𝐖𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐠

Welcome to my blog. 🔞 This is a yandere / 18+ blog. Minors do not interact. Please don’t follow or engage if you’re uncomfortable with dark, obsessive, or violent themes. All works will be tagged appropriately, please read at your own discretion.

: ̗̀➛ Masterlist

: ̗̀➛ Blog & Request Rules

My real name is Jale!

Pronouns: She / her

Comfort characters: Doctor Strange, Seto Kaiba & James Wilson!

My favourite colours are green & pink. I’m also autistic, and this blog is my creative outlet where I put my ideas, comfort, and imagination into my writing.

I’m a third-year nursing student, so I’m usually very busy. I mainly write during vacations or free time.

I’m also a gamer and an artist, I love drawing dragons 🐉

I have two pets:   – Chucky (Russian dwarf hamster)   – Cody (Border Collie)

English isn’t my first language & I’m dyslexic, so there may be small errors.

I also run a separate SFW blog focused on age regression (a personal coping mechanism): @treatmentcuddles.

I also create bots on Janitor AI

My masterlist contains..

Star Wars ⭐️

Cobra Kai 🐍

Squid Game 🦑

House MD 🏥

Yandere Alphabet With Thrawn

Warning: Psychological manipulation, gaslighting, emotional abuse, coercion, non-consensual isolation, confinement, stalking, obsessive behavior, implied violence, depiction of a controlling and possessive relationship, loss of autonomy and free will, sensory deprivation as punishment, themes of psychological breaking and conditioning.

This alphabet is not mine nor is this gif!

Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?

Thrawn's affection manifests through meticulous observation and strategic positioning.

He doesn't express love through conventional means but through calculated presence and resource allocation. His affection is shown by ensuring your comfort (within his parameters), providing intellectual stimulation tailored to your interests, and eliminating obstacles to your "well-being."

The intensity builds gradually, initially subtle, then suffocating as his study of you becomes all-consuming. He'll memorize your tells, preferences, and fears not for emotional connection but for complete psychological mapping.

Blood: How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?

Thrawn maintains surgical precision in eliminating threats. He wouldn't personally engage in messy violence but would orchestrate "accidents" with military efficiency. Enemies might find themselves reassigned to remote outposts, encounter "unfortunate" starship malfunctions, or face court-martial for fabricated offenses. If necessary, he wouldn't hesitate to order orbital bombardment of locations housing potential escape routes or allies. The bloodshed is always indirect, deniable, and strategically justified.

Cruelty: How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them?

His cruelty is intellectual rather than physical. Thrawn would systematically dismantle your support systems while presenting himself as your only stable element.

He might force you to watch as he outmaneuvers rescue attempts, demonstrating the futility of resistance. His mockery takes the form of calm explanations: "Your emotional response is predictable but inefficient." He studies your breaking points not for sadism but to calibrate his control methods, like tuning an instrument.

Darling: Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will?

Beyond abduction, Thrawn would manipulate every aspect of your environment.

He'd replace your allies with his operatives, alter your food to induce dependency, and create situations where only his intervention saves you.

He'd never force physical intimacy but would engineer circumstances where you initiate contact out of manufactured necessity. His control extends to your thoughts, he'll introduce concepts and arguments that slowly reshape your worldview to align with his.

Exposed: How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?

Thrawn reveals vulnerability only through his art collection, where he might show you pieces that resonate with his perception of you.

These rare moments are calculated tests of your understanding. His guard remains otherwise impenetrable even during intimacy, his mind is analyzing responses. The closest he comes to vulnerability is admitting strategic miscalculations, which he frames as learning opportunities rather than weaknesses.

Fight: How would they feel if their darling fought back?

Resistance intrigues him intellectually. He'll document your escape attempts like case studies, sometimes allowing limited success to gather more data.

He finds physical resistance amusing but mental challenges genuinely interesting. Your defiance becomes part of his collection, he might preserve threatening letters you've written as artifacts. If you outsmart him temporarily, he displays genuine respect before methodically closing that vulnerability.

Game: Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?

The "game" operates on multiple levels. While he enjoys watching your struggles, he's simultaneously running parallel simulations of your potential actions. If external forces attempt to "rescue" you, he transforms it into a teaching moment, demonstrating how their efforts play into his larger strategy.

The only time amusement ends is when your escape attempts threaten his long-term plans then the game becomes serious containment.

Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them?

Your worst experience would be the "white room" period, sensory deprivation where only his voice occasionally breaks the silence, reciting art history or tactical analyses.

This is followed by calculated reintroduction to stimuli, each associated with his presence. He'll make you choose between terrible options, both designed to increase dependency.

The true horror is realizing your thoughts are no longer entirely your own.

Ideals: What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?

Thrawn envisions you as his intellectual equal after proper "refinement." He doesn't desire a passive partner but one who can appreciate strategic thinking as he does.

Your future involves serving as his sounding board, with access to unprecedented knowledge and resources, but always within his parameters.

He might groom you as his successor, creating a shared legacy of order and aesthetic appreciation.

Jealousy: Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope?

Jealousy is inefficient to Thrawn. Instead, he views potential rivals as data points to be neutralized.

If someone captures your attention, he studies their methods to improve his own approach.

He might allow limited interaction to observe your responses, then systematically demonstrate why others are inadequate. His response to perceived threats is cold removal rather than emotional outburst.

Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling?

Physical affection is rare and deliberate. When it occurs, it's often after you've demonstrated "correct" thinking or during strategic vulnerability.

His touch is analytical, noting your physiological responses. He might trace your features as if studying a sculpture.

Intimacy happens on his schedule, often following intellectual victories where you've aligned with his perspective.

Love letters: How would they go about courting or approaching their darling?

His courtship involves strategic "gifts" rare artifacts, exclusive knowledge, or solutions to problems you didn't know you had.

He doesn't write traditional letters but sends encrypted messages containing art analyses with hidden personal meanings. The choice was always yours, voluntary cooperation or the removal of your world's support systems until compliance became the only logical option.

Mask: Are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else?

Thrawn's public and private personas are nearly identical, the only difference is the audience. With you, he's more candid about his methods but never about his emotions.

He might explain his strategic thinking in detail, treating you as a trusted subordinate rather than an equal.

His true colors aren't hidden but simply irrelevant to his objectives.

Naughty: How would they punish their darling?

Punishment fits the "crime" defiance earns isolation, attempts to contact others result in communication blackouts.

He's creative with psychological pressure making you choose which of your former contacts faces consequences for your actions.

The white room is reserved for serious offenses, but even minor rebellions might result in removal of privileges you didn't realize he controlled.

