#fuck john house

[anythingbyadriannelenker]

house md is so crazy because it’s all i can think about but the thoughts oscillate between oh my god wilson’s ransom note for house’s guitar lmao to remember the episode where a rape victim was able to recognize house as a victim of abuse and was struggling to move on until he talked about his father. and the camera pans away as she starts to talk about her experience so the audience doesn’t hear her story and it stays between her and house

[henrycangelbaby]

Guys this is so task force 141 when pregnant assistant!readers house gets threatened, they are there so so quick it not funny.

Missing them :(

[future-crab]

A funny thing I've noticed about responses to the Locked Tomb is that most people I talk to agree that the memes and references are kind of hit or miss for them, but no one can agree on which are the hits and which are the misses.

I've seen someone whose taste and opinions I really respect say, "Look, not all of the memes in these books work for me and I think overall there are too many of them, but None House, Left Grief is fucking gold," and someone else whose taste and opinions I really respect say, "Look, I don't hate all the memes in these books, but None House, Left Grief is just unforgivable I hate it."

[blistering-typhoons]

THAT'S HOLMES RIGHT??? IN HIS BOOKSELLER DISGUISE ON THE LEFT???? THAT'S THEM WALKING IN TOGETHER SIDE BY SIDE RIGHT?!!?!? JESUS CHRIST?????

[moonyswarmsweaters]

Walburga: You are not good enough for my son.

Remus: You’re not good enough for your son.

Walburga: Excuse me?

Remus: You heard me.

[s0fter-sin]

pt.3 of my horror au! you can find pt.1 here and pt.2 here!

cw mild horror, fear

johnny opens his eyes

or- he thinks he does

it’s completely black, not a speck of light to be found anywhere; certainly not the lantern he’s started keeping on by his bed or the moonlight that should be coming through the curtains

he remembers falling asleep on the couch; he was exhausted after ripping out the fresh carpet from the sitting room, the pristine thing at odds with the smoke stained walls. it didn’t match any of the carpets or rugs in the rest of the house, too modern compared the vintage fittings and, new or not, that bothered him so it had to go

he just hadn’t been expecting the giant brown stain embedded in the hardwood underneath

he was turning over the pros and cons of buying a floor sander if he ever stopped foot off the property again, promising himself he was only resting his eyes for a moment, and before he knew it, he was out

now he doesn’t even know if he’s awake

“ghost?” johnny whispers. his voice echoes strangely; muted like he’s an in enclosed but long space and bouncing off things he can’t even hope to see

he has no idea where he is. he’s not in the basement, not with how dark it is; even the little cloudy window would be a wellspring of light compared to this. it smells damp too; musty with stillness, like not much air gets to it

johnny sets a hand in the soft dirt beneath him and sits up, some kind of cloth falling off his shoulders. he reaches out with shaking hands, searching for any kind of balance - a wall, furniture, something - and slowly gets to his feet

“ghost, you here?”

his fingers meet nothing but open air and he almost tips over. he has no equilibrium, nothing grounding him; the dark so all-consuming, he might as well have not moved at all

air dances over his cheek and he gasps and spins around when a large hand latches around his wrist and johnny hisses as he’s tugged blindly forward

“ghost?” he asks and the hand tightens

he doesn’t know what to do with the relief trying to warm his belly

“hey, slow- slow down, i can’t see,” he gasps, stumbling over the uneven ground. the whole thing bowed and curved, gravel flicking out into the depths with every step like it was carved out by hand and never smoothed out

johnny swallows hard and clutches at ghost’s arm with his other hand

“ghost, can… can we go back upstairs?” he whispers, futilely pulling at his sleeve. something old and animal in him claws at the inside of his skull, baying and screaming that he not raise his voice; to not break this unnatural still darkness too harshly. “please?”

ghost just leads him deeper into the void

until he suddenly stops and johnny covers his mouth to mute the beginnings of the scream ripping from his throat when he runs into his back. he digs his fingers into his cheek, forcing a slow breath through his nose

