Hi! I’m Prua— writer, chronic overthinker, and certified House apologist.
I only write for Gregory House x Female Reader fanfics full of emotion, sarcasm, quiet tenderness, and all the messy humanity that comes with loving a man like him.
———> Checkout my 2nd account @thehybridaffair for some klaus Mikaelson fanfiction!
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Should I write a multichapter fanfic for Gregory House x f!reader??
If yes, I would love to read your ideas and insights so go ahead and share them with me! (Try not to give a specific request but only a few ideas and suggestions or a prompt or a scene between y/n and Greg that you feel like sharing)
hii would you do one where house is wirhdrawing from vicodin and reader takes care of him
>>>Out of the Dark<<<
Summery: After surviving a grueling withdrawal with you by his side, House wakes to an empty apartment and panics, fearing his ugliest moments have finally driven you away, racing into the freezing winter air to find you.
Pairing: Gregory House x f!reader
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Emotional Confession, Reassurance, Angsty Romance, dating but never had confessed that they loved each other
The white plastic bottle was empty. It didn't rattle when House shook it, a hollow sound that signaled the end of the world in their quiet apartment.
The banter, the teasing public kisses that had once driven him crazy in the halls of Princeton-Plainsboro, the brilliant, sharp-tongued medical deity—all of it vanished within hours of the final dose leaving his system. When Gregory House went through cold turkey withdrawal, he didn’t just get grumpy. He disintegrated. He became a ghost made of raw nerve endings, blinding fury, and a terrifyingly deep agony that no amount of intellect could solve.
The living room was pitch black, every blind drawn tight against the agonizing glare of the afternoon sun. House was curled on his side directly on the living room rug, his knees pulled tightly toward his chest. He was shivering so violently that his bare shoulders knocked against the floorboards, though his skin was completely slick with a cold, sour sweat. His damaged right leg was locked in a vicious, agonizing spasm, the scar tissue pulling tight and warping under the strain of a body starved for opioids.
When you walked in, carrying a fresh basin of warm water and a clean washcloth, the floorboards groaned under your weight. House snapped instantly.
"Get out," he rasped. His voice sounded like he had been swallowing broken glass, rough and terribly weak. He didn't open his eyes, his brow furrowed so deeply it looked painful. "I don't need a nurse. I don't need your goddamn pity. Go back to the hospital."
"I'm not going anywhere, Greg," you said softly, setting the basin down and kneeling on the hardwood floor right beside him.
The moment your fingers brushed his trembling shoulder, he flinched away with a feral, ragged snarl. "I said leave! Look at me! I am a miserable, toxic bastard on a good day, and right now I am a hair trigger away from putting my fist through a wall. Save yourself the trouble and get out before I say something that ensures you never come back."
You didn't flinch. You didn't back away. You had seen him cut people down with a single sentence, but you knew him well enough to recognize that this cruelty wasn't malicious—it was an act of pure desperation. He hated being vulnerable. He hated that the great Gregory House was currently reduced to trembling on a rug like a wounded animal.
Instead of arguing, you gently wrung out the washcloth, letting the warm steam rise between you, and carefully pressed it against the back of his rigid neck.
House let out a fractured, shaky gasp. The fight seemed to drain out of him all at once as the warmth hit his skin, his head dropping heavily against the floor. He didn't tell you to leave again.
As the hours bled into the evening, the physical storm only worsened. The nausea hit him in brutal waves, followed by severe muscle tremors that left him breathless. Because he couldn't take anything for the pain, the infarction in his thigh was torturing him tenfold. He was groaning, a low, animalistic sound of pure suffering that made your chest ache.
Unable to watch him writhe on the hard floor anymore, you slid down behind him, pulling his heavy, sweat-dampened upper body back against your chest so his head rested in the crook of your shoulder. You wrapped your legs around him, anchoring him to you. Then, you reached down and sank your fingers firmly into the rock-hard, spasming muscle of his right thigh.
House stiffened, burying his face in his hands as a ragged sob nearly tore from his throat. "Don't... please, it hurts too much..."
"I know, Greg. I’ve got you. Just breathe with me," you murmured into his hair, your heart breaking at the sheer vulnerability in his voice.
You didn't stop. You began to massage the ruined muscle with a steady, deep pressure, using all your strength to work out the agonizing cramps. House gripped your knee so tightly his knuckles turned white, his breath hitching every time your hands hit a particularly bad knot. He was entirely at your mercy, stripped of his intellect, his sarcasm, and his pride. Yet, as your hands kept up their rhythm, his chaotic breathing slowly began to find a match in yours. He stopped fighting the pain and simply let himself sink entirely into your weight, trusting you to hold him together while his body tore itself apart.
By the early hours of the morning, the violent shivering finally began to subside into occasional, exhausted tremors. The fever was breaking.
With immense effort, you had managed to move him from the floor to the couch, propping his exhausted frame up against a mountain of pillows. You sat right beside him, holding a glass of water to his lips because his hands were still shaking too badly to grip the glass without spilling it. He swallowed tightly, a few drops spilling down his stubbled chin, before he leaned his head back and stared at you through bloodshot, heavy-lidded blue eyes.
The mocking, cynical spark that usually defined him was entirely absent. He just looked profoundly tired, and deeply humbled.
Slowly, his trembling hand wandered across the couch cushions, his fingers awkwardly tangling into yours, squeezing with what little strength he had left. It was a rare, completely unprompted gesture of pure gratitude from a man who famously never said thank you.
"You're an idiot," he whispered, his voice incredibly soft in the quiet, dark room. "You should have let me rot. I was awful to you."
A tear slipped down your cheek, but you wiped it away quickly, leaning down over him. You pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his rough, stubbled cheek—not to tease him or provoke an audience this time, but simply to remind him that he was loved, even in his darkest moments.
"You're a lot of things, Gregory House," you smiled gently, smoothing his messy, damp hair away from his forehead. "But you're not rotting on my watch. Now go to sleep."
House let out a faint, exhausted huff that might have been a laugh on a better day. He closed his eyes, his grip tightening on your hand as he finally drifted into a deep, healing sleep, knowing he didn't have to face the dark alone anymore.
-
The cold morning air hit House like a physical blow the moment he opened his eyes, but the emptiness beside him hurt worse.
The fever had broken, and the brutal grip of the withdrawal had loosened enough for his mind to clear, but the apartment was suffocatingly quiet. He swung his legs over the side of the couch, his muscles groaning in protest. "Y/N?" he called out, his voice still a gravelly, scraped-raw ruin.
Silence.
He grabbed his cane, using it to hoist himself up as he limped hurriedly through the small space. The kitchen was empty. The bathroom was empty. Your keys were gone from the counter.
Panic, sudden and violent, seized his chest, tighter than any muscle spasm he’d endured the night before. You left. The thought crystallized in his mind with terrifying certainty. Of course you left. He had screamed at you, snarled at you, exposed the absolute ugliest, most pathetic parts of his dependency, and you had finally realized what a toxic mistake it was to love Gregory House.
He didn't think. He didn't grab his jacket, his wallet, or even shoes other than his worn-out sneakers. He just flung the apartment door open and hit the pavement.
The morning was freezing, the air biting sharply at his skin through his thin t-shirt, but he didn't care. His breath came in ragged, white plumes as he forced his throbbing, ruined leg to move faster than it ever should, his cane clicking furiously against the icy concrete. He looked like a madman, eyes wild and bloodshot, scanning every face, every passing car, his brilliant mind utterly useless as it spun into a spiral of absolute terror. Where would you go? A bus station? A hotel? Back to the hospital?
He kept walking, twenty agonizing minutes of pushing through the biting cold until his leg felt like it was on fire, refusing to give up.
And then, he saw you.
You were sitting alone on a wooden bench in the small park down the street, right in front of the frozen fountain. You were bundled up, staring at the water, a paper bag of takeout breakfast sitting beside you.
House stopped dead in his tracks. He stood there, chest heaving violently, his hands trembling against the handle of his cane from sheer exhaustion and cold.
Hearing the erratic, heavy breathing, you turned around. Your eyes widened in instant horror when you saw him standing there in the freezing air, shivering violently without a jacket. You leaped up from the bench, rushing toward him. "Greg! What are you doing? Are you insane? You're freezing!"
You immediately began shedding your own jacket to throw over his trembling shoulders, but House didn't want the jacket. He violently shoved the fabric away, his cane clattering to the sidewalk as he reached out with both hands. He gripped the back of your neck, his fingers digging into your skin with a desperate, crushing strength, pulling you forward until your foreheads crashed together. You were so close you could feel the icy, trembling rush of his breath against your lips.
"Where the hell were you?!" he screamed right into your face, his voice cracking, thick with a raw, unadulterated terror you had never heard from him before. "Why did you leave?!"