Oppression: How many rights would they take away from their darling?

He removes freedoms gradually, making each loss seem reasonable or protective.

Your choices become increasingly limited to options he's predetermined.

He controls information, creating a reality where his decisions appear optimal. Even your thoughts are influenced through carefully curated experiences designed to shape your conclusions.

Patience: How patient are they with their darling?

Thrawn's patience is legendary, he might observe you for years before making contact.

He sees resistance as temporary variables in a long equation.

His calm during your rebellion isn't tolerance but confidence in eventual outcome.

He measures progress in subtle shifts, your brief moments of alignment with his thinking are victories worth waiting for.

Quit: If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

Your death would be an unacceptable data loss, he'd preserve your mind through technology if necessary.

If you escape, the hunt becomes his primary project, with all Imperial resources redirected.

He wouldn't harm you upon recapture but would study how you succeeded, implementing new controls.

Your escape attempt becomes part of your permanent file, referenced in future strategy sessions.

Regret: Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go?

Thrawn doesn't experience conventional regret but might acknowledge tactical inefficiencies in his approach.

He'd refine methods but never question the objective. If you suffer unnecessarily, he adjusts protocols, not from compassion but because damaged assets underperform.

He's self-aware enough to recognize his selfishness but considers it a strategic necessity.

Stigma: What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)?

His yandere nature stems from viewing you as the ultimate strategic challenge, a complex system to understand and optimize.

Your mind fascinates him more than any art. This obsession began when you demonstrated unpredictability that defied his initial analysis.

Breaking your mental code became his most compelling project, surpassing even military campaigns in priority.

Tears: How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?

Your emotional responses are cataloged but dismissed as inefficient unless strategically useful.

If crying serves his objectives, he might encourage it, otherwise he waits for emotional exhaustion to create teachable moments.

He doesn't comfort you traditionally but might provide logical perspectives on your situation, framing acceptance as the intelligent choice.

Unique: Would they do anything different from the classic yandere?

Unlike classic yanderes, Thrawn's obsession is intellectual rather than romantic.

He doesn't worship you but sees you as a fascinating problem to solve.

His control is maintained through strategic dependency rather than violence.

He values your original mind precisely because breaking and rebuilding it presents the ultimate challenge. He won't kill you, a broken mind can be studied, but death offers no data.

Vice: What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?

His only exploitable weakness is his intellectual pride. Presenting him with a genuinely unsolvable problem might distract him temporarily.

His art collection could be leveraged, threatening pieces he considers irreplaceable might force concessions.

His cultural isolation from the Empire might create vulnerabilities if you understand Chiss psychology better than he understands human emotion.

Wit’s end: Would they ever hurt their darling?

Physical harm is counterproductive, damaged subjects yield poor data. His violence is exclusively psychological.

He might make you believe you're losing your mind or that allies have betrayed you. The greatest harm is making you doubt your own perceptions until his reality becomes the only one you can trust.

Xoanon: How much would they revere or worship their darling? To what length would they go to win their darling over?

Thrawn doesn't revere you but your potential once "properly aligned." He doesn't need to win you over because he considers eventual cooperation inevitable.

Your spirit interests him as raw material to be refined. He finds your rebellion charmingly inefficient but ultimately irrelevant to the outcome.

Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap?

His observation period might last years, gathering comprehensive data before action. He'll map your entire life relationships, routines, vulnerabilities before making contact. The "snap" isn't emotional but strategic, the moment when abduction offers the highest probability of success with minimal resource expenditure.

Zenith: Would they ever break their darling?

He breaks your mind systematically but maintains awareness, a shattered consciousness offers no strategic value.

He wants you functional within his parameters, not destroyed.

Your Poison (Yandere! Gregory House x GN! Reader)

Summary: You are cured by Dr. House, you soon realize your freedom was an illusion. He's not your savior, but your owner, and he'll use your own illness to keep you trapped forever.

Warning: manipulation, imprisonment, forced treatment, gaslighting, emotional abuse, psychological abuse, isolation, medical abuse, threats of violence, depiction of chronic pain/illness, needles/injections and power imbalance.

Since the beginning of your life, you had been cursed with a rare disease that no doctor could name or cure. An illness that hijacked your immune system and unleashed excruciating attacks of nerve pain without warning. Within your central nervous system, neurons would fire chaotically, leaving you writhing in agony for weeks. Something was fundamentally wrong with your brain, yet no scan or biopsy could reveal the truth.

Your nervous system was different, mutated, perhaps. Every unknown signal triggered a distress response throughout your entire body. You had become a prisoner in your own flesh.

So when Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital requested you for a case study, you felt a flicker of hope you hadn't experienced in years. PPTH had gained renown for curing the incurable, for solving medical mysteries that baffled the rest of the world. This might be your last chance at a normal life.

The day you arrived, the Dean of Medicine herself seemed stunned by your medical mystery. "Dr. House will be taking your case," she had said with an expression that mixed professional concern with personal fascination.

You had no way of knowing that Dr. Gregory House had been following your case for years, that your medical file had become his obsession, his white whale. When Cuddy dropped your thick file on his desk, he felt a surge of something dark and possessive.

"Cuddy! Is this a late birthday present?" The head of diagnostics spoke with his usual sarcasm, though his eyes betrayed genuine excitement as he realized what he held. He leaned his stubbled cheek on his palm, a smug smirk forming as he saw the annoyance in Cuddy's sharp gaze. "Don't let it get to you, House." She dismissed his words quickly, leaving his office.

House's blue eyes settled on your file. His finger traced the edge with reverence. He had waited for this, for you. You were his puzzle, his masterpiece in waiting. As he flipped through the pages, something twisted inside the crippled doctor. His eyes darkened as he absorbed every detail of your suffering.

Most people tried to see the best in House, but the truth was simpler, he enjoyed being needed. He relished being someone's last hope, it gave him power, absolute control. It was because of him that people lived, and that knowledge did something intoxicating to him.

The first time he saw you, your face captivated him. There was something in your bright eyes, the way you looked at him as your savior, that grew on him with each visit. House was aware of this dangerous attachment, which is precisely why he initially tried to avoid you. House doesn't attach, he owns. And when he owns, there is no escape.

With each visit to PPTH, you felt your life transforming. You were going out, making friends, being adventurous. For the first time, you felt alive.

"Alive. How novel." House hummed to himself, looking down at your file with his reading glasses. "Your neurons have stopped throwing a tantrum on the scans. Progress, I suppose."