“…you want to show me something?” he guesses and flinches as the air in front of him rushes like ghost’s moving very quickly. something scratches, like rock on rock, and he flinches as he takes his other wrist and cups his hands around something big

ghost’s hands fall away and johnny reflexively clutches the thing to his chest

“don’t leave,” he begs. “please don’t leave me down here.”

silence

he runs his dry tongue over his lips. “ghost?”

those same hands close around his biceps and johnny all but melts into the body-warmth at his back. ghost smooths down his arms, covering his hands with his, and pulls the thing away from his chest to eye-level

like he expects johnny to be able to see it

the way he can

johnny frowns, rubbing over the thing with his thumb. it’s heavier than he expected from the sound it made along the ground; smoother than the rocks he’s seen around the property and the gravel he kicked around down here

ghost’s chin drops on his shoulder and he jumps, pausing as he rolls into his neck and he can clearly feel the wide grin on his face

he blinks and something makes him press back into him, to try and see him with his body. there’s a cleft in his top lip he’s never noticed before and he’s practically shaking, rocking against his back like he’s trying to urge him to go quicker

johnny spins the rock around in his hands, trying to feel what it is, what would make ghost so - almost childishly - excited. his fingers catch on a crater, shallow and smooth like it’s been carved away. he drags his fingers down and feels another, around the same size. his frown deepens and his fingers slow as he finds another hole, this one going straight into the rock

ghost shifts behind him, his grin widening against his skin and something in johnny curdles, his hair standing on end

it feels like he’s not breathing, the dark so complete it’s stealing the air from his very lungs as he works his fingers down the rock; stuttering when the texture suddenly changes. he hits a fissure, then another, another; curls his fingers underneath and feels it flatten out. strangely familiar grooves run along it before it changes and becomes thinner, becomes sharp-

johnny screams

johnny screams and drops the human skull ghost placed in his hands

he throws himself away from ghost and runs blindly into an earth wall. he scratches at the uneven surface, screams still ripping from his throat and feels wet heat on his fingers as his nails scrape and break. his voice cracks, almost shrieking when ghost’s arms suddenly wrap around his waist and pull him back into his chest

“let me out!” johnny screams, fighting his arms, trying to run but run where it’s too dark- “please, let me out, let me out, please!”

ghost’s body curls over his, effortlessly holding him in place as he wrenches in his grip and wails and /screams/. he presses his face into the side of his head and johnny strains to get away, to stop touching him, to run-

and falters when he feels the contours of his face

ghost isn’t smiling anymore

“please,” johnny sobs brokenly, his legs going out from under him. but ghost tightens his grip and doesn’t let him fall. “let me out… please, i wanna get out. please, please…”

he keeps begging, mindless and panicked and almost screams again when ghost tugs him back a step, his fingers digging into his clothes. he doesn’t want to touch the skull again, he doesn’t want ghost to leave him, he doesn’t want to be lost in the dark-

ghost’s giant hands grip under his thighs, pulling him up and he slings his legs around his waist, burying his face in his throat as he sobs

his weight tilts and johnny flinches as his back suddenly touches dirt, arching up into ghost’s body to get away from it- he doesn’t want to be underground anymore, he doesn’t want to be buried anymore-

ghost wraps an arm under his back, holding him tight to his body, and johnny shrinks even more at the scrape of dirt and brick against the outside of their shoulders as he crawls them through some kind of hole

his weight shifts again, falling into the cradle of ghost’s hips, and he sobs at the feeling of going up

the arm crawling them forward presses against his armpit and johnny cringes at the screech of metal on concrete as ghost shoves something out of the way, involuntarily peeking out behind him

and gasps in pure relief at the moonlight streaming through the basement window; the dim yet powerful light making his eyes ache after so long in such total darkness

he can’t bear to look away from it, even as his eyes twitch and squint, still clinging to ghost as he crawls them across the basement to the stairs. he gets to his feet, not even stumbling with johnny’s added weight, and he strains to keep looking out the window as he climbs up. only when they reach the top step does he wrench his eyes away, desperately searching for the nearest window

and ghost seems to know it; angling him to look out the dining room into the backyard as he carries him to the couch he fell asleep on

