#vicodin cane

[lowbcame]

meowse md

[aunhinged]

House MD: concept

what if, at some point in the show, Wilson is secretly prescribed Vicodin after a minor surgery. Ofc he’s too embarrassed to tell House and doesn’t want to deal with the inevitable lecture. But, House figures it out the second Wilson walks into his office. "You’re limping like a 90-year-old and suddenly not wincing at my Vicodin jokes. What’s next? Gonna start stealing my cane?" Wilson doesn’t deny it, but House respects the secrecy and says nothing more, though he casually steals Wilson's prescription a week later.

[thatoddhufflepuff]

MORE MOUSE BITES!!1!!!1!1

[angelstrawbabie420]

SEASON 5 OF HOUSE IS SO FUCKING CRAZY

[pissinmyass]

Dr. House is the disability representation I need and deserve 💋

[quinnmorgendorffer]

High key the most hilarious thing the House MD writers ever did was to end season 2 on a cliffhanger of House possibly finally curing his leg pain, start season 3 with him having no pain, and then have him back to using his cane and taking Vicodin in the third episode. Truly iconic.

[fox-mulder-gets-pegged]

Head in my hands I kinda wanna design a House MD jacket now.

[randomisgone]

House Headcanons cause they're my sillies

◇ Wilson routinely switchs out Houses vicodin for tictacs.

◇ House joined his high school cheer team just to piss off his dad. He actually enjoyed it and still remembers the routines but his leg gets in the way.

◇ Rachel covered one of Houses canes with stickers. He secretly loves it and uses it when he's alone.

◇ House and Rachel have played princesses and pirates, and house was not the pirate.

◇ The ducklings cant tell if house is gay or not and frankly they are too scared to ask.

◇ Wilson has carried House bridal style at least once

[wittyandobsessed]

𝐌𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 | Gregory House x Reader

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 | stupid behavior, migraine.

𝘏𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦’𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯.

House’s schemes were rarely straightforward, and this one was no exception. It had all started when he stumbled upon an article in a prestigious medical journal, authored by none other than Dr. Walter Henson, a former colleague from his medical school days. Henson, the man who had publicly accused House of cheating during their final year, had gone on to carve out a respectable, if unremarkable, career in pharmacological research. The article detailed his latest work: a groundbreaking new drug for migraines.

The moment House saw Henson’s name, a storm of old grudges and biting curiosity brewed in his mind. The smug bastard finally thinks he’s relevant? House thought. He skimmed the article, snorting at its technical jargon and self-congratulatory tone. The idea that Henson’s drug could be as revolutionary as claimed was laughable. But what irked House most was the praise the paper was garnering—praised by people who should have known better.

House couldn’t resist the pull of vindication. He didn’t just want to discredit Henson; he wanted to obliterate his credibility in public. “The man’s ego deserves a migraine worse than his drug could ever cure,” House muttered to himself, spinning his cane in one hand as he considered his options.

The first step was to attend Henson’s upcoming conference, where he was presenting his findings. House, of course, couldn’t just sit quietly in the audience like any normal person. His plan was to interrupt the presentation with razor-sharp questions that would unravel Henson’s argument before the audience’s eyes. But Henson, smug and prepared, had all the right answers—or at least answers that satisfied everyone but House.

Frustrated but undeterred, House decided on a more audacious approach. If he couldn’t embarrass Henson on stage, he’d do it by disproving the efficacy of the drug itself. And what better test subject than the ever-sacrificial Dr. Gregory House?

“People fake migraines for sympathy all the time,” he said to Wilson over lunch. “I’m just taking it a step further by giving myself one for science. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?”

Wilson raised an incredulous eyebrow. “The worst? How about you end up curled in a dark room for three days regretting every life decision that led you to this point?”

“Please. I already regret most of those,” House replied, popping a Vicodin. “This? This is for the greater good.”

And with that, he set his absurd plan in motion.

House’s process of inducing a migraine was, predictably, reckless and borderline masochistic. House reclined in his office chair, the empty syringe discarded on his desk like a grim trophy. He could already feel the subtle beginnings of the migraine taking hold—a dull throb behind his left eye, accompanied by the faint sensation of pressure building at his temples. It was like the prelude to a storm, the air thick with expectation. His lips curved into a small, satisfied smirk despite the discomfort. Another genius experiment, another inevitable victory.