"Greg, I didn't—"
"I woke up and you were gone!" he shouted over you, his eyes wild and shining with unshed tears, completely stripping away every ounce of pride he possessed. "I thought you left me! I thought you finally realized what a miserable, broken piece of trash I am and you walked out! I thought I was never going to see you again!"
The sheer agony in his voice broke your heart. You wrapped your arms tightly around his waist, anchoring his shaking body against yours. "Greg, look at me. Listen to me. I would never leave you. I went out to get us breakfast because the fridge was empty, and I just wanted to sit by the fountain for five minutes to breathe the fresh air. I am not leaving you. Ever."
Before you could even finish the sentence, House shut you up.
He slammed his mouth onto yours, a bruising, desperate, chaotic kiss that tasted like winter and absolute desperation. It wasn't the teased, playful kisses from the hospital hallways, or even the heated ones from the couch. It was a man clinging to his lifeline in the middle of a storm.
He pulled back just an inch, his hands still shaking violently against your neck, his blue eyes staring into yours with a terrifying amount of honesty.
"I love you," he breathed out, the words tearing out of him like a confession he had been choking on for a lifetime. "I’ve loved you for years. Don't you dare ever disappear like that again."
The confession hung in the freezing air between you, more potent than any drug he had ever taken.
You stared up at him, your own breath catching in your throat as the raw honesty of his words sunk in. For all his genius, for all his complex equations and diagnostic puzzles, it had taken reaching his absolute breaking point to say the simplest, truest thing he had ever spoken.
"Years, Greg?" you whispered, your hands smoothing over his frozen arms, trying to friction some warmth back into his skin.
"Years," he choked out, his grip on your neck softening, his thumbs tracing your jawline with a reverence that made your chest ache. "Every time you kissed me in those halls, every time you made a joke out of my misery... I was terrified you'd see right through me. I was terrified you'd realize how much I needed it."
You leaned up, closing the small distance between you to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips—warm and reassuring against the winter chill.
"I'm not going anywhere," you promised again, pulling your jacket around his shoulders this time, and he finally let you. "Now, let’s get you home before you catch pneumonia and I have to diagnose your stubborn ass."
House let out a ragged, genuine laugh, the tense lines of panic finally melting from his face. He leaned heavily against you as you picked up his cane, his hand sliding down to grip yours tightly, burying it securely in his pocket as you turned back toward the apartment together.
you keep embarrassing house by kissing him on the cheek/jawline in public :3 (I really wanna kiss his cheek because of the stubble)
>>> Tactical <<<
Summery: An affectionate game of public teasing takes a breathless turn behind closed doors.
Pairing: Gregory House x f!reader
Genre: Angst-free, Slow burn, Dom/sub undertones, Domestic, Mutual pining, not smut but a bit sexual.
Author’s note: Thank you ya’ll so much for 300 followers! Your love and support means a lot to me. I had to make this request a special one and waited for the right time to post it.
The thing about being the only person at Princeton-Plainsboro who isn’t afraid of Gregory House is that it gives you a lot of leverage. It also gives you a target.
House likes his boundaries clearly defined by a wall of sarcasm, misanthropy, and a general aura of "do not touch." Naturally, your favorite hobby has become demolishing that wall in the most public way possible.
Incident 1: The Elevator Ambush
It’s a rainy Tuesday, and the hospital elevators are packed. You, House, Cuddy, and three terrified medical interns are crammed into the small metal box. House is in a particularly foul mood, loudly analyzing the poor posture and impending cardiac failures of the interns to pass the time.
The interns are staring at the floor, praying for death or their floor destination, whichever comes first.
"And you," House says, turning his sharp blue eyes onto the intern closest to him. "Your left pupil is slightly more dilated than your right. Either you’re having a stroke, or you’re completely terrified of a man with a cane. If it's the latter, good. If it's the former—"
You don’t let him finish. Stepping right into his personal space, you hook your hand around the back of his neck, pull his head down a fraction, and plant a firm, audible kiss right on his jawline.
The elevator goes dead silent. The interns look like they’ve just witnessed someone pet a shark.
House freezes mid-sentence, his jaw going slack. He looks down at you, his eyes wide with a rare flash of genuine shock.
"You have a little something right there," you say cheerfully, patting his cheek. "It was a grumpy expression. Glad I got it."
The elevator dings, and Cuddy steps out, not even trying to hide her grin. "Have a good shift, House. Try not to blush too hard."
House glares at the closing doors, his face flushing a distinct shade of pink. "I don't blush," he mutters to the wall, aggressively rubbing his jaw with his sleeve. "I have a circulatory condition."
Incident 2: The Lecture Hall Interrupt
House is giving a guest lecture to a room full of sixty pathology students. He hates teaching, which means he’s being twice as brutal as usual, ripping a student's differential diagnosis to shreds.
"If that is your best guess, please change your major to art history," House drawls into the microphone, leaning heavily on the podium. "The patient would be dead before you even finished spelling 'autoimmune'."
You walk down the steps of the lecture hall, completely ignoring the rows of students watching you. You walk right onto the stage, straight up to the podium.
House stops talking, squinting at you. "If you're here to deliver clinic hours, I died twenty minutes ago."
Instead of answering, you lean over the podium, cup his chin with your hand, and press a lingering, affectionate kiss right onto his cheek. The microphone picks up the soft smack of the kiss and broadcasts it perfectly to all sixty students.
A collective gasp echoes through the lecture hall. A few students actually snicker.
House yanks his head back, his eyes darting to the auditorium seats and then back to you. For a man who always has a comeback, he is entirely speechless.
"Just bringing you your coffee," you say, setting the paper cup on the podium. "Don't forget to smile, professor."
As you walk back up the stairs, you hear House clear his throat aggressively into the microphone. "Right. As I was saying before I was biologically assaulted... anyone else who laughs fails the semester."
Incident 3: Wilson’s Office
You find House hiding out in Wilson’s office, lying flat on his back on Wilson's couch, complaining about a case while Wilson patiently types away at his desk.
"She's boring, Wilson. Her symptoms are boring. Her family is boring. I'm going to cure her just so they all leave," House groans, staring at the ceiling.
You walk into the office, stroll right over to the couch, and lean over him. House opens one eye, instantly suspicious. "No. Absolutely not. Whatever look is on your face right now, abort it."
You ignore him, leaning down and planting a soft, sweet kiss right on the center of his cheek, letting your hair brush against his face.
From across the room, Wilson bursts out laughing.
House groans loudly, covering his face with both hands. "Great. Excellent. Now he's going to analyze this for the next three weeks. I hope you're happy."
"I am," you smile, sitting on the edge of the couch by his legs.
House lowers his hands, glaring up at you with a pout that looks entirely ridiculous on a fifty-year-old man. He looks toward Wilson, who is practically beaming.
"She's a menace, Wilson. A public health hazard," House grumbles. But as he turns his head back toward the ceiling, you notice he doesn't wipe his cheek this time. In fact, his hand wanders up to his cane, tapping a lazy, content rhythm against the floor.
………
The apartment was quiet for once, the low murmur of the TV the only sound cutting through the dim living room. House was lying flat on his back on the couch, his cane hooked over the armrest, a trashy reality TV show playing on the screen. He looked completely at peace—or as at peace as a man like House could ever look.
That peace lasted right until you walked into the room.
You had gone into his closet and fished out one of his crisp, white linen button-down shirts. Because of the size difference, the hem fell well past your thighs, completely eliminating the need for pants. It was oversized, comfortable, and smelled faintly of his starch and cologne.
House’s eyes drifted away from the television, tracking you as you walked over. His gaze darkened, a slow, appreciative smirk tugging at his lips, though he tried to mask it behind a lazy roll of his eyes. "Great. First you steal my dignity in public, now you’re stealing my wardrobe. What’s next, the cane?"
Instead of answering, you climbed right onto the couch, straddling his waist and laying your upper body flat against his chest. You aligned yourself perfectly over him, resting your chin on his shoulder.
Before he could complain about you blocking his view of the TV, you leaned up and planted another soft, lingering kiss right on his jawline.
House let out a long, dramatic sigh, but his hands automatically found your waist, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles through the thin fabric of his shirt. He didn't push you away. Instead, he finally looked down at you, his blue eyes searching yours with genuine, quiet curiosity.
"Alright, I'll bite," House muttered, his voice dropping an octave, rough and gravelly in the quiet apartment. "Why do you keep doing that? Every time there's an audience, you turn my face into a target. What's the strategy here? What's the play?"
You smiled, resting your cheek right against the rough skin of his jaw. "No strategy. I just love your stubble."
House scoffed, a soft chuckle vibrating against your chest. "My stubble. Right. It’s scratchy, it’s unkempt, and Cuddy complains about it weekly."
