anyone is ever entitled to reads or comments, because no one is (I personally haven't been reading much at all this year bc I've been so busy writing), but it SUCKS to post into what feels like a void and get no positive feedback- or even worse, think that you've gotten a comment after waiting for it, only to see that it's just another spam/scam comment. It's so disheartening.

TLDR; if you're someone who reads fics and wants to support authors, please leave a kind comment. We don't care if you're awkward, we don't care if the language we're writing in isn't your L1/if your grammar isn't proper, we don't care if the comment is "too short" or "too long". I love any kind of comment from a heart emoji to a gigantic essay to "I loved the fic, thanks for sharing!" as long as it's from a real person who read my fic.

Don't pressure people for updates. Most of us are either going to school, working a job, have a kid/kids, or are just otherwise busy in some way. This isn't our job. Don't leave hate if the fic goes in a direction you don't like, or has pairings/tags/characters you don't like, we're writing for free and the back button is readily available for you to use. Just don't be a dick.

[actomyosin]

Hey ash! How are you doing? I was a bit over House but guess who started watching it again? This bish!

Anyways I'm loving the direction fic is taking! 🩷

Hiii I am doing great! Hope you're doing well too <3 happy to hear you like how the fic's going :) and I am in the same boat I cannot stay away from house for long 🤭🫣

[actomyosin]

Turnabout

Chapter 16: Disgruntled, Disenchanted, Disillusioned

Gregory House x reader | set in season 8 after Cuddy breaks up with House | AU where house marries the reader instead of dominika| Please reblog or give feedback if you enjoyed :)

Masterlist | Chapter 14 |

“So,” Wilson says, his hands on the wheel. The wipers swish rhythmically back and forth, beating off the rain. “Where did you live before you moved in with House?”

“I lived with my parents,” you say.

“You guys close?” Wilson asks, and you smile sadly. “My folks were glad to see the last of me when I left for college.”

“We were,” you say, “until I married House.”

“Oh,” he says, turning his head slightly to glance at you briefly. The traffic light turns red, and Wilson shifts the gear to park as other cars form a cage around you.

“It's not a big deal. They were just upset they didn't get to pick out who I married. A nice, respectable, boring guy with the same values as them.”

“Right,” Wilson says slowly, “so you swung the other way? Married the local anarchist?”

“No,” you laugh. “I liked House. I thought he was smart, and funny. And handsome.”

Wilson stares at you and you purse your lips, embarrassed.

“What can I say,” you look down at your hands, suddenly deflating. “Love makes you blind.”

You exhale slightly, crumpling up the receipts. “Why does House hate me so much?”

“He doesn't hate you,” Wilson tries to explain helplessly, “he's just… very emotionally constipated. He's—” he stutters slightly. “He doesn't know how to deal with someone who actually wants him. He can't deal with it, so he pushes them away, and when that doesn’t work—he pushes harder, and panics when there’s distance. And then—“ Wilson exhales. “Yeah, it doesn’t go well.”

The two of you sit in silence for a few minutes. The traffic light switches green and the jam flows like a river recently replenished.

“He’s upset, I think,” you tuck your hair behind an ear, “Because I'm not talking to him anymore. Avoiding him.” You sigh. “I didn’t do it to hurt him. It’s just—before… whatever happened with Cuddy—he told her marrying me was a mistake. It made me stop hoping he could want me like I wanted him. I thought there was no point in anything if I was just someone to warm the bed while he pined over another woman. It’d just hurt me in the end.”

Wilson sighs and nods. “He’s an idiot.”

He parks the car outside your residential building.

“Well,” you say, trying to sound cheerful. “This is my stop.” You smile at him. “Thanks for dinner and driving me home.”

“Anytime,” Wilson says, and he waves you goodbye as you make your way into the building.

You pick at your nails as the elevator creaks and slowly moves up, up, up.

The bell clangs and you step out, the sound of your feet on the wooden floorboards a loud echo in the quiet halls.

Your keys jingle as you fish them out of your purse. You unlock the front door and step inside.

The lights are on. The TV is blaring. House is home.

Splendid.