The pain escalated rapidly. The throb became a pounding, and the pressure behind his eyes morphed into a relentless vise, tightening with each passing minute. He braced himself, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his hands pressing against his temples. A quiet groan slipped out before he could stop it.

House had endured pain before—lived with it, in fact—but this was different. It wasn’t the chronic ache of his leg or the manageable twinges that Vicodin could smooth over. This was acute, blinding, and utterly incapacitating. He reached for the bottle of water on his desk, but even the effort of unscrewing the cap sent a sharp jolt through his skull, forcing him to stop.

By the time Wilson arrived, the migraine had claimed complete dominion over House’s senses. His office was a cocoon of dim light, the blinds drawn tightly shut, the only sound the faint hum of the air conditioning. Wilson stepped inside, his usual look of bemused exasperation painted across his face.

“Well, if it isn’t the martyr of medical science,” Wilson drawled, glancing at the syringe on the desk. “How’s the great experiment going, House? Painful enough to regret it yet?”

House didn’t bother looking up. “Still better company than you,” he muttered, his voice low and strained. His head remained cradled in his hands, fingers digging into his temples as if he could squeeze the pain away.

Wilson, unimpressed, crossed his arms. “You injected yourself with migraine medication and something to induce a migraine? I’m not sure whether to call you insane or applaud your dedication to self-destruction.”

House’s response was a low grunt, barely audible. The pounding in his head drowned out most of Wilson’s words, but he caught the tone—somewhere between concern and annoyance.

“Well, since you’re clearly miserable,” Wilson continued, a wicked grin forming, “I think it’s only fair to make this moment educational.”

Before House could protest, Wilson marched to the windows and threw the blinds open, flooding the room with blinding sunlight. House recoiled instantly, a guttural sound escaping his throat as he shielded his eyes.

“Are you kidding me?!” he barked, his voice cracking under the strain.

“Oh, I’m just helping,” Wilson replied innocently, moving to the light switch and flicking it on. The fluorescent bulbs buzzed to life, their harsh glow cutting through the dim sanctuary House had created.

“Wilson,” House growled, his tone edged with genuine desperation, “if you don’t turn that off, I will murder you in your sleep.”

But Wilson wasn’t done. He began clinking items on the desk—his watch against the water bottle, the pen holder against the desk lamp—creating a cacophony of sound that reverberated through House’s skull like a sledgehammer.

“Get out!” House bellowed, clutching his head.

Satisfied he’d made his point, Wilson relented and left with a muttered “Idiot” under his breath.

Not long after Wilson’s departure, you arrived at House’s office, concern etched into your features. You had heard from one of the nurses about his latest stunt, and while you were used to House’s reckless experiments, the thought of him lying in agony was enough to bring you straight to his door.

What you found made your chest tighten. House was sprawled on the floor, his cane discarded nearby, his eyes squeezed shut as he pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead. His normally sharp, cutting presence was reduced to a vulnerable shadow of itself.

You stepped inside, careful to close the door softly behind you. “What were you thinking?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. You crouched down beside him, your knees brushing the edge of his arm as you reached out to gently touch his shoulder.

House flinched at the contact but didn’t push you away. “What do you think?” he muttered, his tone laced with sarcasm despite the evident pain. “Science, brilliance, the usual.”

“There’s a fine line between brilliance and idiocy,” you said, your tone devoid of malice. You knew him too well to be surprised by his recklessness. Instead, there was a quiet sympathy in your voice, a soft understanding of the lengths he would go to prove himself right. “I hope the pain is worth it.”

House grunted, his hand shifting to cover his eyes. “It is,” he said flatly. “I’ve proved my point.”

“And it was that important?” you asked, leaning back slightly to study his face.

“Of course it was,” he snapped, though the bite in his words lacked conviction. After a pause, he added, “Henson’s drug is crap. The world needed to know.”

“And the world couldn’t have found out some other way?” you pressed, almost gently.

House groaned, turning his head slightly to face you. Even through the pain, there was a flicker of defiance in his expression. “Some truths are worth suffering for,” he said, his lips twitching into a faint smirk before another wave of pain wiped it away.