johnny keeps his fingers tangled in his hood as he sets him down, holding him close. he doesn’t even try to pull back and he feels him drop to kneel between his legs, compressing himself down the way a man of his size shouldn’t be able to

his breath stutters on an inhale and johnny forces himself to drag his eyes away from the light, to take his first real look at the source of all his terror; the ghost in his walls…

and he’s just a man

his hair has been hacked at, patches ripped out and uneven, too fine to dread but matted together all the same. thinner patches struggle to grow through shiny scar tissue; some blunt and wide, others looking like burns. but beneath the caked in dirt and years of grease… it might be blonde

his hoodie and jeans sit tight and loose in turn like they were bought for the build of a very different man, hiding dirty skin so pale he didn’t even know it was possible, almost /translucent/; veins bright and bulging beneath his skin like he’s never seen sunlight

and with the size and complexity of the cavern under the basement… maybe he hasn’t

but it’s his face johnny gets caught on

his light lashes do nothing to hide the fine scars dug around his eyes, like he scratched at them with his fingernails and after only his short time in the dark, he can guess why he did it. his pupils look permanently dilated, forcing away the deep brown of his irises; unblinking, desperate to take in as much light as possible. more scars cut through his skin, so old and light they almost blend in, difficult to see through the dirt staining his skin

but none of it, the scars, the filth, the uncanny wrongness…

none of it hides how beautiful he is

ghost slowly reaches up and johnny freezes as he brings his thumb to his cheek, wiping through the sticky tear tracks on his skin. it makes his sleeve fall back and his heart seizes at the thick, ragged band of scarring ringing his wrist

he swallows heavily as ghost brings it back to his mouth, sucking his tears from his skin. it splits the cleft in his upper lip wider, splaying over his thumb. ghost doesn’t look away and johnny’s heart beats loud in his ears as he reaches for his hand, tangling his fingers through his own, and lifts it to his mouth

his hand shakes as he gently runs his thumb over his bottom lip, catching on his chapped skin and the smaller scars splitting it, but ghost stops his hand; moving his thumb up to his top lip

the cleft matches up to a thick scar running up his cheek, just skirting his nose and almost meeting his eye and johnny’s violently reminded of the body’s worth of blood stained into the floor of the sitting room

“the sk-…” he falters, a shudder creeping up his spine as he remembers the feel of it in his hands. “the person downstairs; did they do this to you?”

ghost cocks his head and johnny’s thumb slips into his mouth, caressing his inner lip

“did… did they put you down there? in the dark?” he tries again

he sucks at his thumb, a gentle self-soothing pressure

“the couple who used to live here…” johnny breathes, slow with realisation. the couple who lived here for thirty years. the couple the realtor refused to tell him anything about…

“they were your parents.”

but she never said anything about a child

“your parents put you down there,” he repeats and feels sick with grief for a boy he’ll never know. “was… was it your mother?”

ghost rears up on his knees, crawling above him and caging him in against the couch and johnny gasps as he lets out an animalistic snarl in his face, spittle flying onto his cheek

“sorry, i’m sorry, it wasn’t her- it wasn’t her, i know she didn’t do it,” johnny rushes out, flattening himself against the couch and tries to pull his hand away when he presses into it even harder, his thumb pressed to his eye tooth

ghost pants, teeth still bared in a deranged snarl. his mouth twitches, lips slowly falling to cover his teeth. his tongue runs over his lips, gathering the spit from them and tickling the edges of his thumb

“y-your father…?” he tries and his breath catches as he nods

johnny slowly copies him, still pressed back into the couch

ghost’s eyes flicker up at him like he’s checking his reaction and keeps lapping at his thumb, long almost apologetic passes of his tongue as he works down to his palm. he leans in and johnny’s breath stutters as he laves his tongue up his cheek, cleaning up the spit. ghost lets out a low groan, nibbling along his cheekbone and goosebumps prickle his skin

he sinks back down, mouthing a trail down his throat and he shivers as he bites at his collar, tugging it away with his teeth to expose his collarbone