"Well, Cuddy doesn't get to appreciate it," you teased, tracing a finger down the line of his collarbone. "I love it because it’s scratchy. I love the way it feels against my skin. And honestly? I love doing it in public because it completely ruins your miserable, untouchable reputation. But mostly, I just like reminding you—and everyone else—that you're mine. Even when you're being an unbearable genius."
House stared at you for a long beat. The cynical exterior he wore like armor completely melted away, replaced by a heat that made your breath hitch.
"Is that so?" he whispered.
Before you could answer, his hands tightened on your waist. With a sudden, surprising burst of strength, House shifted his weight, rolling you over onto your back so he was looming over you on the couch. His cane clattered to the floor, completely forgotten.
He pinned your hands above your head, his chest pressing firmly against yours. A wicked, dangerous grin spread across his face.
"If you wanted my stubble, all you had to do was ask," House murmured, his voice thick and low. "I'll give you all the stubble kisses you want."
He released your hands, his fingers moving down to the buttons of the white shirt you’d stolen. He undone the first three, parting the fabric down to your sternum, exposing the warm skin underneath.
House leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He didn't just kiss you; he intentionally dragged his rough, shadowed jawline slowly across your sensitive skin, making you gasp and shiver beneath him. The contrast of his scratchy stubble against your neck was intoxicating.
He pressed a barrage of rough, warm kisses along your collarbone, up the column of your neck, and right beneath your ear, rubbing his cheek against yours until you were laughing and breathless, your fingers knotting tightly into his hair to pull him closer.
"Still like the stubble?" he muttered against your skin, his lips brushing your jaw before he finally brought his mouth up to capture yours.
"See? This is why I avoid shaving," House murmured smugly, his lips replacing the stubble, pressing soft, wet kisses over the skin he’d just sensitized. "It’s tactical. A necessary tool in my arsenal."
"You're ridiculous," you breathed, threading your fingers through his greying hair and tugging gently. "You just hate waking up early enough to do it."
"Two things can be true," he replied, lifting his head to look down at you. His eyes were dark, dilated, the usual sharp cynicism entirely absent. He looked at you with a kind of raw, undisguised hunger that made your heart hammer against your ribs.
He didn't give you a chance to speak again. He captured your lips in another searing kiss, his hands sliding down to cup your hips, pulling you flush against him. The friction of his jeans against your bare thighs was a stark reminder of exactly how little you were wearing.
House tore his mouth away, resting his forehead against yours, both of you breathing heavily. He looked down at the white shirt, now hopelessly rumpled and thoroughly unbuttoned, and then back up to your face.
"Next time you decide to ambush me in front of Wilson or Cuddy," House whispered, his thumb tracing your bottom lip, "I’m going to remember this exact moment. And I’m going to drag you into a supply closet and show them exactly why you’re doing it."
You smiled, pulling his head back down to yours. "Is that a promise, Dr. House?"
"It's a medical guarantee," he murmured, before sealing his lips over yours once again.
Summery:House notices a sudden shift in your daily habits—from avoiding your mandatory morning coffee to an uncharacteristic wave of irritability—he does what he does best: solves the case.
Pairing: Greg House x f!reader
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Accidental Pregnancy, Fluff and Angst
Request by: @brittlegambitsiren
The clinic at Hospital was, as it always had been, a battleground of minor inconveniences. The air smelled of industrial lemon cleaner, rubbing alcohol, and the collective anxiety of forty people waiting to be told they had a common cold.
You sat behind the low wooden desk of the triage station, rubbing the back of your neck. A low, dull ache had settled deep into your lower back around mid-morning, and by 3:00 PM, it had blossomed into a persistent throbbing. You stared blankly at a patient chart, the words blurring together.
"If you stare at that folder any harder, you might actually set it on fire. Which would be great, because then I wouldn't have to sign it."
You didn’t even need to look up to know Dr. Gregory House was leaning against the doorframe. The distinct, rhythmic thump-clack of his cane had given him away three corridors ago.
"I’m just tired, House," you sighed, tossing the chart onto the desk and leaning your head back against the vinyl chair. "Go terrorize Cuddy. I’m not in the mood to be your verbal punching bag today."
House didn’t leave. Instead, he limped into the cubicle, his piercing blue eyes tracking your every movement with a terrifying, algorithmic precision. He leaned heavily on his cane, tilting his head as he analyzed you.
"Tired. Right. Because a standard twelve-hour shift normally turns a functioning medical professional into a sluggish, irritable zombie who has visited the staff restroom four times in the last two hours."
You blinked, a sudden flush of heat creeping up your neck. "Are you tracking my bathroom breaks now? Because that crosses about five different HR boundaries, even for you."
"I don't need to track them; I have eyes. And ears. And a nose," House said, stepping closer. He sniffed the air slightly, leaning in just enough to make you instinctively lean back. "You didn't put on your usual vanilla perfume today. Because it makes you gag. Just like the smell of Foreman’s leftover Thai food did at lunch."
"It was old fish, House! Anyone would gag at that."
"Foreman eats chicken pad thai. No fish. No seafood," House countered smoothly. His gaze drifted down, his sharp eyes lingering on your hands.
You were currently pressing the palms of both hands flat against your desk, trying to find a position that didn't make your lower back feel like it was being compressed by a hydraulic press. You also hadn't touched your morning coffee. It sat on the edge of the desk, completely cold, a thin film forming over the dark liquid.
"You haven't had caffeine today," House observed, pointing the brass handle of his cane at the mug. "You live on coffee. If you don't have a cup by 9:00 AM, you usually threaten to amputate Chase’s fingers with a bone saw. It is currently mid-afternoon."
"I'm just fighting off a stomach bug," you snapped, your irritation flaring up much faster than it normally would. To your absolute horror, your eyes pricked with sudden, inexplicable tears of sheer frustration. You choked them back, clearing your throat angrily.
House’s demeanor shifted. The mocking, playful glint in his eyes vanished, replaced by something intensely focused, almost quiet.
Six weeks ago. A rainy Tuesday night. A bottle of high-end scotch you’d brought over to his apartment to celebrate a mutual victory over a near-impossible diagnosis. One thing had led to another—a blur of desperate hands, tangled sheets, and a rare, raw vulnerability that neither of you had spoken about since. You had both reverted to your usual banter the next morning, pretending the shift in the universe hadn't happened.
House let out a short, sharp breath through his nose. He reached into his lab coat pocket, pulled out a small, metallic object, and tossed it onto the desk. It landed next to your cold coffee with a soft clink. It was a small keychain flashlight.
"Catch," he said suddenly, grabbing a roll of medical tape from the counter and tossing it directly at your chest.
Your reflexes were usually sharp, but your hands moved a second too late. The tape bounced off your scrub top and thudded to the floor. You gasped, your hand flying instinctively to rest flat over your abdomen—a protective, subconscious gesture.
House’s eyes locked onto your hand resting over your stomach. The diagnosis in his mind was complete.
"You're an idiot," House said softly.
"Excuse me?" you bristled, pulling your hand away as if burned. "Because my reflexes are slow today? I told you, I'm sick!"
"You're not sick." House took two steps forward, closing the distance between you until he was standing right over your chair. He leaned down, resting both hands on the handle of his cane, forcing you to look up at him. "Your breasts are tender—you’ve been adjusting your lab coat straps all day. Your lower back hurts, your olfactory senses are in overdrive, you’re retaining water in your ankles, and your emotional volatility is currently rivaling a teenage girl at a boyband concert."
Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. Your brain was entirely jammed by the sheer weight of what he was implying.
"House... what are you saying?" your voice cracked.
"I'm saying," House murmured, his voice uncharacteristically gentle, dropping the usual harsh edge he reserved for the rest of the world, "that the math adds up to exactly forty-two days ago. Which means you are currently carrying a tiny, miserable, misanthropic parasite."
The room felt like it was spinning. Forty-two days. Six weeks.
"No," you breathed, a wave of panic washing over you. "No, we used... it was just one night. It can't be."
"Contraception has a failure rate. Especially when it’s expired, which, knowing my nightstand drawer, it probably was," House said dryly.
You stared at him, your heart hammering against your ribs. You expected him to look terrified. You expected him to make a joke, to run away, to hand you a slip for an OB-GYN appointment and tell you to handle it. But he didn't. He just stood there, looking at you with an intensity that made it hard to breathe.
"You're sure?" you whispered.
"I'm always sure. Go to the lab. Draw a serum hCG. Prove me right so we can stop pretending you have a stomach flu."
Twenty minutes later, you were standing in the restricted staff bathroom down the hall from the diagnostics department. The small plastic cup in your hand felt heavy, and the white plastic test strip you had snagged from the clinic supply closet sat on the edge of the sink.
Your hands were shaking so badly you could barely submerge the tip of the strip into the liquid.