You sighed, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable,” you murmured, reaching out to gently brush a strand of hair from his forehead. The gesture was small, almost insignificant, but it seemed to ground him. His body relaxed minutely under your touch, the tension in his shoulders easing just enough for him to exhale a shaky breath.

For a moment, the room was quiet, save for the sound of his labored breathing. 

After a moment of standing there, watching House curled up on the floor in obvious torment, you made a decision. You couldn’t just leave him like this, stubbornly suffering through the consequences of his reckless experiment. With a soft sigh, you knelt down next to him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Move over,” you murmured, your tone firm but kind.

House cracked open one eye, his gaze sluggish and unfocused. Even in his haze of pain, there was a flicker of curiosity in his expression as he studied you.

“What?” he rasped, his voice hoarse.

“Move over,” you repeated. “I need you to sit up for a second. Come on, work with me here.”

House groaned in protest, but he grudgingly shifted, propping himself up on one elbow. His movements were slow and deliberate, each motion accompanied by a wince or a muttered curse. You guided him with a steady hand, helping him adjust until there was enough space for you to sit down on the floor.

“Lie back,” you instructed, patting your lap.

House raised an eyebrow. You rolled your eyes but smiled softly. “Just lie back, House. Humor me.”

He hesitated for a moment, but the exhaustion etched into his features betrayed him. Finally, he relented, lowering himself until his head rested on your lap. The tension in his body didn’t dissipate entirely, but there was a noticeable shift—a subtle surrender to your care.

With his head cradled against you, you reached up and began to stroke his hair. Your fingers moved slowly, gliding through the unruly strands with gentle precision. The repetitive motion was soothing, each stroke a silent reassurance that he wasn’t alone in his misery.

“What are you doing?” House mumbled, his voice muffled against your thigh.

“Helping,” you replied simply.

He opened his mouth to retort, but you cut him off.

“I don’t know much about this miracle drug Henson’s been peddling, but I do know a thing or two about pressure points,” you said. “They help with circulation, and circulation helps with migraines.”

House didn’t respond, but his breathing had slowed slightly, the rhythm of your fingers in his hair lulling him into a marginally calmer state.

You shifted your focus, moving your hands from his hair to his forehead. Using your thumbs, you applied light pressure to the center of his brow, working in small, deliberate circles. The skin beneath your fingers was warm, slightly damp with sweat, and you could feel the faint flutter of his pulse as you worked.

House made a low sound in the back of his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a groan.

“Does that hurt?” you asked, pausing to gauge his reaction.

“No,” he murmured, his voice softer now. “Feels... good.”

Encouraged, you continued, your fingers tracing the lines of his forehead with gentle precision. You pressed slightly harder, massaging the area around his temples in slow, circular motions. His face, usually so guarded and sharp, had begun to soften, the tight lines of pain easing under your touch.

“House,” you said softly, “you need to stop doing things like this to yourself.”

He didn’t respond immediately. When he finally spoke, his voice was tinged with defiance but lacked the usual venom. “I wouldn’t have to if people weren’t so damn wrong all the time.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “And you think giving yourself a migraine is the best way to prove that?”

His lips twitched into a faint smirk. “Worked, didn’t it?”

Shaking your head, you moved your hands to his cheeks, using your fingertips to apply gentle pressure along his jawline. His stubble scratched against your skin, a tactile reminder of his humanity—the man beneath the bravado.

“You’re impossible,” you said softly, though there was no real bite to your words.

“Thanks,” he muttered, the sarcasm dulled by the drowsy tone in his voice.

You shifted your hands again, this time tracing the sides of his neck. Your fingers glided over the taut muscles, kneading the tension away with slow, deliberate motions. House’s body relaxed further, his head sinking more heavily against your lap.

“You’re going to put massage therapists out of business,” he mumbled, his words slurring slightly as he drifted closer to the edge of sleep.

“Good thing I’m not charging you,” you quipped, your smile softening as you continued to work.

The room fell into a comfortable silence, broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioning and the sound of House’s measured breathing. You lost track of time as you moved your hands over his temples, his cheeks, the nape of his neck. Each motion was an unspoken promise—a quiet reassurance that, for this moment, he didn’t have to bear his pain alone.