You had been coming to the clinic frequently. The research his team had done was extensive, and House had found a way to suppress your neurons erratic firing, preventing those painful signals from ravaging your body. It wasn't a nerve blocker or a sedative. You kept your motor function and normal pain responses, but the stress signals were suppressed. You could finally live without fear of another attack.

Yet your happiness gnawed at the diagnostician. Weren't you supposed to be happy with him? He had given you your life back. The way you talked about your new "friends" felt like a betrayal.

You were supposed to be grateful to him. You were only like this because House allowed it.

He was your attending doctor. What he decided went. So when he decided you needed to be dependent on him again, that's precisely what happened.

The first crack appeared during a routine follow-up. You were telling him with genuine excitement about a weekend trip you'd taken with new friends.

"And the view from the top was incredible, House! I never thought I'd be able to climb something like that. It was amazing, I-"

"Amazing." House interrupted, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous tone that always made your stomach clench. He didn't look up from the file he was pretending to read. "Did your 'neurons' happen to take a coffee break while you were out playing with the other children? Or does this condition have a social calendar I'm not aware of?"

Your blood ran cold. "I… I don't understand."

"Of course you don't." He said, finally lifting his gaze. His eyes were like chips of ice. "I monitor the data. It's my job. And the data says you're having a relapse. Not of the original disease, but of something far more common and infinitely more stupid: optimism." He stood up, his cane thumping a menacing rhythm on the floor as he walked toward you. "You were a medical footnote. I made you readable. And your first thought is to go find a new book club?"

"They're my friends," you stammered, backing away. There was something off about him.

"People lie," House said, his voice a low sneer. "Symptoms don't. And right now, your symptoms are screaming 'ungrateful' with a side of 'amnesia about who saved their ass." He was in your personal space now, his scent of antiseptic and old leather filling your senses. "We need to recalibrate. The current formula isn't accounting for… extraneous stupidity."

The next injection felt different. It burned going in. Within a day, the fog started creeping back into the edges of your vision. The phantom aches returned. You canceled your plans for the week, telling your friends you were "just feeling a bit off."

When you saw House again, you were pale and shaky. "House, I think it's coming back," you whispered, your eyes pleading.

"Of course it is," he said, not an ounce of sympathy in his voice. He was enjoying this, you could see it in the slight, cruel twist of his lips. "You went out. You had 'fun.' You introduced variables I can't control. I told you this was a system, not a suggestion box. But you don't listen, do you?" He prepared another syringe, this one a slightly different shade of clear. "This is a higher dosage. It should knock the rebellion out of your neurons. Again."

The relief was immediate, but so was the new rule. "No more 'adventures'," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "No more 'friends.' Your system is too fragile. It needs a controlled environment. It needs me."

Your world shrank to his office, the clinic, and your small apartment. Your friends stopped calling. House would "casually" mention he'd run into them and "explained" your condition was worsening, that you needed rest and quiet. He was isolating you, one calculated conversation at a time.

The final straw came when your phone buzzed with a text from one of them: 'Movie night Friday? We miss you!'

Before you could reply, a familiar rap sounded on your apartment door. You knew who it was without looking. House never knocked; he announced his presence like a storm.

You scrambled to hide your phone, but it was too late. He let himself in, his cane clicking accusingly on the hardwood floor. His eyes, cold and predatory, scanned your face, then dropped to the phone still clutched in your hand.

"Let me guess," he began, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "A summons from the island of misfit toys? An invitation to exchange vapid pleasantries and pretend your body isn't a ticking time bomb?"

"House, they're j-just worried about me," you pleaded, your voice trembling.

"They're bored," he corrected, taking a step closer. "You're this week's feel-good story. The moment you require actual effort, they'll find a new stray to feel sorry for. But I'm not bored. And you're not a stray; you're a specimen." He was towering over you now, his shadow engulfing you. "I'm the reason you're not currently drooling in a wheelchair. You don't get to take my diagnosis and show it off like a prize-winning poodle."

He snatched the phone from your hand. His thumb moved with brutal efficiency, blocking the number without even reading the name. Then, with chilling calm, he opened your contacts and social media apps, one by one, systematically blocking every name he recognized. He was erasing your life right in front of you.

"There," he said, tossing the phone onto the couch. "Problem solved. Now you can focus on what's important."

A wave of terror and defiance washed over you. "You can't d-do this! This is my life!"

"Was. Past tense." He corrected, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that was far more terrifying than a shout. "Now you're mine. Every pain-free moment you have is a direct withdrawal from the Bank of Me. You want entertainment? Fine. I'll let you watch me work. You want affection? I'll let you know when you've earned it."

The sheer cruelty of it all broke something inside you. You lunged for the door, a desperate, animal instinct to flee taking over. You didn't make it two steps.

A searing, white-hot agony exploded in your leg. You cried out, collapsing to the floor. You looked up to see House's taller figure standing over you, a small, filled syringe in his calloused hand. He hadn't even injected you, he'd just pressed it against your thigh, the pressure enough to trigger a cascade of pain.

"Ah, yes," he said, his voice laced with a dark, clinical curiosity as he watched you writhe. "Look at that. A textbook allodynic response. Your nerves are so exquisitely broken, a feather feels like a knife. It's pathetic. And beautiful. And all mine."

He knelt down, his face inches from yours, his blue eyes filled with a terrifying mix of ownership and intellectual arousal. He wasn't just a doctor, he was a god, and you were his creation, his suffering masterpiece.

"See?" he murmured, his voice a silken poison. "This is what happens when you forget the rules." He gently brushed a strand of hair from your sweat-soaked forehead, a gesture of mock tenderness that made your skin crawl. "Don't worry. I'll fix it. I always do. But let's be clear: you don't get a life. You get the life I prescribe. And if you try to run again… next time, the needle doesn't come out clean."

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing your ear.

"I'll snap it off in the muscle. A little souvenir to remember me by."

He stood up, leaving you trembling on the floor, and prepared a syringe from his bag. The relief was almost instantaneous as the medication entered your system, the pain receding like a tide. But this time, it felt different. It wasn't freedom; it was a leash being tightened.

"Up," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for disobedience. "We're going back to the lab. You've earned yourself a sleepover."

That was the first night he kept you. It wouldn't be the last.

Your world became a sterile room with a bed that felt more like a cage and a window that showed a world you were no longer part of. House was your only visitor, your only connection to the outside. He controlled everything: when you ate, what you watched on television, when you received your medication. The medication that kept the pain at bay but also kept you docile, compliant.

"The color's returning to your face." he'd say during his daily examinations, his hands lingering on your skin longer than necessary. "The treatment's not killing you. Success."

