[like Augustus, but a dog] :3

Now, present-day established relationship with whoever (you can pick caregiver)

They nervously gift a colored picture for them, caregiver knowing how important this is for them comforts them from feeling scared/silly/stupid for coloring for them and makes the gift feel important/ valued

A Place On Daddy's Wall (CG! James Wilson x GN! Reader)

Summary: Your past caregiver was never happy with your drawings, but Wilson surprises you.

Warning: Trauma, past emotional abuse and age regression

I'm backk-

The way you showed appreciation had always been a little different from most people.

You loved making things for your caregivers. Little paper flowers folded from brightly colored origami sheets. Friendship bracelets made with slightly uneven knots because your little hands always got distracted halfway through. Tiny beads strung together into necklaces that never quite matched. And, most of all, drawings.

You had always had a wonderfully creative little mind. Every crayon scribble, every glitter sticker you pressed onto the page, every messy heart you drew felt important. Drawing someone a picture wasn't just arts and crafts to you, it was your way of saying I love you.

It was how you spoke when words didn't feel big enough.

Unfortunately...

Your very first caregiver had never understood that.

No matter how much time or love you poured into a drawing, it always seemed to end the same way.

Torn apart.

Thrown away.

Or quietly disappearing without a trace.

Every single drawing had been made with her in mind.

You knew she loved lilies, so every picture somehow included them. Sometimes they framed the page like a little border. Other times you'd draw a giant bouquet almost as big as the people in the picture because you thought she'd smile when she saw them. If she mentioned liking a certain color, you'd use it as much as possible. If she complimented a cartoon character once, you'd draw them too.

You noticed everything.

Because that's what little you did. You paid attention. You remembered. You loved.

Then you'd run over with the biggest smile imaginable, proudly holding your artwork out with both hands.

"Look wha I mawde for you!"

Sometimes she barely looked.

Sometimes she'd sigh.

Sometimes she'd tell you it was childish.

And sometimes...

She simply ripped it apart right in front of you.

You could still hear the sound if you thought about it for too long.

Paper tearing.

Your tiny hands instinctively reaching forward to save it.

Your smile disappearing. Your watery eyes following every colorful little piece as it fluttered onto the floor.

You never understood why.

Hadn't you been good?

You listened.

You cleaned up your toys.

You used your manners.

You never yelled.

You never wanted expensive presents or constant attention.

You simply wanted your caregiver to feel loved in the only language you really knew.

Eventually, making gifts stopped feeling exciting instead, it became terrifying.

Whenever inspiration struck and you finished another drawing, you'd quietly fold it in half and hide it underneath your bed instead of showing anyone.

It felt safer that way.

If nobody saw it, nobody could destroy it.

Years later, after finally cutting contact with her and blocking every possible way she could reach you, you began realizing something.

Maybe there had never been anything wrong with your drawings.

Or with you.

Maybe she'd simply been too insecure, too emotionally unavailable, too wrapped up in her own problems to recognize genuine affection when someone offered it freely.

That realization didn't erase the hurt.

It just explained it.

Thankfully...

James Wilson couldn't have been more different.

Your second caregiver was patient in a way that almost felt unreal. Kindness seemed to come naturally to him.

He never made you feel like an inconvenience. Never rolled his eyes when you asked for reassurance. Never sighed when you wanted another story or another hug. If anything, he always made room for you.

He accepted every part of you.

Your quiet moments.

Your excited rambling.

Your shyness.

Even the days where regressing felt confusing and difficult.

Especially those days.

Regression had always been hardest whenever you didn't feel emotionally safe.

Wilson understood that without needing it explained.

He always made sure you had somewhere comfortable to regress without worrying about curious stares or judgmental comments. Sometimes that place was the quiet privacy of his office after clinic hours, curled beneath a blanket while he finished paperwork. Other times it was his apartment, where he'd turned one corner of the living room into a cozy little space just for you.

A soft rug.

Pillows.

Plushies.

Coloring books.

Blankets.

A basket overflowing with crayons and markers because he'd noticed you always reached for them first.

Little details.

Wilson had always been good at noticing little details.

You genuinely couldn't have asked for a better daddy.

Which made the stupid little voice in the back of your mind even more frustrating.

Because despite everything...

Despite knowing Wilson wasn't like your old caregiver. You still couldn't bring yourself to hand him a drawing. The wall in your mind felt impossibly tall.

What if he only smiled to be polite?

What if he secretly thought it looked awful?

What if he threw it away when you weren't looking?

No.

Wilson wasn't like her.

He wouldn't do that, would he?

"Sweetheart?"

Wilson's warm voice gently pulled you back to reality.

"You've been staring at the same page for about five minutes now." His lips curved into an amused little smile. "That's usually the point where the crayons start filing complaints."

Normally that would've earned him a giggle.

Instead, you just looked down.