Eventually, House let out a soft sigh, his body going limp against you. The lines of pain on his face had faded, replaced by an expression of tentative peace.

“Thanks,” he murmured, the word barely audible.

You brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, your fingers lingering for a moment before resting gently against his temple. “Anytime,” you whispered, your voice filled with a tenderness you knew he wouldn’t acknowledge out loud.

And so you stayed there, the two of you on the floor of his office, sharing a rare moment of quiet vulnerability in the midst of his self-inflicted chaos.

[kittenlittle24]

Fortnight

A/n: First angst!

Btw, gifs aren’t mine! Likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

Masterlist

You knew your fiancé had a hard week, a patient with a difficult diagnosis, his mythical ex showed up, and emotions were strung high. Which is why you decided to surprise him at work with a fast food dinner.

Stepping off the elevator, you slowed your a stop upon seeing a brunette leaning to kiss your finance’s cheek. He put his arms around her and closed his eyes.

Your stomach felt like you swallowed a brick. No longer hungry nor caring whether he is or isn’t, you turned in the spot and went straight home. You tossed the untouched takeaway bag onto the counter, grabbed a pen and paper, followed by a suitcase.

It took you a good hour or two to pack your necessities, you figured you could ask Wilson for help with anything else that you were leaving behind. You took one last look around, tears streaming down your face before you locked the door and left.

When House arrived home, he quietly entered the apartment assuming you were fast asleep. All he wanted was to crawl into bed, curl up in your warm embrace, and forget about Stacy or the fact that Cuddy offered her a job. His brows furrowed when he saw the closed paper bag on the kitchen counter, he opened it to see food for two, did you go to sleep without eating?

Going back to the living room he took a drink from his whiskey and threw his cane aside before trying to take a step with his right leg. As soon as he put his weight on it a yelp escaped from his lips, crashing to the floor as his leg gave out underneath him, he caught the armchair to break his fall. Lifting himself to sit on the leather chair, he immediately took his Vicodin bottle and tossed a pill into his mouth.

“Y/n?” He called, hoping you’d wake up and help him move to your bed.

Crap, he thought when no reply came from the darkened hallway.

He waited till the pill started to work and the pain subsided a tad before he pushed himself up and extremely slowly even to his standards, made his way to your shared bedroom.

His body froze upon seeing the made-up, empty bed.

“Fuck.” He whispered and sat on your side of the bed.

Sighing and rubbing his hands down his face, he looked at your bedside table and saw the note and your ring on top.

He picked them up with gentle hands as if any unnecessary touch would harm the objects.

‘I’ve seen the way Stacy and you look at each other, and it’s killing me to know that you’d never love me as much as I do you.

You love her and I cannot be in second place.

I love you, but I’m scared it will ruin both of our lives.

Please, don’t be angry I took the coward’s way out. I just know had I stayed you would’ve talked your way to convince me it’s all in my head,”

Taking a deep breath, “It’s not in your head.” He admitted to no one.

He didn’t bother reading the rest, instead, he picked up his phone and called Wilson.

“House, it’s the middle of the nigh-“

Staring at the glistening ring in his hand, “Y/n left.”

[beneathashadytree]

Had a shitty last couple of days, was out the whole day today due to unforeseen circumstances, and my headache is unbearable rn (a given, considering that I’m grinding my teeth with my retainer on) BUTTTTT I’m out here rewatching this extremely specific clip from the last episode I rewatched of House MD because… holy shit, 4+ years later now this awakened something in me????

The fact that a physically disabled man who literally can’t even walk two steps without relying heavily on his cane and suffers from chronic pain that has him literally addicted to Vicodin to attempt to relieve it… literally THREW his cane aside and fucking SPRINTED the moment he felt that baby’s life was in danger… I’m clutching my chest rn. Feeling SO unwell rn /pos this might singlehandedly be the most attractive thing House has EVER done oh my god?????? Like, as a disabled person, I can’t even imagine this holy shit.

[balteredsworld]

negotiations. gregory house

🥼🩺 | house would rather fight you, but negotiates a date to a gala for a truce.

masterlist : greg house n all

tags/warnings! house being house, lawyer!reader, drugs, not enemies per say but there's def something there, reader is stacy's apprentice of sorts | gifs by @propertyofjameswilson

author's note: this was one of the first requests i got in my inbox! i accidentally deleted it omg but i hope this finds you <3 lemme know what you guys think!

