Pretty Please I Need Cool People To Join My Pack And By My Pack I Mean I Want To Be In A Pack. I Need

Holy shit this is so in character oh my god

Turns out, Wilson thinks he’s gay.

He drops that bomb on a Thursday night, sitting on House’s couch, where they’re splitting a greasy pizza and a large order of onion rings. Wilson’s not nearly drunk enough for it to be a joke, is the thing. His hands and voice are steady when he explains how it’s haunted him since he was a teenager, how he ran from it and into three failed marriages, how he cheated because he liked the thrill of the chase but was always unsatisfied with the outcome. He wants to tell the important people in his life to ask them for support in this new era, and House is the first one to know.

And yeah, it could explain things. A lot of things. Like the haircare routine, the regular mani/pedis, the shoe collection. This wouldn’t surprise many people. But House isn’t sure he believes him.

Still, Wilson is his best friend, so he tries.

He doesn’t interrupt the first time he sees Wilson getting a little too close and smile-y with a male nurse. (He interrupts the second time, because he knows that nurse is a vegetarian, and House can’t have that influencing Wilson’s cooking and takeout habits.)

He doesn’t sabotage Wilson’s first date with another man. (He does steal Wilson’s phone the next morning and delete the guy’s text asking for a second date, because anyone asking so soon is desperate, and Wilson can do better.)

He tells Wilson which shirts, ties, and pants make him look gay, only this time, he means it positively. He starts TiVoing Queer as Folk for them, instead of The L Word. He offers Wilson poppers one weekend, then has to explain what they are, and how he came to find out about them in the first place (he used to rave in the 80’s, so what?).

House is being supportive, really. Even if he still doesn’t totally buy that Wilson is actually gay.

Mostly, he doesn’t think Wilson is gay because nothing changes.

Wilson still comes over most nights to watch trash TV and drink beer. He still dutifully drops his responsibilities at work, albeit briefly, to provide a diagnostics consult, or to assist in some borderline illegal scheme. They still hang out, and argue, and laugh, and bicker, and celebrate wins together, and are there for each other in the quiet aftermath of loss. They’re still the same.

Maybe Wilson is just confused because he expected to have a wife and kids, and to live in the suburbs by now. Maybe he thinks the reason for this heteronormative failure is that he’s been chasing the wrong kind of tail, instead of the fact that he spends half his time at work and the other half with House, leaving no room for anything or anyone else. And maybe House should feel guilty about that, about robbing Wilson of the life he deserves and forcing him into a fake midlife sexuality crisis, but he doesn’t.

He sort of feels bad about that part, though—the fact that he doesn’t feel bad at all.

But he’s forced to acknowledge his faults when Wilson approaches him in his office one night, trembling before he can even get the words out, I can’t hide how I feel anymore, I need to tell you the truth.

House accepts that he’s selfish because he lets Wilson kiss him breathless, knowing Wilson will never be able to kiss anyone else like this again, knowing that when he tells Wilson to take him home, he’ll never be able to leave. Now he gets it all, the early mornings and the late nights, the warm beds and the cold shoulders, the biting words and the gentle apologies, and every jagged edge left will be weathered by time.

He understands that he’s greedy because he drinks up all the praises and pleading, every filthy word Wilson moans into his ear and whispers into his skin. There’s a lifetime of hunger behind it, a cosmic collision of pain and joy and grief and devotion. It’s a wine aged for twenty years between them, bottled want and yearning, poured into an overflowing glass.

He recognizes that he’s possessive, because he knows he’s got him now, and it's for good. There’s no more sharing attention, or waiting his turn, or swallowing the bitter bile of jealousy. Wilson will stray from any map to follow his true north.

So, whatever, maybe Wilson is lying about being gay, but at least House is honest about being worse.

Ohhhh you ate that. Fuck you for making a good playlist bro wtf/pos

Remember when I said I was making a playlist for Bob? It's not "finished" and idk if it will ever be but yeah...

Well, here's the link to it anyway:

Again, if you have any recommendations or whatever, feel free to let me know!

I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS SHIT. Let me out of the social prison 💔💔 leave me alone I’m not going to the disco MADONNE NON IM NOT GOING TO THE DISCO IM PLAYING MINECRAFT ON DISCORD VC CURSING MY FRIENDS OUT IN ASL

i love it smm!

Hihiiiii can you please do a pink picnic/ cloud theme kinda vibe for a 3yr old regressor? hyperfem in a nb way if that makes? pacis and paci clips but not the decorated ones plsss! tyyyy!

Yes!!

Reblog and you’re guaranteed to be successful at whatever you do next!

Bro I watched 4 episodes of lioness and I am HOOKED.