“ghost…” johnny sighs and he pauses

ghost noses at his sternum and sits back on his heels, nuzzling his forehead into his belly as he pulls something from the front pocket of his hoodie

something heavy tumbles out with it but he ignores it in favour of the bundle of cloth ghost pushes into his hands, wrapping his arms around his hips and sinking his chin into his thigh. johnny’s heart sinks as he gently unfolds it, careful of the unthreading edges and torn holes and has to bite his lip hard

it’s a ragged patchwork blanket; hardly big enough to cover a child. and hand embroidered onto it, in faded and dirtied gold thread is a single word

“simon,” he reads, tracing the once-loved letters

simon perks up in his lap, making a gurgling almost purr in the back of his throat; the closest thing to speech he’s heard from him in the month he’s lived here

“your name is simon,” johnny breathes

he thought he considered everything about how he ended up a prisoner in his own house; a serial killer toying with his food, a stalker he never noticed, a random psychopath chomping at the bit for his next victim and johnny was just unlucky enough to draw his attention

but if this is the only thing simon has left, his only proof of before… he’s been down there, left alone in the rotting dark, for decades

since he was a child

“i’m so sorry, simon,” johnny whispers thickly

but simon just frowns

like he’s never heard an apology in his life

johnny presses his eyes shut for a moment, just for a moment; to let himself feel the pain and the fear and the grief, then refolds the blanket just as tenderly as he opened it. he presses it into simon’s chest and his heart catches at the way he hugs it tight, dropping his chin to nuzzle into the fabric

he flinches as he takes his hand in his, jerking back, but johnny keeps hold of him; gently tangling their fingers together and rises to his feet

“come on,” he beckons, walking backwards towards the stairs

simon’s grip tightens around his blanket. but he follows him, up the stairs johnny sprinted down the morning after he first saw him, across the landing with the vents he counted and dreaded walking past, into his bedroom

where it all began

johnny pushes the door wider and riley pops his head up from his dog bed, tensing and about to jump up when he sees simon behind him

“back to sleep, riley-boy,” he soothes and riley droops and burrows straight back under his blanket, nosing it up over his face until only his ears stick out

he smiles and turns back to simon- but it drops when he sees how he’s frozen in the doorway; quick, wide eyes darting around the room. around the master bedroom, clutching his blanket to his chest like he’s afraid of it being stolen

“it’s okay, simon,” johnny promises, rounding him and takes his other hand in his. “he’s not here anymore; you can come in.”

he slowly steps backwards and with the gentlest tug on his hands, simon follows

but lets out an almost involuntary sounding hiss, squeezing his eyes shut and twisting away from the automatic lantern set up on his bedside table

johnny looks between them, at the warm light that’s been his beacon for the last few weeks, and the man he needed that safety from

he holds his breath

and flicks off the lantern

chills immediately creep up his spine; the encroaching shadows smothering him like waves and it’s only simon’s hand in his, the gleam of moonlight catching his eyes, that keeps him above water

johnny squeezes his hand and brings him to the bed, silently coaxing him under the covers. he’s stiff, holding himself so rigid it almost looks painful, and he leaves the covers around his waist, not wanting to make him feel restricted when he’s already so visually unsure

“just like you did for me,” he murmurs, remembering the scrap cloth of a blanket he woke under

simon’s most prized possession

his only possession

simon cocks his head, that same primitive yet studious look in his eyes as he watches him climb in next to him and tug the covers up to his shoulder. he looks at it then the side over his waist, and pulls it up until it covers him up to the neck

johnny can’t help the smile tugging at his lips and sinks deeper into the bed, the blanket riding up higher

until they match

“we’re safe here, simon,” he promises

simon’s wide brown eyes stare back at him and it’s all to easy to lose himself in them

💀🧼

when johnny wakes up, simon is gone; only a dirt-stained imprint of him left on the sheet and pillowcase

and his phone sitting innocently on the side table, beside the lit lantern

[panmostuck]

commissioned my awesome oomfie habibi purgatorism for these dirkjohn creatures! go check it out on twitter and on instagram!