But you knew the truth. He had perfected his poison, creating a delicate balance that kept you just well enough to function but sick enough to need him. You were his masterpiece, his living experiment, and he was never letting you go.

One evening, as he sat by your bed reviewing your chart, you found the courage to speak. "Why are you doing this?"

He looked up, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before they hardened again. "Doing what? Performing a miracle? Curing the incurable? Don't be so dramatic. I'm just adjusting the chemistry."

"You're not curing me," you whispered, tears stinging your eyes. "You're keeping me sick."

House stood up, his cane thumping softly on the linoleum floor as he approached your bed. He leaned down, his face so close you could feel his breath on your cheek.

"I am giving you relevance," he said, his voice low and intense. "Before me, you were a folder in a filing cabinet. Now you're the most interesting puzzle in the building. Every doctor dreams of a case like you, one that proves they're smarter than god."

His fingers traced your jawline, sending a shiver through your body. "I gave you a function. You give me data I can't get anywhere else. Fair trade."

"What?" you asked, barely able to breathe.

"A distraction. A reason to care about something other then my own misery," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "It's inefficient, but there it is."

His lips met yours then, not with passion but with possession, a claim being staked. You wanted to fight, to push him away, but your body betrayed you, responding to his touch with a mixture of fear and something else you didn't want to acknowledge.

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark with triumph. "You feel it? That little jolt? That's not a connection. That's fear. And it's the most honest thing you've felt all day."

As the weeks turned into months, you learned to play your part. You became the perfect patient, grateful, compliant, devoted. You learned to anticipate his needs, to say the words he wanted to hear. But inside, a part of you remained untouched, waiting for an opportunity to escape.

House knew this, of course. He was too intelligent not to. But he enjoyed the game, the constant push and pull between you. It was another symptom to monitor, another variable to control in his grand experiment.

One day, a new nurse assigned to your wing made a critical mistake, she left her access card unattended for a moment while responding to an emergency down the hall. It was the chance you had been waiting for.

With a heart pounding against your ribs like a trapped bird, you slipped out of your room and made your way to the hospital exit. Freedom was so close you could taste it.

But as you pushed through the doors and felt the cool night air on your face, a familiar voice called out from behind you.

"Lost? The gift shop's that way."

You turned to see House leaning against the wall, his expression unreadable but his eyes burning with an intensity that made your blood run cold. He wasn't angry. He was amused.

"I have to admit," he said, pushing himself off the wall and approaching you slowly, "I'm impressed. I didn't think you had it in you."

"Please," you begged, tears streaming down your face. "Just let me go. I won't tell anyone. I'll just disappear."

House laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. "Disappear? You can't even go to the bathroom without my permission. You're a walking experiment I designed. Where would you go? How long before the pain comes back? How long before you're banging on my door, begging for the needle?"

He was right, and you both knew it. You were his, completely and irrevocably.

"Come on," he said, taking your arm. "We have work to do. I've been working on a new formula. Something a bit more… permanent. Something to make sure you never forget who owns you."

As he led you back inside, you caught your reflection in the glass doors, a pale, haunted-looking stranger with eyes that had seen too much. But in that reflection, you also saw House standing behind you, his expression one of absolute possession.

Ignore the fact Vader is crashing out, he does that sometimes

Hello my wierdlings,

I've recently started making bots on Janitor AI and I'd want you all to maybe give it a try or request a bot. I've mostly got House MD but I can also make Star Wars bots! Check it out if you want to!

The Exception (Gregory House x Female! Reader)

Warning: Age gap, nothing else. Just sweet!

Its short but I hope you like it!

You’d always been “Wilson’s little sister.” To James, that meant off-limits. To House, it meant temptation.

The first time you met, House’s eyes had flicked over you in that blunt, assessing way of his. Pretty. Shy. Younger. He’d made some offhand joke about “another Wilson stray” just to cover the fact he couldn’t stop looking. But he never crossed the line. Not with you. Not with his best friend’s sister.

Until you pushed it.

It was late at Princeton-Plainsboro. Wilson had gone home, leaving you wandering the halls until you found yourself in House’s office. When the door opened and he limped inside, his cane tapping on the tile, you nearly lost your nerve.

“You’re still here,” he said, eyes narrowing slightly. “What’s the occasion? Hoping to catch me grading papers?”

You fiddled with a stack of his journals on the desk. “I thought I’d… wait. Just to talk.”

House smirked, lowering himself into his chair with a wince. “What, you couldn’t bore Jimmy enough tonight so you came to me as backup?”

You gave a shy laugh, staring at your hands. “No… I just… wanted to see you.”

That earned you a long, sharp look. He tilted his head, studying you like you were a puzzle. “Dangerous thing to say. Especially to the guy your brother thinks corrupts everything I touch.”

You swallowed, cheeks warming. “Maybe I don’t mind.”

House barked a laugh, but there was something thin about it. “Right. Because every nice, shy little sister wants to jump into bed with the middle-aged cripple who terrifies her brother. Classic fairytale.”

His sarcasm made you wince, but you didn’t back down. Quietly, you said, “You’ve never made a move. Not once. Even though… I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

That wiped the smirk off his face. For once, he didn’t have a comeback ready. His fingers drummed against the cane in his lap, eyes narrowing.

“You really want to go there?” he finally muttered. “Because if I do… Wilson kills me. And if I don’t… you keep looking at me like that.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, but you nodded, stepping closer. You hesitated, then leaned in and pressed the lightest kiss to his stubbled cheek. “I don’t want you to hold back anymore.”

House froze. For a second, you thought he’d shove you away, make a cutting remark, bury it under humor. Instead, he turned his head, just enough so his lips brushed yours in a sudden, deliberate kiss. It wasn’t sweet. It was sharp, claiming, full of years of restraint snapping all at once.

When he pulled back, his expression was unreadable, but his voice was low and rough. “You just made the stupidest, smartest decision of your life.”

You managed a shaky smile. “You’re not sorry?”

House smirked, cane tapping once against the floor. “Oh, I’m very sorry. But not sorry enough to stop.”

The Pull of Desire (Robert Chase x Female! Reader)

Summary: you find yourself drawn to the charismatic Autralian during a night out with colleagues. As the evening unfolds, your attraction to him becomes undeniable, leading to a passionate night. 

Warning: sexual content, fingering, intimate acts, dom/sub dynamics.

It was one of those nights, you and the rest of the fellows had gone out, supposedly just to drink and unwind, maybe get to know each other outside the harsh fluorescent lights of Princeton-Plainsboro. That had been the plan, at least.