"Is there something bothering you?"

You shook your head almost instantly.

Too quickly.

Wilson caught it immediately.

The response reminded him less of reassurance and more of a reflex, automatic and practiced.

The same way a patient's knee jerked when tapped with a reflex hammer.

His smile instanly faded into quiet concern.

Closing the oncology journal he'd been reading, Wilson placed it neatly on the coffee table you'd been using as your art station.

He leaned forward, resting one elbow against his knee while his chin settled into his palm. His reading glasses slipped slightly lower on his nose as his full attention shifted entirely toward you.

He wasn't going anywhere.

"Come on," he murmured gently.

"You don't have to protect me from your feelings."

Your shoulders curled inward.

"I-is nothing..."

"Mhm."

"I pwomise..."

Another tiny hum from Wilson.

Not disbelief.

Just invitation.

Wilson had long ago learned that if he gave you enough silence, you'd usually find the courage to fill it.

You stared down at your coloring page.

Rainbow Dash looked wonderfully chaotic.

Instead of only coloring her mane rainbow, you'd decided she should be entirely rainbow.

Every inch of her was bursting with bright colors that wandered well outside the lines because rainbows weren't supposed to stay inside lines.

Your fingers tightened around the green crayon.

Slowly and carefully you wrote two tiny words in the bottom corner.

For Dada.

Your heart hammered against your ribs.

Showing him suddenly felt terrifying but you wanted him to have something you made.

So, after taking one shaky breath, you stood and shuffled across the room.

Holding the page with both hands, you silently offered it to him.

Your shoulders tensed.

Waiting.

For disappointment.

For criticism.

For paper tearing.

Instead...

Wilson accepted it with remarkable care, his fingertips brushing softly against yours as though he were afraid of wrinkling the page.

He adjusted his glasses before studying every inch of the colorful masterpiece with complete sincerity.

Not pretending, he was actually looking.

His eyes wandered over every rainbow scribble, every enthusiastic line that escaped the borders, every little heart hidden in the corners.

Eventually he noticed the uneven green letters.

For Dada.

Wilson's expression melted.

"Oh..."

His voice came out barely above a whisper.

"Kiddo, you made this for me?"

You gave the smallest nod imaginable.

Wilson looked back down at the drawing, smiling in a way that reached his eyes.

"Y/N, this is beautiful."

The knot in your stomach didn't disappear. Not yet.

"...R-really?"

"'Really." Wilson echoed immediately, looking almost offended you'd think otherwise. "Sweetheart, I mean that."

He carefully smoothed one corner of the paper with his thumb.

"You noticed Rainbow Dash is my favorite?" he teased lightly.

You blinked, confused.

"...She's not."

"I know."

That finally earned the tiny laugh he'd been hoping for.

Wilson smiled in return.

"I don't love this because it's perfect. I love it because you made it."

Your eyes immediately started watering.

Wilson understood. He always understood.

He stood, closed the distance between you, and wrapped one arm gently around your shoulders before kissing your forehead.

"I think.." He murmured into your hair. "I already know exactly where this belongs."

"W-Where...?"

"My office."

Your head lifted in surprise. He really seemed to mean it!

"I'm going to frame it."

Your mouth fell open in disbelief. He was so happy with the gift you had made for him..

"House is absolutely going to make fun of me."

A grin tugged at his lips.

"He's also going to have to listen to me tell him my kid made it."

Another tiny laugh escaped you through your little tears.

Wilson smiled softly before brushing a few strands of hair away from your face.

"And just so we're perfectly clear..."

He looked directly into your soft eyes.

"I'm never throwing away something you made for me."

"Not tomorrow."

"Not next year."

"Not ever."

The knot you'd been carrying for years finally unraveled.

You buried your face against his shoulder, tiny arms wrapping tightly around him.

Wilson simply held you close, one hand rubbing slow circles across your back while the other carefully kept your rainbow-colored drawing safe, as though it were one of the most precious things he'd ever been given.

“subtle” agere jonathan sims stimboard :)

middle art can be found here

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Shoutout to regressors that don't babytalk while regressed

Shoutout to regressors that smoke weed/eat edibles to help them regress

Shoutout to regressors that still swear while regressed

Shoutout to regressors that enjoy media typically not meant for kids like adult cartoons, horror/gory movies, etc

Shoutout to regressors that don't use a lot of gear for their regression or just don't want certain gear

Shoutout to regressors that are their own caregiver and/or don't want a caregiver

Shoutout to all regressors in general, yall are incredibly valid and you should always be yourself no matter what others say :]

I love TMA with all of my heart and Jon is one of my comfort characters, his sarcasm and determination and then his softness with Martin in later seasons…he’s just such an amazing character <3

Jonathan Sims CG Headcanons

💚 Would never admit it but being called dada or papa would melt him, but he’d also find it cute if his little called him Jonny