You inhale deeply, school your features into a façade of indifference, and pad into the living room.

House is lounging on the couch, his arms tucked behind his head as he lazily flicks through the channels on the TV. His eyes snap to yours as you walk in.

“You're home early,” he rasps, dropping the remote on the coffee table. You follow his eyes to the clock, which reads ten pm. Two monster trucks collide and burst into flames on the TV. His face is illuminated by flickering orange and reds in the otherwise dark room.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, toe off your sneakers, and hang your keys on the hook without looking at him.

House scoffs and sits upright. “Guess silent treatment’s next on the list. You crossed out “tantrum” in the hospital bathroom, didn't you?”

“I'm not talking to you,” you say and shut the bedroom door behind you.

The door clicks, and there is silence.

You sigh and throw yourself onto the bed. The mattress bounces as you land face first onto it and then settles, vibrations setting along the frame and the ground.

You close your eyes—

and feel your ears rush with the rhythmic beat of your heart as you hear footsteps and the tap of a cane—getting louder and louder until the door swings open and House stalks in.

“You're pathetic,” he spits out, eyes boring holes into your back, “you won't talk to me, but you'll lie on your stomach and wait for me to waltz into the bedroom and fuck you? You know to have make up sex, you need to make up, don't you?”

You push yourself onto your elbows and stare at him. “Why would I make up with you? What did I do? You cheated on me.”

House opens his mouth, but you interrupt him.

“Oh wait, we're not an item. My bad. So, why are you here again?”

“You've been pissed since I've been back. Funny how self-awareness kicks in a year too late,” he says, spewing vitriol.

“So what? You harass me, you provoke me, you try to seduce me—so we can go back to how everything was before you left.”

He stares at you as you continue. “I liked you. I wanted to be with you—I wanted you to like me back—but then I understood that you'd never get over Cuddy—”

House cuts you off, lurching closer to you. “This has nothing to do with Cuddy. This has everything to do with how self-absorbed you are and how you expect everything to go your way.”

You huff. “Every time I tried to build an actual relationship with you, you pushed me away—”

“Get over it,” House scoffs,”You've had plenty of chances to repair our relationship. Don't act like a baby when I get someone to touch me when you don't.”

You bite your lip and blink away tears. “I would have touched you if you hadn't made me feel like this entire relationship was a mistake.”

House limps closer to you, “Guess you should have waited until your prefrontal cortex came online before latching onto the closest guy you could pretend was your dad.”

“What are you talking about?”

House rolls his eyes. “Don't act surprised. I could smell it from a mile away.” He licks his lips as he looks back at you. “That, and I read your therapist’s notes.”

He inches closer to you and scrunches his face up in mock-distress. “Daddy never loved you, did he?”

Speechless, you blink blankly at him for a few seconds, your face flushed with anger and humiliation.

You laugh mirthlessly. “You really, really suck, House.”

He stares at you as you jump off the bed and hurry out of the apartment.

You're jabbing the elevator buttons aggressively—anything to get away, anything to leave before he follows you and makes this unbearably public—the doors open and you're face to face with Wilson.

“You forgot your pho—” He frowns at you in concern. “Don't tell me he fought with you again.”

“He read my therapist’s notes,” you smile tightly.”Unfair advantage, I guess.”

Wilson stares at you.”He—”

“It doesn't matter,” you sigh, taking your phone from him. You step inside the elevators with him, and the doors shut behind you as the two of you descend downwards. “I'm going to take a break.”

Wilson considers it. “Where will you go?”

“No idea,” you say, as the doors open, “but I can probably find a motel.”

“Nope,” Wilson says, “you can stay with me.”

“I can't just—”

“I have an extra room. It has a locked door, a bathroom—and I won't tell House.”

You step out with him into the cold air. It has stopped raining. “Thank you.”

“You don't need to thank me,” Wilson says as he opens the car door for you.

You sit.

Your reflection blinks wearily back at you from the windscreen for a second, and then you close your eyes.

Gregory House tells himself it wasn't his fault.

Yes, revealing he'd crossed several unspoken rules and broken some minor laws to get inside your head was a mistake, but only did it because you weren't giving him a chance to do it organically.