One minute. You closed your eyes, leaning your forehead against the cool mirror. Your mind raced through the logistics. A baby. With Gregory House. The man was a brilliant, vicodin-addicted lunatic who alienated everyone he met. And yet, six weeks ago, when he had held you in the dark of his bedroom, he had been so remarkably gentle.
Two minutes. You opened your eyes and looked down.
Two distinct, dark pink lines stared back at you.
The breath caught in your throat. It was one thing to hear House deduce it with his terrifying medical logic; it was another thing entirely to see the chemical proof staring back at you. You were pregnant.
When you walked into the Diagnostics office, the glass-walled room was empty except for House, who was sitting at the conference table, spinning his cane on its tip. He looked up the moment the glass door slid open. He didn't ask. He just looked at your face, reading the answer in the pale shock of your expression.
"Wilson owes me fifty bucks," House said, though there was no real triumph in his voice. It was a defense mechanism, and you knew it.
"You told Wilson?!" you gasped, the panic flaring up again.
"Didn't have to. I bet him fifty bucks this morning that you’d be off coffee by noon. He thought you were just having a rare moment of health consciousness." House stood up, leaning heavily on his cane as he walked around the table toward you. "Sit down before you pass out. You look like you've seen a ghost."
You sank into one of the leather chairs, burying your face in your hands. "House... what are we going to do? You're... you're you. And I'm... this wasn't supposed to happen."
House stood over you for a long moment. The silence stretched between you, heavy and thick with uncertainty. For a man who always had a snappy comeback, an insult, or a philosophical lecture prepared, he was remarkably quiet.
Slowly, he reached out. His calloused fingers brushed against your wrist, gently pulling your hands away from your face. When you looked up, his expression was completely stripped of his usual mockery. It was the same look he wore when he was looking at a patient he genuinely wanted to save—focused, intense, and fiercely grounded.
"First of all," House said, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly register, "we are going to get you some actual food that doesn't make you want to vomit. Second of all, we are going to figure it out."
"You don't even like kids," you whispered, a tear finally escaping and slipping down your cheek. "You call them crotch-goblins."
"They are crotch-goblins," House agreed, his thumb brushing the tear away from your cheek with surprising tenderness. The warmth of his skin against yours was anchoring. "They're loud, they leak from various orifices, and they demand constant attention. But this one... half of its DNA comes from a woman who actually manages to tolerate me for more than ten minutes at a time. So the odds are slightly better that it won't be a total disaster."
You let out a watery, breathless laugh, reaching up to clasp your hand over his. "It's going to be an absolute trainwreck, Greg."
"An absolute, catastrophic trainwreck," House murmured, a genuine, soft smile finally tugging at the corners of his lips. He let go of your hand, shifting his weight as he pointed his cane toward the door. "Come on. I'm taking you home. If Cuddy asks, I'll tell her you have a highly contagious, fictional tropical disease. She won't risk coming near either of us."
As you stood up, your legs still a little shaky, House reached out and placed his palm firmly against the small of your aching back, guiding you out of the office. For the first time all day, the ache didn't feel quite so heavy.
-end
Tag list: @urfinalg1rl
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Hi!!, can I make a request where houses wife (reader ofc) gets brought into the hospital after getting into a car crash and broke her leg and a few stitches but is stable but is staying in the hospital for a bit, and its the next morning after she got brought into the hospital and houses walks in to her room wearing she is lying on her side sleeping until house hits her with his ball and her waking up and groaning and house saying "great.. Your awake now be cute and hold my drink" and him putting his drink in her hand and then sitting in the chair next to the bed and getting out his controller and setting his console up at the tv and his wife muttering "can you not... I just woke up.." And house smirking, until cuddy walks in sighing saying "she just woke up.. I'm sure you can give her a break after getting in a car crash" and house saying "well..she married me.." And his wife frowning lying down slowly and cuddy asking her if she's ok and her saying "if you could.. Throw this... Cup away that would be perfect" and house trying to get it back but cuddy throwing it in the trash, and then after cuddy leaves house looks at his wife muttering "does your head hurt" and reader nodding anf then house getting into the bed sitting next to her and her putting her head on his chest saying "I love you.. If your strange" and house saying "I could say the same with you.."
>>> Just Hold My Cup <<<
Summery: After a car accident lands Y/N in the hospital, House copes with his worry the only way he knows how—by being incredibly annoying.
Pairing: Gregory House x f!reader
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Married Life, Domestic Fluff, Slice of Life, Light Angst, Post-Accident Recovery, Wholesome Relationship Moments
The first sensation that managed to claw its way through the thick, suffocating fog of Y/N’s consciousness was pain.
It wasn't the sharp, blinding agony of a sudden injury, but rather a deep, resonant ache that seemed to have settled into her very bones. It was the kind of pervasive discomfort that made the simple act of existing feel like a monumental chore, inducing a profound desire to sink right back into the dark, merciful oblivion of sleep.
Beneath the suffocating weight of a heavy plaster cast, her left leg throbbed in tandem with the steady, rhythmic pulse of her heart. Every single muscle in her torso felt as though it had been systematically wrung out like a wet dishrag, her neck was stiff to the point of immobility, and the neat row of stitches freshly laced above her right eyebrow pulled painfully with the slightest twitch of her facial muscles.
The actual sequence of the car accident was a fractured, chaotic blur in her memory. If she concentrated, she could conjure up isolated sensory fragments: the sudden, blinding glare of oncoming headlights cutting through the dark; the desperate, screeching wail of brakes losing their grip on asphalt; the deafening roar of a horn; and then, a violent, world-ending snap before everything simply went black.
According to the hovering rotation of doctors and nurses who had poked and prodded her over the last several hours, she was miraculously lucky. They repeated the word like a mantra. Lucky. A clean break in her tibia, a few cracked ribs that made deep breathing a hazardous venture, a handful of facial stitches, and a moderate concussion. But she was alive. Very alive. And apparently, possessed of a stubborn enough constitution to survive an impact that should have totaled her permanently.
Which meant, inevitably, that Gregory House was going to be absolutely insufferable.
Thunk.
A small, blunt object struck her right shoulder with just enough force to register through the stiff hospital gown.
Y/N let out a low, pathetic groan, refusing to grant the universe the satisfaction of opening her eyes. "Go away," she mumbled, her voice raspy from the dry hospital air and the lingering effects of anesthesia.
Thunk.
Something else bounced off her forearm.
"Seriously. Stop it."
Thunk.
This one caught her squarely in the hip.
Defensively, Y/N pulled the scratchy, industrial-grade blanket higher over her head, burrowing into the pillows in a vain attempt to create a fortress against the outside world.
A familiar, gravelly cadence broke the sterile quiet of the room. "Your survival instincts are frankly pathetic. A predator approaches, throws projectiles at your vital organs, and your evolutionary response is to play ostrich under a cotton-polyester blend?"
Slowly, agonizingly, Y/N cracked her eyes open.
The harsh fluorescent lighting of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital flooded her vision, and as the blurry edges of the room coalesced into focus, she found exactly who she expected standing beside her bed.
Dr. Gregory House.
He was leaning heavily on his cane with one arm, his posture deliberately casual, while his free hand deftly caught his favorite high-bounce red-and-blue rubber ball. He looked entirely too pleased with himself for a man whose wife had been extracted from a crushed sedan less than twenty-four hours prior. He hadn't changed his clothes—his wrinkled blue button-down was rumpled, his dark blazer looked slightly slept-in, and a distinct shadow of silver stubble lined his jaw. Yet, his bright blue eyes shone with the exact brand of mischievous malice he usually reserved for destroying Cuddy’s budget or torturing his fellows.
In his other hand, he balanced a paper cup of lukewarm cafeteria coffee.
Y/N stared at him through a bleary, half-lidded gaze. House stared back, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. Neither of them said a word for a long, drawn-out ten seconds.
Then—thunk.
He tossed the ball one more time, letting it bounce lightly off the apex of her covered knees.
Y/N let her head fall back against the pillow with a dramatic sigh. "Oh my God."
House’s grin widened, sharp and brilliant. "Great," he said, his delivery entirely deadpan, devoid of any traditional medical bedside manner. "You’re awake."
"Unfortunately," she grumbled, shifting her weight and immediately regretting it as her ribs flared in protest.
Without missing a beat or offering a single word of comfort, House leaned forward and shoved the paper cup of coffee directly into her uninjured hand. "Good. Now be cute and hold my drink."
Y/N blinked up at him, her concussed brain trying to process the sequence of events. "What?"
"I need both hands," he explained slowly, as if lecturing a particularly dense medical student.
"You couldn’t have put it on the bedside table? The one literally six inches to your left?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because you’re here," he replied with flawless, circular logic. "And you have two perfectly functional upper extremities that aren't currently carrying the burden of keeping a crippled genius upright."