"if this is an ethical boards issue, file the report over there," you spoke, eyes never leaving the monitor screen.

you already knew it was house from the way a constant thud crept its way to your office. that, and you could see his figure from your peripheral, so really you didn't need to look up.

"it's adorable that you automatically know it's me," he noted, obviously humoured. "if i didn't know better, i would've pegged you down as a secret admirer."

still, that didn't inspire much of a reaction from you other than a short glance. the two of you have been veering on this lane since you replaced stacy seven months ago. you were much colder than she was, and so much less accommodating to his devious needs.

house often wondered how stacy even took a liking to you, but then again she was also ruthless when he first met her. by that logic, you didn't fall from the tree. you were your mentor's very picture, but oh were you much icier. it was annoying, but he liked drilling you.

unfortunately for him, you were several inches thick. so he considered you worse than cuddy in that regard. at least she entertained his whims, but you... you didn't care nor bat an eye.

you said all the appropriate, correct and right things.

"well?"

"i need you," he admitted ominously.

your brows knitted, "right...?"

a silence broke between the two of you, causing you to finally look up and meet his eyes.

"house, if this is an ethics question, you have cuddy to advise you," you sighed. "i only deal with court and legal processes."

he shook his head. "i need you."

you sent him another worrisome look, before finally giving in. "what for?"

"tonight's the gala. i need a date."

:..don't you have hookers for that? i'm sure they would like the pay," you told him, voice and tone slow, still unsure what the gimmick was with this request.

if you had learned one thing in your seven months here at princeton was that everything involving house was some sort of mind game. you'd dealt with him enough times to know that, and seen him through three excruciating court appearances because the man couldn't and wouldn't shut up.

house was stupid in the way he was careless.

he plopped himself on your client chairs, hands wrapping the knob of his cane like he was considering some great philosophy or debate in his mind, surely one about the manmade idea of a god.

"hmm, good point. hookers do have their perks-less backtalk, more enthusiasm," he hummed, pretending to think, brows raising as he offered the explanation to his request. "but, hey, i figured slumming it with you might be an interesting change of pace."

despite his nonchalant closing of the question, he was still there. the proposition hung heavy in the your silence, piercing through the airy creak of the floorboards from the wobble of his cane.

you cocked your brow, asking, "so you want me to be your entertainment?"

at that house scrunched his face.

"entertainment? that's putting it generous," he remarked, looking at you with incredulous eyes as he leaned on the chair's backrest to take a vicodin. "i was thinking more like a reluctant accomplice in a dull evening. but who knows, you might surprise me."

he wanted you to bite. if you were cameron, then maybe you would've then and there, and entertain house's wild fantasy of taking you to the gala to stir up hospital gossip. but you still didn't know the caveat to your compliance, not to mention the sea of paperwork you'd been made to deal with due to his merry malpractice.

it was like this every other week, somehow piling larger because you had to justify house's forgeries on paper.

"well, i'm flattered at your proposal, but alas i'm swamped from your court hearing last week," you straightened up, gesturing to the piles and piles of folders and legal binders littering your desk. "i have you to thank for that i believe."

your dry remark elicited an impatient huff from house, all but crass and lax about administrative affairs of his hospital job.

"the perks of my charming personality. you're welcome for the excitement," he told you, leaning back toward you to flick through the papers on your desk.

"what's the gimmick?"

"no gimmicks. just you and me surviving the god awful gala, and you can have tickets to whatever show you want. what do you say?"

he looked at you innocently.

"there's always a gimmick with you, house. it makes your puzzle for your team to figure out. so what's the puzzle here?" you query, locking your hands together.

more than anything, this was negotiation. anything was negotiable with house: rules, conduct... the law.

anything was remotely subjective was up for his objective debate, all to prop himself up with more advantage to do whatever he wants in the hospital. even though he makes up for it with his rightness, it's made up more work for you

"you on my arm; i need to quiet down cuddy," he finally reveals, pursing his lips. "she's antsy about our squashbuckling. personally think it's great pr, but mommy says otherwise."

you let out a breath, considering the argument. he was right, of course. the times the two of you went to court, you looked like you could barely control your client even with your stern voice and threats. your threats were empty in house's books. so long as he proved himself on principle, consequences were an afterthought to him.

his integrity made him a man easy to admire, but he would rather ruffle your feathers to see how far you'd go. it infuriated and vexed you. but, if this was really a chance to call an armistice, then his proposition was more than an attractive offer.