No that’s so real!! But also I can never remember anything…

I really need to make an updated list of my hyperfixations- that shit lONG

This looks peak ngl

i owe you a black eye and two kisses

frank castle x reader

warnings: fluff, a sprinkling of angst, will they won’t they finally becoming something real, a hint of suggestiveness throughout, canon typical injuries

authors note: my first fic on this blog !! i’ve seen a whopping two edits of frank with ethel cain’s crush, and obviously i had to do something about that. enjoy, and any feedback [likes, comments, reblogs] are always appreciated ! reader isn’t explicitly gendered in this

wc: 1023

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

i owe you a black eye and two kisses

tell me when you wanna come and get ‘em

it’s a warm night, the barest of breezes ruffling the curtains from your open apartment windows. frank would huff at that, jaw set in that pissy little way you like as he bitches about you being safe. you’d snort, swatting at him lazily as you remind him you’re on the sixth floor. his grumbled complaints would go ignored, your eyes rolling every time you catch a word here and there through the mumbling. but frank’s not here, hasn’t been around in two weeks, and you’ve left the windows open nearly every night in a silent act of protest.

he never tells you what he does but you’re not an idiot — the split knuckles and blood tinged treads of his boots make it clear enough, and you’re sure that if you ever got the opportunity to peek under his layered shirts and jackets, you’d see an array of scars, begging to tell you a story. the pair of you have been dancing around each other for months now, neighbors in the sense that frank sometimes sleeps in the apartment down the hall from yours. you’re not sure where he rests his head the rest of the time, but a few days a week you can usually find him there, fixing something.

your first meeting was funny in the odd way, trying to lug a heavy furniture box up to your apartment. the elevator hardly ever works, so you’d chosen to tough it out, sweat dotting your brow as you dragged it up the stairs. between one second and the next the weight has all been lifted from your hands, and he was resting it easily on one broad shoulder with only a quiet “gonna break your back like that. which door ?” he wouldn’t hear a word of thanks either, just set it down where you’d told him and disappeared down the hall to his own apartment. it had taken a lot of work — frank was like a half feral stray, all teeth when you tried to befriend him — but over time you could comfortably call him a friend, always willing to help you with whatever issues your run down apartment was having.

i only want him if he says it first to me

i wanna ugh him in the back of his mom’s mercury

the attraction was immediate, a white hot flame curling in your stomach just at the sight of him; strong jaw and stronger arms, features rough in the handsomest way, and the low rasp of his voice was enough to bring you to your knees the first time you heard it. the feelings came later, little pinpricks of affection at the hidden softness that lurked behind every harsh face he made. you’d caught him feeding the strays out in the alley more than once, big hands impossibly gentle when he pet them, and you never really stood a chance, not when he’d fixed the loose lock on the lobby door because you’d admitted it made you feel unsafe.

but you’re careful, wary like you’re treading through a minefield; you can’t tell him everything running through your head, not if you wanted to keep him. he was a runner, obvious in every little thing he did, and you couldn’t scare him off for fear you’d never forgive yourself. you let him come to you, set the pace as slow or as fast as he wants — you’d only tell him how bad you wanted him if he wanted you just as badly first.

he looks like he works with his hands and smells like marlboro reds

it makes me so ugh and i can’t get enough of it

you’ve been missing him though, a soft ache in your chest that only grows larger every day he’s gone. you’ve kept your fingers crossed that whatever business he’s tending to hasn’t killed home before you’ve gotten the chance to care for him the way you want to, and that he’ll stain your doorway with his bloody boots soon. it’s a little ridiculous, pining for a man you know next to nothing about, but there’s something in his eyes that tells you he’ll be worth it, even if he doesn’t believe it himself.

as if he could sense your thoughts, there’s an all too familiar knock on your door, and despite the late hour you can’t help the smile that spreads over your face. it feels like every step takes forever, moving in slow motion till you’ve unlocked the door and there he is, a fresh black eye and a cut above his brow. he still manages to look unfairly handsome, especially when he pins you with that half smirk, lips curled around your name.

“doorframe still stickin’ ? i gotta take a look at that in the morning,” he says in lieu of a greeting, eyeing the rusting hinges with the sort of intensity he does everything else. it’s almost endearing, and you raise your brows at him with a quiet laugh. “is that what you came over for ? i don’t see you for two weeks and it’s the door that draws you in ?”

his resounding laugh is quiet but genuine, leaning against the doorframe to take you in. “nah sweetheart, not the door. was wondering … i could fix that for you. and that window frame that keeps rattling. install some better blinds, for privacy.”

you cross your arms, mimicking the way he’s leaning against the doorframe; like this you can really admire him, one hand coming up to gently trace the scrape above his brow. “kind of sounds like you’re staying this time,” you hum, and the smile you get out of him shines brighter than anything you’ve ever seen.

“was considering it. you offering to keep me ?” he asks, a cheeky streak to his tone, and all you can do is laugh, tugging him down by the collar of his jacket.

blood and scrapes and split knuckles be damned, you were keeping him. for as long as he’d let you, frank castle was all yours. ⋆˚࿔

Vegetables aren’t fucking real. This isn’t a shitpost it’s just they’re not. It’s an arbitrary classification that means NOTHING.