She looked down at the warm paper cup resting in her palm, then back up at her husband’s smug face, then back down at the coffee. "You are truly the worst person I have ever met in my entire life."
House smiled, a genuine, crinkly expression that reached his eyes. "And yet..." He pointedly gestured with his cane toward the simple silver band wrapping the ring finger of her left hand.
Y/N rolled her eyes so hard she was certain it aggravated her concussion.
House limped past the edge of her bed, his cane clicking rhythmically against the linoleum floor as he approached the vinyl armchair tucked into the corner of the room. In any normal universe, a husband would sit down, take his wife's hand, murmur sweet nothings, or at the very least ask where it hurt.
Instead, House bypassed the seat entirely, reached down into a duffel bag he had apparently smuggled into the room, and hoisted a sleek, black video game console onto his good hip.
Y/N stared in utter disbelief. "Greg."
No response. He began untangling an absolute nest of HDMI and power cables with the practiced dexterity of a surgeon.
"Greg."
Still nothing. He plugged the power strip into the wall outlet, completely ignoring her existence. Within moments, the large television screen mounted on the wall opposite her bed—usually reserved for patient education loops or basic cable—flickered to life, displaying a bright, high-definition gaming home screen.
Y/N let out a long, long-suffering groan that turned into a wheeze when her lungs expanded too far. "You brought a PlayStation into my recovery room."
"No," House denied smoothly, not looking back as he forced a cable into the back of the monitor.
"You are literally holding a DualShock controller in your right hand."
"It followed me here. It’s a stray. I felt bad leaving it out in the cold."
She closed her eyes, praying for the ceiling tiles to open up and swallow her whole. Maybe if she went entirely catatonic, he would get bored and leave to go hassle Wilson. Unfortunately, she had been married to him long enough to know that House was entirely immune to passive-aggressive avoidance tactics.
"Can you not?" she asked, her voice dropping to a plea.
House plugged the final auxiliary cord into the side panel. "Can I not what?"
"I just woke up from a major vehicular trauma."
"Exactly. Perfect time for entertainment."
"I have a concussion."
"You had a concussion yesterday," House corrected, finally turning around and dropping his frame heavily into the armchair. He kicked his bad leg out at a comfortable angle, the controller already resting naturally in his palms. "Today, you just have a lingering head injury. Progress!"
"I still have a headache, Greg."
He booted up a racing game, the upbeat menu music suddenly blaring through the small room's speakers. "You’re doing great. Your verbal syntax is entirely coherent, your pupillary response is adequate, and your short-term memory seems functional enough to hold a grudge. I'd give you an A-minus."
Y/N glared at him with enough heat to melt lead. He merely grinned back, entirely unfazed, his thumbs already working the joysticks.
The heavy wooden door to the recovery room suddenly swung open with a sharp click. A familiar, authoritative voice immediately filled the space, laced with an profound sense of impending exhaustion. "Please tell me that is not what I think it is."
Both House and Y/N looked toward the doorway.
Dr. Lisa Cuddy stood in the threshold, a thick patient chart tucked firmly under her arm. Her eyes scanned the room, moving in a practiced, tragic loop: from House lounging in the chair, to the colorful graphics flashing on the television screen, to the controller in his hands, and finally to Y/N, who was lying pinned under a cast and a mountain of ice packs.
A deep, bone-weary sigh escaped the Dean of Medicine. "Greg."
"What?" House didn't take his eyes off the screen as his digital car drifted around a hairpin turn. "I’m multi-tasking. Monitoring her vitals while simultaneously improving my hand-eye coordination."
"She just woke up."
House shrugged, his shoulders shifting beneath his blazer. "I’m celebrating."
"By setting up a gaming rig in the Progressive Care Unit?"
"Where else would I play it? My living room has terrible ambient lighting, and Wilson refuses to let me use his big screen because of some arbitrary rule about 'boundaries.'"
Cuddy stepped further into the room, her expression shifting into one of genuine, deep-seated concern as she looked at Y/N. "For five minutes, Greg, could you maybe drop the act and focus entirely on your wife?"
House leaned back into the vinyl cushions, finally pausing the game. The screen froze on a high-speed crash sequence. He raised his cane, pointing the brass handle directly at Y/N. "Well... she married me."
Y/N couldn't help it; a sharp, involuntary snort escaped her nose.
Cuddy closed her eyes, her jaw tightening. The expression on her face clearly suggested she was mentally counting to ten in three different languages. Very slowly. Very carefully. "I don’t think that’s the ironclad legal defense you think it is, House."
"It worked once," House muttered, casting a quick, sideways glance toward the bed.
Y/N laughed again, but the sudden expansion of her chest sent a sharp, stabbing reminder through her fractured ribs. "Ow—" She winced, her hand flying instinctively to her side.
House’s attention snapped toward her instantly. The smug, flippant smirk vanished from his face in a fraction of a second. His body tensed, his thumbs tightening over the plastic controller, his eyes darting to the digital monitor tracking her heart rate. The calculated mask of indifference slipped just enough for her to see the raw, jagged edge of panic underneath.
It lasted for only half a second. But to Y/N, who knew how to read every micro-expression he possessed, it was loud enough to echo.
"Don’t do that," House muttered, his voice dropping an octave, losing its playful edge. "Laughter is bad for the structural integrity of your torso."
"You’re funny sometimes," Y/N wheezed, adjusting her breathing into shallow, careful sips of air.
"No, I’m not."
"Exactly."
Cuddy, who had been watching the brief exchange with a sharp, analytical eye, let out a soft breath. The tension in her shoulders dissipated slightly, a small, knowing smile touching her lips. She stepped closer to the left side of the bed, intentionally putting herself between House’s television and her patient. "How are you really feeling, Y/N?"
Y/N sighed, leaning her head back. "Like I fought a sedan. And the sedan won."
"That’s usually a classic clinical sign that you got hit by a car," House chimed in from the corner, his voice regaining its usual sarcastic lilt now that her heart rate had stabilized on the monitor. He nodded approvingly at Cuddy. "Strong diagnostic skills, Lisa. Next, you’ll be telling us that water is wet and that your shoes are uncomfortably tight."
Cuddy ignored him completely, reaching out to gently check the IV line running into Y/N’s uninjured arm.
Y/N shifted slightly, her head pounding with a renewed, dull throb. Every part of her felt heavy, bogged down by the sterile heat of the room and the institutional white noise. Then, she looked down at the lukewarm paper cup House had forced into her hands twenty minutes ago.
"If somebody could throw this away..." she murmured, holding it out like a white flag.
House immediately sat up straight in his chair, the controller clattering against his lap. "No. Absolutely not."
Y/N extended her arm further toward Cuddy. "Please. It’s warm, it smells like burnt rubber, and he’s using me as a human cup holder."
House pointed an aggressive finger at the cup. "That is premium, dark-roasted cafeteria sludge. It is mine."
"Not anymore."
"I was storing it in a temperature-controlled environment!"
With a swift, fluid motion, Cuddy accepted the cup from Y/N's hand.
House looked utterly horrified, his jaw dropping in an expression of theatrical betrayal. "Cuddy. Put the weapon down."
"No."
"Cuddy, I am warning you—"
"You gave it to her, House."
"I loaned it to her! With interest! She was supposed to maintain custody until I reached a saving point!"
"That's not how cups work, Greg."
Driven by sheer indignation, House actually pushed himself up from the armchair, leaning heavily on his cane as he took a threatening step forward. "Cuddy, I swear to God, if you destroy that bean-juice—"
Y/N watched the display with immense amusement, a genuine smile breaking through her exhaustion. "Throw it away, Lisa."
House turned his gaze to his wife, looking deeply wounded. "You’re enjoying this. You're using your status as a sympathetic trauma victim to orchestrate a coup."
"A little bit, yeah."
Cuddy offered House a sweet, sugary sweet smile that promised absolutely no mercy. Then, keeping her eyes locked dead-on with his, she extended her arm and tossed the paper cup directly into the large, plastic hazardous waste trash can by the door.
*Thunk.*
The cup disappeared beneath a layer of discarded paper towels and sanitizing wipes.
The room fell into a stunned silence. House stared at the trash can as if it had just swallowed his firstborn child. His face looked genuinely devastated, his mouth slightly open. "You monster," he whispered.
"Thank you," Cuddy replied smoothly, adjusting the chart under her arm.
"You need serious psychological evaluation."
"So do you. Frequently."
House pointed a trembling finger at the bin. "I was actively drinking that."
"You were bothering your heavily medicated, injured wife."
"It had another hour of viability left! The caffeine content hadn't even begun to degrade!"
Y/N let out another soft laugh, carefully managing the expansion of her ribs this time.