Except for you, the night carried a certain tension, a pull that seemed to orbit around Chase. There was always something there, a spark, subtle but undeniable, that everyone else noticed long before you did. Blissfully oblivious, you had never been very practiced in romance.

You liked being around him. More than liked, perhaps. But his easy charm, the teasing smirk, the kind of confidence that made people lean in without even realizing it, it all seemed to wash over you unnoticed at first. Now, you could feel the tug, whether you wanted to admit it or not. Cameron had spotted it almost immediately and wasn’t shy about teasing you.

“How do you not see it?” she had asked earlier over drinks, one eyebrow arched. “Chase is practically orbiting you, and you’re just… sitting there, like some extra in your own life.”

You flushed, eyes dropping to your glass. “I don’t know… I mean… how could someone like Chase ever… like someone like me?”

He was stunning, so effortlessly so that people assumed a spotlight followed him everywhere. Funny, charming, the kind of man who could make anyone laugh while holding all the attention. You, on the other hand, were… well, ordinary. Shy when the spotlight landed on you, retreating to corners, hiding in quieter spaces where no one noticed your fidgeting or stammering.

And yet… you couldn’t deny it. A crush had taken root, a growing, all-consuming crush on the tall, golden-haired Australian who either didn’t realize or thoroughly enjoyed knowing just how magnetic he was.

“Earth to (Y/N),” Cameron waved her hand in front of your face, yanking you back to reality. Cheeks warming, you managed a small, embarrassed smile. “Sorry… just thinking,” you murmured.

Chase was leaning casually against the bar, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips. His gaze locked onto yours, and your stomach fluttered in a way that made you ache for more. He raised his glass in a subtle toast, that mischievous sparkle in his blue eyes pulling you in.

As the night waned, the group slowly thinned, leaving just you and Chase behind, the air now buzzing with something unspoken. He leaned a little closer than necessary, casual but deliberate, his gaze warm and intent.

“You stickin’ around long?” His voice was low, playful, carrying that soft Australian lilt that made your pulse spike.

“I… yeah, for a bit,” you said, trying to sound casual, though your voice betrayed your nerves.

He nodded, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. “Good. Was hoping for a bit of company,” he drawled, the accent curling around the words like silk, teasing, magnetic.

By the time the bar emptied and the night drew to a close, it was just the two of you. Chase insisted on taking you home, “Gotta make sure you get there safe, yeah?” But the alcohol had thinned your nerves, making your boldness grow, and before you knew it, your lips collided.

The kiss was sharp and hungry, filled with heat and unspoken longing. You caught a low, guttural groan from Chase, and it sent shivers down your spine.

When you broke apart for air, his blue eyes held yours, smoldering and teasing. You could barely manage the words. “I-I like you, Chase.”

One of his usual boyish smirks tugged at his lips. “And you thought I didn’t? How could I not, (Y/N)?” He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face, eyes tracing every line of your features.

“You know,” he murmured, voice dropping, accent wrapping around the words like a caress, “I can show you just how much I like you.”

Those words did something with you. You felt your body heat up. You weren't that familiar with situations like these, but you wanted this with him, to grow this bond between the two of you. "I-I would love that, Robert." You softly whispered, biting on your bottom lip.

You didn't have to answer him twice because before you knew it he scooped you up and brought you to your bedroom. He set you down on your plush sheets and began to unbutton his blouse. Your breath hitched once you saw his toned torso, it was perfect, not that muscular but also not too skinny.

He placed his figure on top of yours, the mattress shifted underneath his weight while he held his weight on his elbows. His hand reached for your cheek, his thumb rubbing over the soft skin. "You're bloody beautiful, love. I bet even more when your clothes are off."

He really was flirting and it didn't stop making you shy. His fingers trailed down your stomach and to your hips, his fingers digging in the fabric of your dress. "Up." He commanded and you obeyed, lifting your dress up and off of your body, allowing him to see your curves.

His eyes roamed over your body, specifically the swell of your breasts. "May I?" He asked, double-checking on you. You gave him a nod, only for him to shake his head, a small laugh escaping his lips. "Use your words, love. I want to hear you say it."

You swallowed before speaking up. "Y-yes."

"There, that's a good girl." His voice was husky, and the praise sent shivers down your spine. His fingers moved to the back of your bra, getting rid of it with ease. Chase threw the piece of fabric to the side, his lips moving over your neck and down to your chest. His kisses were loving but once he neared your breasts they became more passionate.

"Jesus, you're beautiful." Chase whispered, slightly nipping at your skin.

You could feel your panties getting damp from his touch and praise. You let out a small whimper once he began to suck on your sensitive nipple, making you want him even more.

Unconsciously you reached out, moving your hand into his blonde locks. Chase was taken aback by it, his blue eyes looking up to meet yours. A smug smirk formed on his lips, but he didn't say anything.

He moved down, kissing up from your chest and eventually down to your stomach. His fingers hooked against the material of your panties, slowly sliding them down your legs. You lifted your hips to help him, your heart pounding in your chest. As he tossed your panties aside, he looked back up at you, his eyes dark with desire.

"Tell me what you want, (Y/N)," he murmured, his voice a low, seductive growl. "I want to hear you say it."

You hesitated for a moment, your cheeks flushing a deeper shade of red. But the intensity in his gaze encouraged you to speak. "I want you, Chase. I-I want you to make me feel good."

A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face. "As you wish, love." He leaned down, his lips finding yours in a deep, passionate kiss. His hands roamed over your body, exploring every curve and contour, making you feel worshipped and desired.

As he moved lower, his kisses trailed down your neck, across your collarbone, and down to your breasts. He took his time, teasing and caressing, drawing out your pleasure. You arched into his touch, your body aching for more.

His hand slid between your legs, his fingers gently parting your folds. You gasped at the first touch, your hips bucking against his hand. He chuckled, a low, throaty sound. "So responsive, aren't you?"

He began to stroke you, his fingers moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm. You moaned, your body tensing as waves of pleasure built within you. He watched you intently, his blue eyes dark with desire and something more, affection, maybe even love.

"You're so beautiful when you come undone, (Y/N)," he murmured, his voice husky with need. "I could watch you all night."

His words pushed you over the edge, and you cried out as your orgasm crashed over you, your body trembling and convulsing with pleasure. Chase held you close, his strong arms wrapping around you as you rode out the waves.

As you came down from your high, he kissed you softly, his lips gentle and tender. "That was just the beginning, love," he whispered against your mouth. "I've got so much more planned for you tonight."

You smiled, feeling a deep sense of contentment and anticipation. With Chase, you knew you were in for a night you'd never forget.