"okay," you agreed.

house bobbed his head, appeased with your agreement, "great."

"but i don't want tickets."

he edged his head, encouraging you to go on. eyes wary, nonetheless.

"i want the next case without a pile of files for me to review."

a beat.

he blinked.

then he uncontrollably laughed. the fucker laughed.

"that's cute, y/l/n," he chortled, sinking into the backrest completely. he was smug, face dancing with amusement and disbelief like you believed he could really do that.

"let's see, you want me to diagnose a complex medical case discarding my process and adhere to standard protocol. wow that's really cute."

"well, fine then. appease cuddy another way," you waved him off, letting your eyes fall to your monitor to go back to work.

sensing this, house groaned a sigh, exchanging his previous amusement for your veering annoyance. he took his fingers and massaged the bridge of his nose.

"alright, you want a break from my malpractice masterpieces? fine. i'll keep it clean the next time. but if i manage to save a life without a single piece of paper, you owe me more than the gala."

you stared back at him, mildly bewildered, "are you asking me out on a date, house?"

"my diagnostic powers deserve more than a gala."

so it was a yes, then. part of you wanted to beam, but that would betray your icy façade. so instead you settled for cool nod, won by the whole proposal. you knew he wouldn't resist a challenge if you posed one, and if it meant less work for you, then you'd let house take you out.

house also owed you more than a date after the last seven months of putting up with his shit.

"wear a nice suit," you accepted, weathering a ghost of a smile. "pick me up at my apartment at 8."

[househrt]

hilson bodyswap,,,,

House existing in a pain-free body for the first time in decades. Not shaving, letting Wilson's face get all scruffy. Wearing his comfy clothes instead of Wilson's standard work "uniform". Coaching Wilson through how to adjust his gait to accommodate a cane. Learning that Wilson's body can't handle an endless supply of sugar like House's can (tummy ache time).

Bonus points if it was during a season where House is off Vicodin, so Wilson feels the craving and struggles with it more than he expected to. He feels how much it hurts now, regretting how he treated House as if it was all psychosomatic. Bonus bonus points if Wilson slips up, takes Vicodin because he can't handle the pain. And he tries to hide it from House, but of course he recognises it.

Bonus bonus bonus points if Wilson is trans (up to you whether or not House knew about it before now). But Wilson gets to experience having a cis man's body, which House tells him to enthusiastically become comfortable with (aka "jerk off and/or have sex in my body", a normal thing for a straight™ man to say to another straight™ man). Wilson is predictably embarrassed and confused when he gets a boner from House talking to him about sex (he is very repressed about his very homo sexuality). House is delighted.

When they inevitably hook up, House tells Wilson he's so hot and Wilson is like "of course you're attracted to your own face 🙄" (fondly), banter and gay sex ensues.

[time-for-opinions]

⚕️ wilson-ppth Follow

My wife asked me a question.

My answer is officially the reason for my next divorce.

🖕 in-your-house Follow

Typical. What was even the question?

No, more importantly, how much of a colossal fuck up was your answer?

⚕️ wilson-ppth Follow

Do you enjoy kicking me when I'm down?

🖕 in-your-house Follow

Now you're the one asking stupid questions.

⚕️ wilson-ppth Follow

She asked if I'd still love her if she was a worm. I, completely rationally, asked her for the logistics.

🖕 in-your-house Follow

If she was rational she wouldn't have married you, would she have?

Stupid question, hence proved for the millionth time - you have stupid taste.

⚕️ wilson-ppth Follow

I thought you liked this one!

🖕 in-your-house Follow

I would've thrown glass instead of flowers at your wedding if I wasn't getting to third base with the open bar.

⚕️ wilson-ppth Follow

Descriptive.

And it wasn't a stupid question, it was - emotional? I don't know, would you still love me if I was a worm?

🖕 in-your-house Follow

I would cut you in half.

⚕️ wilson-ppth Follow

....wow.