House looked at her. Then he looked back at the trash can. Then he looked back at her face—noticing the pale tint of her skin, the slight tremor in her hands, and the way her eyelids were fluttering with exhaustion. Slowly, his posture relaxed. The faux anger melted away, his priorities visibly shifting in real-time. It was a transition so seamless and sudden that it seemed to surprise even him.
Cuddy noticed. She always noticed when it came to House. Her expression softened, the strict administrative mask slipping to reveal the friend underneath. She walked toward the door, pausing with her hand on the handle. "Try not to terrorize her for at least ten minutes, House."
"No promises," he mumbled, already limping back toward his chair.
"Greg."
"Five minutes."
"Greg."
"Three. Take it or leave it. Brain cells require stimulation, and right now, mine are dying."
Cuddy sighed, a fond, exasperated sound. "Goodbye, Y/N. Call the nurses if he tries to make you play split-screen."
"I will. Bye, Lisa."
With a final glance, Cuddy stepped out into the hallway, the heavy door clicking shut behind her.
The room instantly became quiet, the frantic energy of the hospital fading into the background. The television screen still hummed softly, casting a blue glow over the room, but the controller remained forgotten on the armrest of House's chair.
For several long moments, neither of them spoke.
Y/N slowly settled back against the stiff hospital pillows, trying to find a position that didn't aggravate the ache in her leg or the dull throb in her skull. The room suddenly felt entirely too bright, the fluorescent lights boring into her eyes, the ambient noise of the hallway too loud, the air too warm.
House noticed within seconds. His analytical mind, always running at a hundred miles an hour, cataloged every symptom. He saw the subtle darkening of the bruises along her jawline, the tautness of the skin around her stitches, the heavy, glazed look of exhaustion in her eyes.
Yesterday had scared him. It had terrified him in a way he hadn't experienced since his own infarction. When the call had come through that her car had been T-boned at an intersection, his heart had stopped. He would never admit it—not to Cuddy, not to Wilson, and certainly not to her. He would rather swallow his cane whole than admit he was vulnerable.
But she knew.
She remembered the chaotic haze of the Emergency Room from the previous night. Through the blinding pain and the shouting of the trauma team, the only constant had been House. He had been standing right at the edge of her bay, still wearing his rumpled clothes, his hands white-knuckled over the handle of his cane, looking older and more exhausted than she had ever seen him. He hadn't left her side once. Not during the X-rays, not during the setting of the bone, not during the long hours in the recovery ward.
Now, his voice broke the silence, completely stripped of its sharp, sarcastic edge. It was low, quiet, and rough. "Does your head hurt?"
Y/N looked over at him. The theatrical performance was gone. The jokes, the games, the deflection—all dissolved into the quiet reality of the room. He looked tired.
She nodded gingerly. "A lot."
House didn't say anything. He simply stood up from his chair, using his cane to stabilize his weight.
Y/N frowned slightly, watching him approach. "What are you doing? If you're going to fish that coffee out of the trash—"
Instead of answering, House carefully maneuvered himself toward the edge of the high hospital bed. Because of his severely damaged right leg, climbing up onto a raised mattress was an awkward, painful endeavor. A string of low, muttered curses slipped from his lips, followed by a bitter complaint about the interior design of modern medical facilities, and a brief, cynical monologue about the laws of gravity.
But he didn't stop. With a final, ungraceful heave, he settled himself onto the mattress right beside her uninjured side.
Y/N smiled immediately, the warmth of his presence instantly cutting through the sterile chill of the room.
House pretended not to notice her expression. He reached down, his large, rough hand grasping the edge of her scratchy blanket and pulling it up over her shoulders, adjusting it with surprisingly gentle precision. Then, he leaned back against the raised plastic headboard, his bad leg stretched out straight.
Without needing an invitation, Y/N shifted closer to him, moving slowly to protect her ribs. She rested her head carefully against the solid breadth of his chest, avoiding his shoulder.
House’s left arm wrapped around her shoulders automatically, his hand coming to rest on her upper arm, pulling her securely against him. It was a motion so familiar, so practiced from years of shared nights, that it felt entirely natural despite the setting.
The steady, thumping rhythm of his heartbeat filled her ear, drowning out the distant beep of the monitors and the hum of the television. For the first time since she had woken up in a crumpled mass of metal and shattered glass, the phantom adrenaline in her veins finally dissipated. She relaxed, her body sinking into his side.
House gently ran his fingers through her hair, his movements slightly awkward and unpracticed in their tenderness, avoiding the sensitive area near her stitches.
"You scared people," he murmured into the quiet room.
Y/N smiled against his shirt. "People?"
House rolled his eyes, his chest rising and falling beneath her cheek. "You know. The simpletons. Wilson almost had a stroke. Cuddy looked ready to cry, which would have ruined her makeup."
"And you?" she asked softly, looking up at him.
House immediately averted his eyes, staring fixedly at the frozen video game screen across the room. "I was mostly annoyed by the paperwork. Do you have any idea how many forms a department head has to sign when their spouse is admitted?"
Y/N laughed softly, a tiny sound that only hurt a little bit. "You were worried."
"No."
"Greg."
"I don't possess the necessary emotional hardware for worry. It's a design flaw."
"You stayed here all night."
"The chairs in the lobby have excellent lumbar support. And I wanted to steal Wilson's lunch from the lounge fridge at 3:00 AM."
Her smile widened, her eyes closing as the warmth of his body enveloped her. House let out a long, defeated sigh, his fingers tracing a slow, comforting pattern against her arm.
"I hate you," he muttered, his voice thick with a strange, heavy emotion.
"No, you don't."
"No," he agreed softly after a long pause. He tightened his grip on her shoulder just a fraction, keeping her close, keeping her safe. "No, I don't."
Y/N shifted a millimeter closer, ignoring the dull aches and the heavy cast. She tucked her face securely into the crook of his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of him—cheap coffee, old leather, and soap. "I love you."
House looked down at her, his sharp blue eyes softening in that rare, unshielded way that he only ever allowed her to see. It was the look he hid from the rest of the world behind a wall of cynicism and brilliant diagnoses. "I love you too."
Y/N grinned weakly, her eyelids growing heavier by the second as the exhaustion of her injuries finally pulled her back down. "Even if you’re incredibly strange."
House snorted, a quiet sound in the dimming room. "I could say the exact same thing about you. You’re the one who agreed to live with me."
"Fair point."
"You married me."
"You asked."
"You said yes."
"Clearly, a massive lapse in judgment. The concussion must have started years ago."
"The biggest mistake of your life," House murmured, his tone entirely devoid of sarcasm now.
Y/N didn't reply. The gentle, rhythmic stroking of his hand through her hair was a hypnotic rhythm, easing the pounding in her head and soothing the ache in her bones. The game on the television remained paused, the graphics casting soft shadows across the wall, entirely forgotten.
For once in his life, Gregory House wasn't looking for a distraction. He didn't care about the medical mysteries waiting down the hall, he didn't care about proving someone wrong, and he didn't need a puzzle to solve. His wife was alive. She was bruised, she was broken, she was going to complain about her cast for the next six weeks, but she was here.
He held her tightly as her breathing slowed, listening to the steady, reassuring pattern of her respiration until she finally drifted off into a deep, healing sleep against his chest.
-end
Tag list: @urfinalg1rl
>>> if u want to be added on my tag list, comment “tag me” and I’ll add you (this tag list will be added to future posts as well)<<<
Can you do house and a pediatrician!reader pleaseeeeee like he has a child patient and calls her down for whatever reason . And it’s really just because he’s been in a mood and wants to see her 🙁❤️🩹
>>>Consult Requested<<<
Summery: House has simply been in a terrible mood all morning, and seeing Dr. Y/N L/N—the annoyingly cheerful pediatrician he’s been secretly obsessed with—sounds considerably more appealing than admitting he’s missed her.
Hi! Would you agree to write a Greg house x reader, maybe she moved in after he got released from mayfield, and slowly he’s more tempted to get back on the Vicodin but reader doesn’t really care, (not as in she doesn’t care about him, but she doesn’t mind it if it helps the pain), like reader just accepts him and his habits. Maybe she just jokes at some point that maybe he didn’t actually quit it but at least he learned how to cook
>>> Al Dente <<<
Summery: After being released from Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital, House ends up moving into your apartment under what was supposed to be a temporary arrangement.
Pairing: Gregory House x f!reader
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn Romance, Angst with humour, emotional healing
The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the rain tapping against the windows. You were standing barefoot at the stove in one of his old Princeton-Plainsboro t-shirts, stirring pasta while steam curled around you.
“You’re overcooking it,” he said flatly from the couch.
“You’re addicted to painkillers,” you replied just as flatly.
A beat.
Then House snorted softly into his coffee mug.