[inkbybambi]

imagine going to a haunted house with your friend, she gets so freaked out she runs ahead and you trip and fall and can’t catch up to her.

ghost sees you, stalking toward you with a knife and you suddenly can’t breath, tears streaming down your cheeks as you choke on a sob and beg for him to stop.

you’re hyperventilating, trying to crawl away but backed into the corner of the hallway, and you’re absolutely shaking from fear. it’s hard to catch your breath, feeling like your chest is collapsing in on itself, fat tears still falling and dripping from your jaw.

ghost puts the knife away, holds out his hands in a placating manner but you’re still too scared, still begging him to stay away.

he uses a radio to call for someone, and you watch as a gentleman — no costume, no fake blood or weapons — comes to you. ghosts turns the other way to keep others away as the man crouches in front of you, blue eyes deep with worry, a frown pulling on his lips.

“you’re alright, sweetheart,” he says in this raspy drawl. “can you walk for me?”

all you can do is whimper and shake your head, unable to stop glancing over his shoulder, wondering if ghost is going to come back, if someone else — someone worse — will appear in his stead.

“i gotcha,” he says, carefully scooping you up in his arms, making sure to not jostle your ankle too much as he takes you through a door, the atmosphere not as suffocating.

he gently places you on a chair, still worried, checking you over for anything he might’ve missed. he looks so soft, his distinct facial hair trimmed and kept, eyes gentle.

“‘’m john,” he says, and you find it within yourself to give him your name back.

he politely ignores the crack in your voice.

“you okay?” he asks as he places a hand on your knee, rubbing his thumb gently over and over.

“m-my friend,” you begin, voice thick and tears pooling at the corners of your eyes, catching on another hiccup. “she really wanted to go to this but none of our other friends wanted to and she looked so sad and i hate scary stuff, but i went with her anyway and then i tripped and she ran off and never came back for me,” you babble through increasingly thickening tears, reaching out for his shoulders and curling your fingers into his shirt, for comfort, to ground you.

he cups your cheek, thumb wiping away your tears, holding back his tongue on how your friend left you.

“let’s get you out of here, hm?”

[scintillatingshortgirl19]

god okay so this quote by carmen maria machado from her memoir in the dream house -

“I had a room to myself as a kid, but my mother was always quick to point out that it wasn’t my room, it was her room and I was merely permitted to occupy it. Her point, of course, was that my parents had earned everything and I was merely borrowing the space, and while this is technically true I cannot help but marvel at the singular damage of this dark idea: That my existence as a child was a kind of debt and nothing, no matter how small, was mine. That no space was truly private; anything of mine could be forfeited at someone else’s whim."

- got me thinking about house likely not feeling ownership in his own home as a kid due to his dad's discipline methods, and the way he clings to his spaces as an adult (aka his apartment and his office)

and THEN it got me thinking about house getting kicked out of his and wilson's shared apartment in late season 6.

imagine, if you will. you're a kid with an abusive military father who makes it clear that you don't actually own anything and that you will only ever be a guest in his house. your father regularly takes away the roof over your head as a form of discipline. your father regularly violates your bodily autonomy by forcing you to take ice baths. your father's job means you spend your childhood moving from place to place without you having any say in the matter. your father shows you that even the food you eat is not an inherent right but a generous gift, and it can and will be taken away if you're late to the table.

so you grow up, and your spaces are really important to you. you stay in the same apartment and have the same office for years and years and you make both of them feel truly yours. they belong to you. no one can take them away from you anymore.

and then you make changes, painful ones. it's horrible and difficult and terrifying but it's worth it. and then your best friend offers you a new home, a space for you to share. together, the two of you make it yours. you live in a place that is owned by your best friend but it's nothing like living in the places owned by your dad. it's safe here. there's love here. this home belongs to both of you.

and then your best friend reconnects with his ex, and you're relegated to second place like you always are when there's a woman in his life, and he asks you to leave.

and you realize you had forgotten what it's like to be reminded that your home was never truly yours.

[just-a-little-nut]

I just want to be carried, but I'm not a "can be carried" lad. Biggest L of the century truly.