Chase, ever the charmer, rolled onto his back and pulled you close, his arm wrapping around your shoulders. "You know, I've always had a thing for smart, shy types," he said, his voice a low rumble. "They're like a puzzle, and I love solving puzzles."

You snuggled into his chest, feeling a warmth spread through you that had nothing to do with the physical pleasure. "And I've always had a thing for cocky, charming Australians," you replied, a playful smile tugging at your lips.

He laughed, a deep, genuine sound that vibrated through his chest. "Well, it seems we've both hit the jackpot, then, don't you think?"

You nodded, feeling happier and more content than you could remember. "I think so too, Robert."

A Secret Life (Gregory House x Female! Reader)

Summary: You and House have some alone time together after your daughter's finally fallen asleep.

Warning: None

The apartment was unusually quiet. Quieter than it had been in weeks. Your daughter had fallen asleep, her soft breathing steady in the crib down the hall. For once, both you and House had a reprieve from the endless cycle of crying and late-night pacing. The silence felt delicate, almost too precious to disturb, as though the world itself was holding its breath.

It was a blessing to have her in your lives, though she demanded nearly all of your energy. When she was born, you gave up your job, partly because House’s schedule was already merciless, also because you knew neither of you would have enough hours in the day otherwise. You were younger and didn't have a particulary special job. The choice had been easy, but the secrecy was harder. Only Wilson knew about the baby. To everyone else, she didn’t exist. House insisted it was better that way, less gossip, less interference, less attention he had no patience for.

And yet, for all his grumbling, he cared for her in ways that were unmistakable if you knew how to look. You’d caught him more than once lingering by her crib, cane forgotten at his side, watching her sleep with an expression so unguarded it startled you. For a man who had built his life on cynicism, your daughter had carved out a place in his heart he didn’t even try to explain.

Now, with her tucked safely away, the apartment felt like it belonged to just the two of you again. House was sprawled across the couch, his cane leaning against the armrest, one leg propped carelessly on the coffee table. He looked exhausted, hair mussed, shirt wrinkled, but his eyes found you the moment you crossed the room.

“You’re staring,” he said, voice low and teasing.

You felt warmth rush to your cheeks as you sat beside him. “Am not.”

“Are too. You’ve got that guilty look. Like I caught you daydreaming about how great I’d look folding laundry.”

You laughed, a soft, embarrassed sound, and nudged his shoulder. “Trust me, you don’t look that great folding laundry.”

He smirked, satisfied, but when you leaned into him, resting your head lightly against his shoulder, he didn’t move away. Instead, after a moment, his hand found yours, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles.

The simple contact made your chest flutter in a way you weren’t prepared for. You’d been together long enough to share a life, even a baby, and yet sometimes the smallest gestures still felt new, shy, like you were both discovering how to be close all over again.

For a while, you just sat there, breathing together in the hush of the apartment. The city sounds outside were muffled, the heater humming quietly in the background. His heartbeat was steady beneath the fabric of his shirt, grounding you.

“You know,” he said finally, his voice softer than usual, “I didn’t think I could do this. The diapers, the screaming, the endless parade of bottles… I thought it would all feel like too much.” He shifted slightly, turning his head so his stubble brushed your hair. “But then she smiles. And you.” His voice faltered, a rare hesitation. “You make it seem… possible.”

You lifted your head, surprised by the gentleness threading through his words. His eyes met yours, and for once, there was no sarcasm hiding there. Just honesty, raw and a little uncertain.

Your throat tightened. “That’s… probably the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he muttered quickly, though the corner of his mouth curved upward. Still, he looked away, almost shy, like he wasn’t used to being caught in the act of caring.

You smiled and let your fingers tighten around his. For a moment, neither of you moved. The air between you felt warmer, charged with something delicate but steady. Then, slowly, cautiously, you leaned in closer. He met you halfway, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that was almost hesitant, like both of you were testing the waters again.

It wasn’t fiery or rushed, it was soft, lingering, a reminder that beneath the exhaustion and chaos, there was still something fragile and real tying you together.

When you pulled back, your cheeks burned. He studied you with quiet amusement, but his thumb continued tracing slow circles against your hand, as though he didn’t want to let go.

Nursing school started again and I dont have a lot of time to write because of it. I may try to in the weekends but I also got some exams going on.

I wont be uploading as frequently as i used to while I had vacation but I'll try to write when I got the time.

A Case Of Love (Gregory House x GN! Reader)

Summary: When a seasoned ER charge nurse joins Princeton-Plainsboro, they quickly catch the attention of Dr. Gregory House. What begins as professional clashes soon turns into something deeper, forcing House to confront feelings he’s long ignored.

Warning: Medical settings, Hospital drama, Mentions of illness, Workplace tension, Fluff/Romance

I hope you like how it turned out!

You’d been a nurse long enough to earn a reputation, not just among colleagues, but in the papers. Articles had been written about how you handled patients, how you ran an ER like a captain at the helm. At your last hospital, you’d climbed to Head Nurse of the Emergency Department, seeing more than your fair share of trauma and more than your fair share of incompetent doctors.

So when Dr. Cuddy herself recruited you to Princeton–Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, it wasn’t a surprise. With your experience, your steady presence under pressure, and your ability to stand toe-to-toe with doctors, you were exactly the kind of nurse a teaching hospital needed.

The Head Nurse position in the ER was already filled, but Cuddy made you Charge Nurse, a role that put you in charge of the floor, managing assignments, stepping in when chaos threatened to take over, even making sure the doctors didn’t lose their heads. The ER was noisy, tense, sometimes devastating. Flatlines, weak pulses, frantic interns, it all came with the territory. But you kept your team calm. When you spoke, they listened.

It was stressful, but you thrived in the storm.

That’s why the first time you saw him, you were surprised.

Gregory House didn’t belong in an ER. Not with his cane thudding against the floor, not with his three fellows trailing behind him like overgrown ducklings. They weren’t interns, they were too polished for that. Fellows, then. Older, sharper, but still deferential.

House handed you a file with his usual brand of impatience. “I’m Dr. Gregory House, head of diagnostics. I’m here for your patient… Adam Kennedy.” He glanced down at the chart like he’d already forgotten the name.

You raised an eyebrow. You were known for being kind, but no one bossed you around. “Nice to meet you, Dr. House. I’m (Y/N) (L/N), charge nurse. Follow me.”

He did, his cane tapping a syncopated rhythm against the tile until you reached Adam’s bed. The young man had been unconscious since his first attack.

The fellows moved quickly. Foreman, or so written on his badge, lifted the patient’s eyelids and checked his pupils.