It had been three months since he got out of Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital, and somehow, against all logic and reason, you had let him move into your apartment.
Wilson still looked at you with the exhausted concern of a man watching someone adopt a raccoon with a knife.
But you understood something everyone else didn’t.
Greg House was exhausting when people treated him like a problem to fix.
You never did.
You never hovered when his leg hurt so bad he couldn’t sleep. Never watched his hands for tremors. Never counted pills. Never gave him that careful, pitying look everyone seemed to master around him.
You just… accepted him.
Even the ugly parts.
Especially the ugly parts.
“You took one today,” you said casually, tasting the sauce.
House looked up sharply.
Not defensive. Just surprised.
Most people said it like an accusation.
You said it like you were commenting on the weather.
“Your observational skills remain terrifying.”
“You stopped limping halfway through Target.”
“That place is hell. Vicodin is medicinally necessary.”
You smiled to yourself.
He watched you for a moment too long.
That was happening more often lately.
At first, moving in had been practical. He needed somewhere stable after Mayfield. Wilson refused because House kept stealing his groceries and psychologically tormenting him for sport.
You had made one terrible joke over coffee — “I have a couch and low standards.”
And somehow he never left.
Now his cane leaned beside your front door like it belonged there.
Now there were medical journals piled beside your romance novels.
Now he knew exactly how you liked your coffee and you knew the difference between his real pain and the pain he exaggerated to push people away.
You plated the pasta and carried it over.
House eyed the food suspiciously.
“What’s in it?”
“Poison.”
He took a bite anyway.
Then another.
Then another.
You sat beside him cross-legged on the couch.
Rain filled the silence comfortably.
Most people expected noise from House. Sharp comments. Biting observations. Cruel little tests.
But his quieter moments were somehow more intimate.
He leaned back carefully, jaw tightening from the pain in his thigh.
You noticed.
You always noticed.
“You can take another one if you need it,” you said quietly.
House looked over at you immediately.
There it was again.
That look.
Not shock exactly.
Something softer. More dangerous.
“You know,” he said slowly, “most people prefer their loved ones conscious and non-opioid-dependent.”
“Well,” you shrugged, “most people are annoying.”
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it.
You nudged his knee with yours.
“I mean it, Greg. I don’t care if you take it.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s bad.”
“So is your attitude but I still keep you around.”
He stared at you.
Actually stared.
The sarcasm faded from his face little by little until there was just exhaustion underneath it. Raw and human and older than he liked anyone seeing.
“You really don’t care?” he asked finally.
The question came out quieter than expected.
Not manipulative.
Not testing.
Just honest.
You leaned your head against the back of the couch.
“I care if you’re hurting,” you said. “I care if you stop eating. I care if you isolate yourself for days and pretend you hate everyone.” A pause. “But I don’t think taking Vicodin magically makes you evil.”
House looked down at the pill bottle again.
Then back at you.
“You realize this is probably emotionally unhealthy.”
“Probably.”
“You should want to fix me.”
“I’m not your doctor.”
Silence settled again.
Then your eyes drifted toward the kitchen.
“You know,” you said thoughtfully, “maybe Mayfield didn’t actually cure your Vicodin problem.”
House narrowed his eyes.
“But,” you continued, “you did learn how to cook, which honestly feels like personal growth.”
He looked offended.
“I could always cook.”
“You once made spaghetti in a coffee pot.”
“It worked.”
“The noodles were crunchy.”
“Al dente.”
You burst into laughter.
Real laughter.
The kind that bent you forward and filled the room warm and bright.
House watched you with an expression so painfully fond it almost didn’t look like him anymore.
Then he reached over suddenly, gripping your ankle lightly.
Grounding himself there.
His thumb brushed once against your skin before he spoke.
“You know what your problem is?”
“I moved a clinically unstable doctor into my apartment?”
“You make this very hard.”
You tilted your head.
“Hard to what?”
His eyes flicked toward the pill bottle again.
Then back to you.
“Hard to keep pretending I don’t want things.”
The room went still.
Rain against the windows.
The ticking kitchen clock.
Your pulse suddenly loud in your ears.
House looked away first, like the admission irritated him.
Fanfic where greg houses wife is autistic loves anything pink,floral,shabby chic always wears low rise jeans Hollister jumpers,babydoll tops, denim skirts, long uggs, Isabel marants that greg got her, always wears warm tone makeup, dewy, light eyeshadow, long lashes, light pink blush, nude lip combo, always has her air in a messy bun or styled, always talking about her hyperfixations to Greg that includes cats, cooking and candles and when she gets burned out or over simulated greg gets her clothes, food or new perfume, Greg let her paint little roses to his cane once.
>>>Roses On His Cane<<<
Summery: House never expected to fall in love with someone so soft. His wife lives in pink sweaters, floral perfume, candle obsessions, and endless hyperfixations — and somehow turns his cold apartment into a home.
Pairing: Gregory House x f!reader
Genre: Autism Representation / Married Life / Slow Domestic Romance / soft!house
Everyone at the hospital assumed Greg House had married someone equally terrifying.
A lawyer, maybe.
A woman who argued for sport and drank whiskey neat and insulted people for fun.
Not—
her.
Not the girl who walked into the hospital lobby in a cream babydoll top layered under a tiny pink cardigan, denim mini skirt, and tall chestnut Uggs while carrying a tote bag covered in cats.
Not the woman who smelled faintly of vanilla and roses.
Not the woman who once spent twenty uninterrupted minutes explaining to House why Yankee Candle’s “Pink Sands” was emotionally different from Bath & Body Works’ “Pink Pineapple Sunrise.”
And definitely not the woman currently sitting in House’s office chair with her legs tucked underneath her while decorating patient files with tiny flower doodles.
Foreman stared.
Chase blinked twice.
Cameron looked delighted.
House limped past them, coffee in one hand.
“Why are you all standing around like Victorian children witnessing electricity for the first time?”
Foreman pointed carefully into the office. “Your wife is reorganizing your desk by color.”
“She does that when stressed.”
“She’s using pink sticky notes.”
House sipped his coffee. “And?”
“She labeled your vicodin bottle.”
“Good. Last week I accidentally swallowed a breath mint instead.”
Inside the office, she looked up immediately when she heard his cane tap against the floor.
Her whole face brightened.
“You’re back!”
“Unfortunately.”
“You forgot your lunch.”
“I was hoping to.”
She ignored that, already standing to hand him the pink floral lunch bag she’d packed that morning. A tiny cat keychain swung from the zipper.
Chase looked physically pained trying not to laugh.
House noticed instantly.
“You have something to say, pretty boy?”
“Nope.”
“She made heart-shaped strawberries,” Cameron said, smiling.
House looked offended. “You inspected my lunch?”
“She showed us pictures.”
“She’s proud of the strawberries,” Foreman deadpanned.
His wife beamed. “They came out really cute.”
House stared at her for a second.
Then opened the lunch bag.
Inside was a neatly packed sandwich, strawberries cut into little hearts, and a note written in pink gel pen.
Don’t skip lunch or I’ll fight you.
There was also a badly drawn cat.
House folded the note carefully and shoved it into his pocket before anyone could comment.
Unfortunately, Wilson walked in at the exact wrong moment.
“Oh my God,” James Wilson said. “You kept the note.”
House looked ready to commit murder.
“She draws tiny cats on all of them,” Wilson continued gleefully.
“She also alphabetized my tea collection,” she added proudly.
“You own tea?” Chase asked House.
“No,” House replied flatly. “Apparently we own tea.”
—
Living with House was strange.
Living with his wife was stranger.
Their apartment looked like two completely incompatible people had been forced together by a sitcom producer.
One half:
Records. Medical books. Dark furniture. Mismatched mugs. Chaos.
The other:
Pink floral blankets.Vintage-style vanity trays. Candles arranged by scent category. Tiny porcelain cats. Skincare products covering every bathroom surface.
And somehow—
it worked.
Mostly because House let her have whatever made her happy.
Including the disastrous rose wallpaper incident.
“It looks like a grandmother haunted by Etsy died in here,” he informed her while staring at the bedroom wall.
She gasped. “You said you liked it!”
“I lied.”
“You helped me put it up!”
“You looked emotionally fragile.”
She narrowed her eyes.
House smirked slightly and sat down on the bed while she continued adjusting fairy lights above the headboard.
Truthfully?
He liked watching her exist.
Liked watching her ramble while doing makeup at the vanity every morning, surrounded by expensive products and pink brushes.
Liked hearing her talk endlessly about cooking videos and candle reviews and cat breeds.
Liked the way she’d crawl into his lap wearing oversized Hollister sweaters and smell like vanilla perfume after bad sensory days.
She made his apartment softer.
Quieter.
Warmer.
Even if she did own an unreasonable amount of decorative pillows.
