maih_em
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Wilson scoffs, shaking his head. He rubs his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Ask Cuddy. Cameron. Anyone but me.”
“What part of boyfriend do you not understand? Unless Cuddy is secretly a tranny I'm not sure it’ll work,” House bites back, eyebrow cocked up.
“Why did you even tell them you have a boyfriend?! You're not gay!”
“How outdated. Wilson the homophobe! Come look for yourselves, folks! Wilson hates gay people and—”
Bookmarked by maih_em
05 Apr 2026
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House heads to rehab. Things go pretty much as well as you'd expect.
Series
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- English
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- 42,296
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- 15/15
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Bookmarked by maih_em
08 Feb 2026
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Wilson has nightmares. House gets a headache. Everyone tries to diagnose just what's going on between them.
This story is set in Season 2, before House got shot, before the first ducklings left us, before Amber, before House/Cuddy . . . those halcyon days where House and Wilson were just . . . House and Wilson. Wilson is sleeping on House's sofa, after moving out from cancer patient, Grace.
"Wilson just shook his head and limped back into the kitchen. He unloaded a sack of fresh produce. Good produce. Endives and garlic and tomatoes and asparagus. He moved on to the next sack. Beef. Good beef. Brisket and rump roast and ribeyes . . . he was halfway through the third sack of spices and imported cheeses, whistling and daydreaming about braised salmon with fresh asparagus when it hit him. He was being seduced. Through groceries. By groceries. By House through groceries. And he was falling for it. Hard. Lox, stock pot, and basil."
- Language:
- English
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- 18,381
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- 1/1
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- 115
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- 5,430
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Bookmarked by maih_em
31 Jan 2026
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either love is a shrine (or else, a scar) by jamesevanwilson (suhossineun)
Fandoms: House M.D.
22 Feb 2024
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House has a brilliant plan, and he needs Wilson's help. Wilson is a chronic enabler.
Getting married for the fourth time should be relatively easy.
- Language:
- English
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- 79,985
- Chapters:
- 8/8
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- 678
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- 5,956
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Bookmarked by maih_em
30 Jan 2026
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(Includes fanart!)
“Wilson?”
House shifted, slow and deliberate, letting his head slide down until it rested in Wilson’s lap with a careless plop. He lay there on his stomach like a man surrendering to gravity, his hands clutching Wilson's thigh— head lifted, pale eyes fixed on Wilson’s. The light caught on his face just right, making the alcohol-flushed pink burn against the faint gray of exhaustion.
“Let’s get married,” House slurred.
Wilson froze for a heartbeat. His cheeks tinted, Lips parting, then closed them again. He knew better—it was drunk, delirious babbling — but House’s eyes held a rare kind of clarity, the kind that lodged itself behind Wilson's ribs.
“I’ll even wear m’wedding ring…” House added, voice slurring, “…once a year. Pinky promise.”
Wilson let out a quiet breath, his fingers finding their way into the mess of House’s hair, combing gently. “Slow down,” he murmured.“This is month seven.”
“Month seven of giving it a title,” House muttered, eyes half-lidded. “Month one ninety-three of homoerotic tension without one.” He clicked his tongue, shifting onto his side to face Wilson’s stomach. “Wealready took 'r sweet, sweet time.”