[incorrect-hs-quotes]

DAVE: we need a new fucked up drink pilk wasnt enough

DAVE: suggestions?

JOHN: tequilk.

DAVE: ok competition closed what the fuck

[fortjester]

i just think it's so interesting that the Eighth House is the soul siphoner house, when Mercy is (to put it incredibly simply) an anatomist. as far as i'm aware, she has little to no interest in souls past the baseline interest she needs to have. but you know who was very interested in souls? Cristabel.

devote your life to god; then go ahead and end it to help a man who might as well be god understand soul magic. devote your second life to your best friend; devote your body to her; devote your second death to keeping her soul alive for infinity. have the House you built with her take your sacrifice and devotion, and make of it an abomination. talk about tragic irony.

[bookish-bogwitch]

Hello! Happy Wednesday!

I'm diving now into the last 3 chapters of Basil Pitch's Diary. I'm in the big-picture, planning stage of writing them. Even with Scrivener, I have a hard time visualizing the flow of a story on a computer screen, so I pulled out a notebook I hadn't used in months.

Imagine my delight on finding the notes and drafts that I apparently wrote for the March, July, and August chapters. I'd forgotten they existed. People always seem to love a process post, so here you go.

Below the cut, spoilers for BPD Ch. 9.

Good job, self, I thought. So exacting! So methodical!

Then: These remind me of something. I've seen notebooks like this somewh--

@facewithoutheart @cutestkilla @ivelovedhimthroughworse @thewholelemon @monbons

@mooncello @skeedelvee @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @moodandmist @ileadacharmedlife

@fatalfangirl @artsyunderstudy @emeryhall @raenestee @ic3que3n

@whogaveyoupermission @stitchyqueer @blackberrysummerblog @alexalexinii @gekkoinapeartree

@brilla-brilla-estrellita @shrekgogurt @scone-lover @nightimedreamersworld @stardustasincocaine

@martsonmars @onepintobean @agni-ashes @aristocratic-otter @alleycat0306

@fight-surrender @theearlgreymage @thehoneyedhufflepuff @iamamythologicalcreature @youarenevertooold

@technetiumai @roomwithanopenfire @hushed-chorus @theimpossibledemon @comesitintheclover

@goblindad-emoshit @rimeswithpurple @messofthejess @forabeatofadrum @nausikaaa

@johnwgrey @prettygoododds @run-for-chamo-miles @best–dress @arthurkko

[blistering-typhoons]

fina/empt soviet holmes edit

song: everything reminds me of you by take care

[ks-lair]

An Empire's Catacomb

One for the Emperor, first of us all; One for his Lyctors, who answered the call; One for his Saints, who were chosen of old; One for his Hands, and the swords that they hold.

Two is for discipline, heedless of trial.

Three for the gleam of a jewel or a smile

Four for fidelity, facing ahead

Five for tradition and debts to the dead

Six for the truth over solace in lies

Seven for beauty that blossoms and dies

Eight for salvation no matter the cost

Nine for the Tomb, and for all that was lost

Nine is also for that really angry butch with a big sword

Just as intended by the Necrolord

Just some skulls I pixelled up since The Locked Tomb's brainrot is real and had to be externalized somehow.

It is pride month

[feyd-meowtha]

“I honestly don’t know what happened, I had no hand in it. As I told you before, I found him like this, collapsed a couple metres away from a nightclub. I didn’t even know who he was until he told me his name. The bouncer said he came in alone and they found him a couple hours later, passed out in one of the dark rooms. I don’t think I need to condescend you by explaining what that means. It’s such a shame, really, a very nasty business.”  “He was passed out where?” Bucky asked, his voice had gone strangely hollow, the floor dropping away. “One of the dark rooms at Flak Happy,” Uli repeated, holding Bucky’s gaze and not blinking, “Heaven only knows why he went in there. As far as I know there’s only one thing people go to that particular club for and it isn’t the Hi-Fi. What do you think, Bucky? What might he have been looking for in a place like that?” 

Ch 8/?, 53,500 words