“This is Dr. Foreman, Dr. Chase, the blond one with the shampoo-commercial hair, and Dr. Cameron.” House gestured lazily.

Chase offered his hand, his Australian accent softening his formality. “Pleasure to meet you, Nurse (L/N).” Cameron followed suit with a polite smile.

“His pupils don’t react…” Foreman muttered, glancing your way for information.

“We’ve kept him oxygenated. MRI was clean—no stroke, no structural damage. Neuro already reviewed the imaging.” You frowned. Adam was a puzzle no one could crack, not even the best neurologist in Jersey.

“Bacteria? Viral encephalitis?” Chase suggested.

You shook your head. “No exposure risk. No indication for lumbar puncture or biopsy. He hasn’t been anywhere near contaminated water.” Your voice softened. “You can run your tests, but don’t put him through unnecessary pain.”

And just like that, you walked away, leaving House with the first impression that you weren’t intimidated by him.

Later, he limped into Cuddy’s office, interrupting yet another meeting.

“Didn’t know you’d hired a new charge nurse in the ER,” he drawled. “You know, the one with the-" he smirked, “competence.”

“House, I’m in the middle of a meeting-”

“They're interesting. File?”

“I can’t just hand you their file!”

Of course, House found a way. And once he read it, he had to admit, you were impressive. Young for your level of experience, versatile, and stubborn enough to hold your own. He started haunting the ER just to catch glimpses of you, dropping by under the pretense of “annoying the charge nurse.”

To his surprise, you didn’t flinch at his barbs. You didn’t rise to the bait. You matched him with calm, steady resolve, and that’s what hooked him.

Naturally, Wilson noticed.

“Wait, you actually like them?” Wilson looked at him like he’d just confessed to a murder. “Like, like them?”

House groaned. “I’m not a sociopath, Wilson. Mostly.”

“You should ask them out.”

Against all odds, House took the advice.

At the end of your shift, you found him waiting at the exit, brown coat, cane in hand. “Hey. I want to ask you something.” He paused, debating his own sanity, then blurted it out. “Go out with me.”

Your smile gave him his answer.

“Careful,” he smirked. “Smile like that and you’ll infect me.”

You said yes. One date turned into two, then into a relationship. House wasn’t sweet, not in the traditional sense, but he showed affection in his own ways, his presence, his rare compliments, the moments when he let the vulnerability slip through.

One afternoon, you walked into his office with a file. He was twirling his cane, lost in thought until his blue eyes lit up as he saw you. That signature smirk tugged at his mouth.

“I’ve got a case that might interest you,” you said, setting the file down before leaning in to kiss his cheek, having to stand on your toes to reach him.

“Or,” he countered, “you just couldn’t stay away from me. Not that I’m complaining.”

He tugged you closer, hand on your waist. “Come on. I could use a little… distraction.”

Your blush deepened, but before anything could happen-

“House.”

Cuddy’s voice cut through the air, sharp as her heels against tile. “Patient. Now.”

“Perfect timing,” House muttered. “Exactly what I needed, Cuddy.” But he grabbed his cane, tossed you a wink, and limped out.

Cuddy had been different with you ever since. Colder. Snappier. Once, when you’d tentatively suggested a treatment option she snapped.

“Maybe an induced coma? She’s in a lot of pain-”

Cuddy spun on you. “You’re not a doctor, (L/N). You didn’t go to med school. Don’t second-guess me again.”

Her voice was calm, but the edge cut deep. You froze, watching her heels click away down the corridor.

You kept your head down after that, but House didn’t. He called her out, threatened to walk out if she couldn’t be professional. Cuddy couldn’t risk losing him, not after turning down Vogler’s hundred million. Still, her jealousy never quite faded.

It was Wilson, of all people, who approached you in the ER one day.

“Can we talk? Privately?” he asked gently, his head sticking out of your patient's curtians.

You gave him a nod and followed him to a quieter corner.

“I know it’s not my business,” he began, “but… be careful. House has been hurt before. It changed him, probably for the worse.”

You smiled at him, it was kind of him to worry about you. “I know. But he’s been… good to me. Better than I expected.”

Wilson blinked, then laughed in relief. “Then you must be doing something right. He doesn’t treat people well, unless they matter.”

For once, Wilson allowed himself to hope. Maybe House had finally found someone who could remind him he was still capable of love.

I'm in my House MD Arc rn.

RAAA

Warning: Yandere behavior, psychological manipulation, obsession, emotional abuse, gaslighting, possessiveness, coercion, loss of autonomy, unhealthy relationships, references to addiction/medical trauma, stalking undertones, dark themes.

House is a brilliant man, but brilliance is often cruel. He’s sharp, witty, endlessly sarcastic, yet beneath the veneer of arrogance lies a depth of need few ever perceive. He controls with intellect, with insight, with a gaze that dissects more than you ever intended to reveal. Love, for him, is a puzzle, and once solved, it becomes possession.

House has always been a man marked by loss. Stacy left. His leg never healed. His pain never ended. Every attempt at closeness collapsed beneath the weight of his self-destruction. Years of Vicodin and bitterness hollowed him out, leaving only jagged edges where affection should have been. He pretends it doesn’t matter, that he doesn’t care, but when you entered his orbit, it rattled him in ways he couldn’t explain. For once, someone saw him and didn’t immediately run. For once, someone stayed.

So he clings, though not in ways that are obvious. His fixation begins quietly, almost imperceptibly. A lingering glance across the diagnostic room, an offhand remark that cuts deeper than it should, a curiosity about your habits masked as professional concern. He doesn’t need to stand beside you, he lives in your head, cataloging your weaknesses, memorizing the fragile threads that make you human.

“You really think you can do this without me?” he asks one evening, voice low, teasing. But beneath the joke is accusation, a threat dressed as humor. He doesn’t need to say it outright, you can feel it in the silence that follows. You are his, whether you admit it or not.

House’s methods are psychological, surgical. He toys with guilt, manipulates circumstances, bends reality until you can’t tell where your choices end and his begin. He knows exactly how fragile people are, and he takes grim satisfaction in proving it. Appointments vanish. Doors stay locked. Opportunities evaporate before you can reach them. And when you finally confront him, he only tilts his head, smiles faintly, and delivers the line that cuts the deepest.

“You’re mine. Not because I said so. Because you’ll see you can’t survive without me. And you don’t want to, do you?”

And he’s right. Every attempt to leave collapses, an internship lost, a plan derailed, a chance slipping through your fingers. You always crawl back, and House watches it happen with that sharp, amused glint in his eye. He enjoys the squirming almost as much as the surrender.