He lies on the bed, the sheets cool beneath him. The lights are dimmed down low, and the fan hits a cool burst of air every time it swivels to look at him.

It's three am, and you still haven't come back since you'd stormed out of the apartment.

House avoids picturing your face in his head, and pushes down that awful, lingering feeling in his chest whenever he thinks about how your face slacked.

It's just acid reflux.

Sleep finds him, fragmented and fitful. He wakes with sunlight creeping coyly onto his face, and blinks blearily.

Half-awake, House reaches out to touch where you usually are—to lightly touch your hip, enough to confirm you're here with him, not to wake—but his hand touches coarse cotton.

He looks to your side of the bed. It was empty, unrumpled. You haven't come home since last night.

He grunts, slowly inches out of bed and limps into the bathroom. The muscles of his leg are stiffer than usual; pain greets him with every step: the nerve firing straight into his cortex with every step, every brush of fabric.

House moans softly as he lowers himself onto the toilet—no one to hear him, he thinks wryly—a thin layer of sweat already sticking his hair to his forehead.

After he's dragged himself out of the apartment, he limps to his car, leaning on his cane a little more heavily than usual.

He can't help but glance around warily, like you might jump out and force him to drive you to the hospital.

Those days are long gone.

House shoves his cane in, buckles his seat belt, and drives to the hospital.

After his fellows bring along a new case and go through the differential, he shoos them out of his office, lounges back in his chair, and plays catch with his ball.

It hits the glass with quiet thumps. The nurses outside gather and shoot his dirty looks, but he pays them no mind.

He's deep in thought when Wilson enters his office.

“Where is she?” House asks, catching the ball when it ricochets back towards him from the ball.

Wilson frowns. “Ah, yes, House. A very good morning to you too.”

“I know she came home with you last night. The bus comes home by seven-thirty, not ten,” House says, widening his eyes for effect as he slides his chair over to face Wilson.

Wilson sighs, rubbing his chin with a hand as he looks somewhere to House's right. “Yes, I dropped her home after I found her crying in the hospital lobby.”

“You've always been a sucker for damsels in distress, haven't you?” House asks, sneering. “What, is she one of your pity projects? Are you going to sleep with her too?”

“You seem awfully concerned for someone who claims to not care,” Wilson retorts, leaning back in his chair.

Wilson purses his lips. “She was upset.”

House scoffs, looking away, and Wilson continues. “No, really. She was upset.”

“I was upset when she ignored me,” House says, shrugging. He spins in his chair, using his cane as leverage. “Maybe I just wanted her to actually care.”

“She did care, House!” Wilson says, and House rolls his eyes. “The day you drove your car into Cuddy's living room, the first thing she asked me was if you were going to be okay! When I told her I was done with you, she looked me in the eyes and asked me how I could abandon my best friend! She moped for months while you were gone—even Foreman tried to cheer her up!”

A beat. House can't meet Wilson's eyes. He looks away.

“What changed?” He mutters, picking at his nails.

Wilson sighs. “She loved you, House, but she finally realized you treated her like crap. She didn't want to be hurt like that again.”

House rubs his eyes. “I might have read her therapist’s notes.”

Wilson sighs again. “You wanted to know if she brought you up. What she really thought of you.” He gets up. “You don't get to just take that, House. If you want it, you'll have to earn it.”

“Her—”

Wilson holds up his hands. “I don't want to know. She's the one you should be apologizing to.”

House watches Wilson leave, the glass door swinging shut behind him. He sits for a moment longer, and then limps out of his office.

Outside, the hospital is busy and bustling. He searches for your face amongst them, and finds you leaning against the nurses’ station, jotting something down on your notebook.

Your eyes meet him and a jolt goes down his spine. You hold the eye contact for a few seconds, your hair falling out of whatever knot you tied it in, dark circles stark against your skin.

He hates that you don't wear your heart on your sleeve anymore. He hates that it's his fault.

House looks away before you do. By the time he looks back, you've disappeared.

He sighs. Chasing you has never been easy, and he doubts you'll make an exception this time.

He's only got himself to blame.

@bitchy-bi-trash