👁️ Strict about rules like bedtime and how many sweets his kiddo can have

📼 Lots of “you’re too little for that”

💚 Little one, honey, and darling would be his go to nicknames, also papa’s boy/girl/baby

👁️ Stories!! All the time!! He’d do voices and act out the scenes and everything, very theatrical

📼 Sits his tiny one on his lap while he’s working but makes sure he doesn’t read any scary statements with them around

💚 Writes stories for his little one

👁️ Very protective, won’t let anyone be alone with his baby except Martin

📼 Tim is allowed to babysit WITH SUPERVISION (not that he doesn’t trust Tim, just that he knows Tim is high energy and doesn’t want his kiddo to get overwhelmed)

💚 Has a cozy corner with blankets and plushies in the corner of his office for his tiny to stay cozy

Safe to Cry (CG! James Wilson x GN! Reader)

Summary: You expect scolding, but Wilson offers comfort, warmth, and the space to let your tears fall safely.

Warning: This fic contains age regression and angst.

Your chest hurts before the tears even start. You know the signs, tight throat, shaky hands, that sinking feeling in your belly. You try to hold it back, to be quiet, because that’s what you were always told to do. Don’t cry. Don’t be dramatic. Don’t make a scene.

But the sob slips out anyway. Just one, then another, until you’re curled small on Wilson’s couch, sleeves pressed to your face, trying to muffle the sound. You’re bracing for the sharp words, for someone to tell you to stop being ridiculous-

But none come.

Instead, there’s a soft shuffle of footsteps. Then a weight dips the cushion beside you. A warm hand, steady and careful, rests against your shoulder.

“Hey,” Wilson’s voice is low, like he’s afraid of startling you. “Hey, sweetheart. What’s going on?”

You shake your head, unable to answer, the shame burning hotter than your tears.

But Wilson doesn’t press. He doesn’t scold. He doesn’t tell you to stop. He just eases you closer, guiding you against his chest. His shirt smells like laundry soap and his heartbeat is slow, grounding.

“You don’t have to hold it in with me,” he murmurs. “Crying’s not a bad thing. It just means you’ve got big feelings. And I’d rather you let them out than hurt yourself trying to hide them.”

The words break something open in you. The tears come harder, but his arms only tighten, holding you safe, as though you’re not a burden at all. He rocks you gently, the way you imagine he would with a child, whispering soft things you can barely hear over your own sobs: It’s okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you. Just let it out.

By the time the crying slows, your body feels wrung out and heavy, but you’re cocooned in warmth. Wilson brushes a hand through your hair, kisses your temple like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You don’t ever have to be afraid of crying in front of me,” he says quietly. “I’ll never punish you for needing comfort. That’s what I’m here for.”

You sniffle, embarrassed, and mumble something about being a mess. Wilson just huffs a little laugh, tilting your chin so you’ll meet his eyes.

“Mess?” he repeats gently. “You look like someone who needs tissues, water, and maybe a lollipop. That’s hardly catastrophic.”

It makes you laugh, small and watery, but a laugh nonetheless. Wilson beams like you’ve just made his entire week.

“Sit tight,” he says, easing you back against the cushions. “Doctor’s orders.”

He disappears into the kitchen, leaving the faint clink of cupboards and the hum of the freezer door. When he returns, he’s armed with tissues, a glass of water, and, true to his word, a lollipop, unwrapped and waiting for you.

He presses the tissue into your hand first, dabbing at your damp cheeks with exaggerated care before handing over the water. “Hydration,” he says seriously, as though this is part of a medical protocol.

Then he offers the lollipop, raising his brows like he’s testing you. “Now, this one’s optional. But I find sugar has a decent success rate in post-cry recovery.”

You giggle, the sound surprising even yourself, and take it. The strawberry taste is sweet on your tongue, grounding in a new way.

Wilson watches you with soft eyes, leaning back but staying close enough that his knee brushes yours. He doesn’t fill the silence with questions or try to fix what made you cry. Instead, he lets you sit there, warm and safe, sharing quiet company.

Eventually, when your breathing is steady again, he nudges you gently. “See? Crying doesn’t make you a burden. It makes you human. And I happen to like you just the way you are.”

Your throat aches, but not from tears this time. You lean against him, and he wraps his arm around you without hesitation, pressing a kiss to your forehead like he means it.

And for once, you believe it.

No I don’t care if I’ve already been 2 house moodboards before, that is my DAD

Cg!Gregory House x Little!Reader, Minor Cg!James Wilson x Little!Reader

Summary- Regressed reader has the flu and House can't help but care. Their stubbornness causes him more concern than he'd like to admit. He's never been more worried about someone having the flu. (832 Words)

Warnings- Needles (IV)

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CG! James Wilson Stimboard

Request for myself

Note ; Wilson brainrot.. 🙁

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