🖕 in-your-house Follow

Let me finish, you impatient fuck.

I'd cut you in half, so worm-you clones itself. Then, I'd figure out how to turn you two back human. Obviously I'd succeed, and voila. Two haloed oncologists!

⚕️ wilson-ppth Follow

Why do I subject myself to this?

Well. You want two of me. I'll take it.

🖕 in-your-house Follow

Obviously so I can have double my meals paid for.

⚕️ wilson-ppth Follow

I already pay for all your meals, what else are you going to eat???

🖕 in-your-house Follow

Wow. Shaming me for my dietary choices? And Cuddy thinks I'm the bad one.

We could also finally have sandwich style fucknasty buttstuff sex. Wilson, why aren't you a worm yet? Get with the program!

⚕️ wilson-ppth Follow

On second thought, I'm pretty sure you and your brainless rot is the reason I'm getting divorced.

🖕 in-your-house Follow

Get with the times, it's called brainrot.

What about you? Would you still love me if I was a worm? I bet you would, you sap - would you make a tiny worm cane for tiny worm me? Would you microdose me vicodin and carry me around everywhere?

⚕️ wilson-ppth Follow

Yes.

🖕 in-your-house Follow

Huh.

Should've said that to your ex-wife.

⚕️ wilson-ppth Follow

We're not divorced yet.

🖕 in-your-house Follow

Ex-wife.

🐥 chasing-ducklings Follow

Is no one else seeing this?

#average day at work #the dads are dad-ing #i know foreman has house blocked but where's cameron?

27 notes

[faggot-greg-house]

soon enough i will write my house pain management fic i have it in my DRAFTS but until then i will just yell here

the way the show treated house's pain is so insane and i hate it so much. first off he should never have been put on vicodin long term. vicodin isn't a long term solution for most things but especially without ANY OTHER attempts at managing his pain???? also not to mention that compounds like vicodin and percocet are very often not long term solutions at all because the acetaminophen in them drastically increases the risk of overdose and liver damage. if he was on opiates for pain management he would likely be on something that's just a straight opiate (hydrocodone, oxycodone, fentanyl, etc etc).

on top of that, the fact that they take him off vicodin and throw him on ibuprofen is fucking absurd. there are so many pain meds that could be effective and helpful for him with minimal risk. imo he shouldve been put on a nerve pain med, a muscle relaxer, an nsaid, and an opiate for breakthrough pain at LEAST. letting a man run free on just vicodin for YEARS is so deeply unhinged.

i also firmly believe that a cane is not even close to the best mobility aid for house. i do think that house would likely refuse to use a lot of mobility aids and that his use of a cane is an in character choice but on a strictly logistical level a wheelchair or forearm crutches would be so much more helpful for him. i also do think he should've been in therapy to deal with his disability from the start (again, though, probably an in character choice)

i inevitably have more to say and i will either go off on here or in a fic but. someone help that man be in less pain dear god

[randomriddlee]

guys hear me out imagine house md veterinary hospital au in which:

house got kicked by a cow during his internship and his leg didn’t heal properly which made him use a cane

he was forced to switch to small animal practice, he still hates clients but his fluffy patients love him for some unknown reason

wilson specialises in equine medicine (wilson is basically a horse girl) and because their hospital doesn’t get much calls for horse consults he spends most of his time being annoyed by house

instead of being exposed to hiv cameron gets bit by a rabid 16 year old yorkshire terrier

a lady comes with an obese labrador and chase nearly gets rabid himself

the ducklings are responsible for restraining first and treating patients second

foreman is afraid of small dogs

chase makes fun of him but he’s terrified as well

cameron has four senior sick rescue cats which seem to be immortal

house is addicted to ketamine instead of vicodin

there’s at least one joke about chase’s interest in bdsm and getting bit

wilson always gets a new golden retriever when entering a new marriage, the dogs always stay with his ex-wives

house constantly remarks that he should change his motorcycle for a horse to wilson’s horror

stevie mcqueen was actually brought to the hospital by a rescue for lab animals, house adopted stevie after his treatment was finished

cuddy specialises in animal reproduction and house constantly tries to win the argument by bringing puppies to her office (she folds on occasion)

house nearly does a necropsy on a goat with anthrax