His past has made him bitter, but it has also made him desperate. Every abandonment carved deeper than he ever let on, every betrayal feeding the paranoia that everyone eventually leaves. He refuses to let it happen again. Not with you. He’ll bind you with logic, with manipulation, with the cruel honesty that no one else will ever care for you the way he does. And he’ll be right, because he’ll make it true.

House’s obsession thrives on your vulnerabilities. He notices everything, your hesitations, your fears, the cracks in your confidence, and uses them the way a surgeon wields a scalpel. His love is corrosive, unyielding, and mercilessly intelligent. It isn’t comforting. It’s precise. It cuts away every escape until nothing is left but him.

He doesn’t need sedatives or force, his mind is the snare. A lingering look, a perfectly timed remark, an impossible question that unravels your defenses, he can dismantle you without ever laying a hand on you. And when you finally realize it, when the walls close in, he will smile, genuinely, brilliantly, because in that moment, you belong to him completely.

Even his cruelty is framed as care. Every manipulation, every sharp word, every trap is justified by his certainty that he knows better. You will trust him, or be cornered into admitting you need him. And in that confession, House finds the satisfaction he craves, control, adoration, and the assurance that nothing, not time, not distance, not anyone, will ever take you from him.

Warning: Obsessive Behavior, Psychological Manipulation, Gaslighting, Guilt-tripping, Possessiveness, Emotional Dependency, Toxic Relationships, Jealousy, Drugging, Subtle Stalking, Dark Themes, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Manipulative Caretaking, Angst, Yandere Behavior, Implied Isolation.

Cutie pie but scary

Wilson is a flawed man, despite his charming nature. He’s warm and compassionate, always ready with a soft smile or a kind word, but his capacity for caring is boundless, to the point of danger. He doesn’t simply love, he overloves. His loyalty has hurt him countless times, yet he continues to forgive, always striving to be the one others lean on. For him, love and need are inseparable. He’ll make you dependent on him without you even realizing it. Wilson doesn’t just hold you in his arms, he smothers you with them.

His way of being near you is subtle. You might bump into him in the hallway, or find him lingering around the conference room with House. He doesn’t need an excuse to be present, he’s House's friend. House eventually notices, of course. They’ve been friends too long for Wilson’s shifts in behavior to go unnoticed.

“Didn’t think you’d get the hots for one of my interns. Quicker than your last marriage failed,” House mutters offhandedly, though he doesn’t realize the depth of the fixation growing inside his friend. What began as harmless kindness, coffee breaks, quiet reassurance, a listening ear, quickly spiraled into something far more consuming. Wilson began to crave the feeling of being important to you. The way you smiled at him, the way your voice softened when you thanked him, it lit his heart in ways it hadn’t felt in years.

And the closer you grew, the stronger his need became. For once, he told himself, he had someone worth giving everything to. He was lucky to have you, and you made him feel special, too special. That warmth twisted into dependency, and dependency into fixation.

Wilson’s nature has always carried a manipulative streak, and with you it only deepens. Even in the series, he’s shown the ability to twist situations with guilt, and as your lover, that talent sharpens into something dangerous. If you ever tried to leave, his voice would tremble with practiced heartbreak.

“Why would you walk away from me? After everything I’ve done for you… after everything I’ve given? You’re all I have. Haven’t I been perfect for you?”

Wilson has his principles, but his love for you can make him abandon them entirely. Every step he takes, no matter how extreme, is justified in his mind by one simple truth, it’s all to keep you with him. His obsession is hidden behind care, his devotion, a carefully constructed cage.

He would go to any lengths to ensure you never leave. His medical expertise, his intimate knowledge of the human body, sedatives, and subtle manipulation, becomes a tool for possession. A carefully measured injection, a dose slipped into your evening tea, a minor alteration of your routine… all meticulously calculated to keep you near, to make sure you remain entirely his.

In Wilson’s mind, it is still love. A desperate, unyielding, consuming love. The thought of losing you is unbearable. To have you, entirely and permanently, even if it means bending morality, medicine, and his own code of ethics to his will, is the only reality he can accept. Once you are with him, you are his, irrevocably, in every sense that matters.

Warning: Yandere behavior, obsession, possessiveness, guilt-tripping, manipulation, unhealthy relationships, trauma references, emotional dependency, implied violence, paranoia, psychological horror elements.

Since the end of the games, Gi-hun remained haunted by the deaths of his friends. The prize money never felt like a blessing—it was a constant reminder of everything he lost. While others would run far from the Squid Games, Gi-hun couldn’t let it go. He dedicated himself to finding the games again, determined to stop them.

He told himself it was about saving people, about making sure no one else suffered. But beneath the noble intention was a man unraveling. He clung to his compassion for as long as he could, but trauma corrodes even the kindest souls.

And when he finally broke, you became the reason.

You were his breaking point.

He first noticed you during Red Light, Green Light. You didn’t claw, shove, or trample others in desperation. Instead, you were kind. Compassionate. Just like him. In you, he saw what he once was, what he longed to be again. And he swore you would never end up like him.

To Gi-hun, protecting you became survival itself.

He shared food with you, even when he was starving. He hovered close, always with an excuse, always making sure you ate enough, rested enough. But what began as care twisted into fixation. If you weren’t by his side, he felt the panic rising, convinced you’d vanish like everyone else he ever loved.

Everyone had left him. He couldn’t lose you too.

His empathy soured into desperation. What once dripped with warmth now reeked of need, need for you. His voice trembled when he begged.

“I know it’s hard… but you trust me, don’t you? If we stick together, no one can tear us apart.”

The laughter he was known for faded, replaced by a chilling seriousness whenever others drew too close to you. His eyes would darken, his voice drop.

“You’re all I have left. If anyone tries to take you from me… I’ll make sure they never get the chance.”

He’d guilt-trip you constantly, his sorrow weighing on every word:

“I’m sorry. I just… I can’t imagine losing you too, Y/N. They’ve already taken everything from me. Don’t let them take you as well.”

It was impossible not to pity him, even when his affection began to suffocate.

Because his desperation was never still, it shifted like quicksand, ready at any moment to collapse into anger. A trembling smile one second, cold fury the next.

Summary: You were a new intern who caught Dr. House’s attention, but his fascination turned dangerous. You tried to escape, only to end up back in his care, where his obsession made it clear, you could never leave.

Warning: Yandere behavior, obsession, manipulation, stalking, unhealthy relationships, possessiveness, medical control, physical injury, hospitalization, emotional manipulation, implied confinement, dark themes.

I hope people will like yandere House MD! Sorry I've turned into a big fan..