One winter evening, House came home to find every light in the apartment off except the kitchen.
His wife sat curled on the counter wearing one of his old Princeton-Plainsboro hoodies and fuzzy socks, mascara slightly smudged.
Three untouched candles sat beside her.
That was the first sign something was wrong.
She always lit the candles.
House leaned his cane against the doorway. “Who died?”
She shrugged weakly.
Bad sign number two.
House watched her carefully.
No music playing.
No talking.
No hyperfixation rambling.
Just silence.
“How bad?” he asked finally.
She rubbed at her sleeves. “Everything feels too loud.”
House’s expression shifted instantly.
Burnout.
Again.
Without another word, he walked over and stood between her knees.
“Hey,” he said quieter.
She avoided eye contact. “My brain feels itchy.”
Normal people probably wouldn’t have understood that sentence.
House did.
He gently pulled her hands away from her sleeves before they could start fidgeting hard enough to hurt.
“Did you eat?”
A tiny shrug.
Translation: no.
House sighed dramatically like this was deeply annoying for him personally before reaching into the cabinet.
Ten minutes later, she sat bundled in blankets on the couch while he handed her grilled cheese cut into little squares because she ate easier that way when overwhelmed.
“You’re staring at me,” she mumbled.
“You’ve blinked six times in ten minutes. I’m monitoring you.”
“That’s creepy.”
“I’m a doctor. We thrive on creepy.”
She smiled a little at that.
Better.
House sat beside her afterward while she leaned heavily against his shoulder.
The apartment smelled faintly of vanilla frosting from the candle he’d lit for her.
Quiet.
Safe.
After a while she whispered, “Can I tell you something?”
“Probably not legally.”
“I love you more when I’m burnt out.”
House frowned slightly. “That’s concerning.”
“No, because…” She played with the sleeve of his sweater. “Everyone else feels sharp when I’m overwhelmed. But you don’t.”
Something in his face softened.
Tiny.
Almost impossible to notice unless you knew him.
“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered.
“You bought me three perfumes this month.”
“You cried in Sephora.”
“The lights were evil.”
“They were fluorescent.”
“Exactly”
House snorted quietly.
Then he reached over, grabbing her hand absentmindedly and rubbing his thumb across her knuckles while she ate.
No sarcasm.
No jokes.
Just grounding her silently the way he’d learned to do over the years.
Later that night, after she finally fell asleep against his chest, House glanced toward the black cane resting beside the couch.
Tiny pale pink roses still curled around the handle where she’d painted them months ago.
One petal was chipped.
He traced it lightly with his thumb.
Then looked down at his sleeping wife buried in blankets and floral pajamas.
And for maybe the thousandth time since marrying her, Gregory House had the deeply irritating realization that he would probably destroy anyone who made her cry.
Can you pls make one where House has gone deaf and he refuses to get hearing aids, but his wife gets him one?
>>>The Sound of You <<<
Summery: House can handle pain. He can handle misery. What he can’t handle is a world where he can no longer hear his wife laugh.
Pairing: Gregory House x f!reader
Genre: Angst with Happy Ending / Established Relationship / Domestic /Emotional Hurt Comfort / Married House
The first week after House lost his hearing, he treated it like a challenge.
The second week, he treated it like a war.
By the third, everyone else was exhausted.
“HE CAN READ LIPS,” Wilson whispered loudly to Foreman in the diagnostics office.
House, sitting across the room with a tennis ball and a deeply offended expression, pointed without looking up.
“I can still tell when you’re gossiping, you giant blond giraffe.”
Wilson blinked. “See? He’s fine.”
He wasn’t.
Y/N knew it before anyone else did.
Because she saw the moments nobody else did.
The way House froze whenever someone spoke from behind him.
How he stopped playing piano because he couldn’t hear the notes correctly anymore.
How he snapped harder than usual when conversations became exhausting tangles of half-read lips and guessing games.
And at night—
God.
At night hurt the most.
House used to fall asleep to her voice.
Even if he pretended otherwise.
She used to read beside him in bed, rambling about stupid articles or hospital drama while he muttered sarcastic replies into the pillow.
Now the room sat in silence.
Heavy silence.
The kind that made grief feel physical.
“You should try the hearing aids,” she signed slowly one evening.
House scoffed from the couch.
“I’d rather eat glass.”
“You can’t ignore this forever.”
“Yes, I can. I ignored my father for eighteen years.”
She sighed.
He was still beautiful when he was miserable.
That was the problem.
Grey sweatpants. Old Princeton-Plainsboro shirt. Cane abandoned beside the couch because he was too irritated to bother with it. Blue eyes fixed stubbornly on the TV he couldn’t properly hear.
He looked angry at the entire universe for betraying him.
Again.
“I don’t need them,” he muttered.
Y/N walked closer.
“You missed three pages calling your name today.”
“I was concentrating.”
“You walked into a glass door yesterday.”
“The door moved.”
“Greg.”
“I hate when you use my government name.”
Her chest tightened.
Because underneath the sarcasm—
He was scared.
Terrified, actually.
Not hearing people meant losing control.
And House without control was like watching a storm trapped inside a glass bottle.
He looked away from her.
“You know what happens when people see hearing aids?” he said quietly. “They start talking slower. Louder. Like you’re stupid.”
Y/N’s expression softened immediately.
“Oh.”
That was it.
Not pride.
Not stubbornness.
Fear.
House had spent his whole life being the smartest person in every room. Losing his hearing felt like losing the weapon he survived with.
She sat beside him carefully.
“You know what I see?”
He rolled his eyes.
“A middle-aged addict with emotional problems?”
“I see my husband,” she signed gently. “Who still scares surgeons into crying.”
That made the corner of his mouth twitch.
“A beautiful man who still solves impossible cases.”
“Debatable.”
“A jerk,” she added.
“True.”
“And someone I love very much.”
His eyes flickered.
House looked at her then.
Really looked at her.
And for one horrible second she saw how tired he was.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Like fighting the world every second of every day had finally become too much.
“I can’t hear you laugh anymore,” he admitted roughly.
The sentence shattered her.
Because House almost never admitted pain out loud.
Not this kind.
She reached for his hand immediately.
“You will again.”
He shook his head.
“And if they don’t work?”
“Then we figure something else out.”
“And if people pity me?”
“I’ll hit them with your cane.”
That actually made him laugh silently.
She felt tears burn behind her eyes because she couldn’t hear it properly either.
Just broken air.
Not his real laugh.
God.
She missed his laugh.
The next morning, House woke up alone.
Which was suspicious.
Very suspicious.
He limped into the kitchen squinting.
Y/N stood beside the table holding a tiny white box.
House stopped immediately.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“You haven’t even looked at them.”
“I’m looking right now. I hate them.”
She walked over slowly.
“They’re barely visible.”
“They’re tiny instruments of humiliation.”
“They’re hearing aids.”
“Same thing.”
Y/N cupped his face before he could retreat.
And suddenly House looked less argumentative.
Because his wife touching him always short-circuited his ability to function like a normal human being.
“You don’t have to wear them forever,” she signed softly. “Just try.”
House stared at her for a long moment.
Then at the box.
Then back at her.
“…You already bought them?”
“You think I’d survive this marriage without making reckless financial decisions?”
Another tiny twitch of his mouth.
God, she loved those tiny almost-smiles.
Finally—
With the suffering expression of a man being marched to execution—
House took the hearing aids.
“You’re evil.”
“You married me.”
“That was clearly a cry for help.”
She helped him put them in.
His hands trembled slightly.
That scared her more than anything.
Because Gregory House never trembled.
The room stayed quiet for a second.
Then—
House suddenly inhaled sharply.
His eyes widened.
The refrigerator humming.
The clock ticking.
Rain against the windows.
Small stupid sounds most people ignored.
He looked overwhelmed by all of it.
Then—
Y/N spoke carefully.
“Hi.”
House froze.
His eyes snapped to hers so fast it almost hurt.
Because he heard it.
Actually heard it.
Not muffled.
Not guessed.
Her voice.
His throat moved once.
Again.
And then House did something that almost never happened.
He cried.
Silently.
Completely devastated by it.
Y/N immediately wrapped her arms around him as he buried his face against her neck.
“I hate this,” he whispered shakily.
“I know.”
“I really hate this.”
“I know.”
But he held onto her tighter anyway.
And later that day, when Wilson walked into diagnostics and nearly screamed seeing the hearing aids—
House glared at him.
“One comment and I’m unplugging your life support.”
Wilson grinned.
“You can hear me again?”
House looked toward the hallway where Y/N stood watching nervously.
Then back at Wilson.
A softer expression flickered across his face for half a second.
“…Yeah,” he muttered quietly. “My wife’s annoying again.”
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this is a weird and specific request, but could you make a fic where reader has curly hair and house helps them to style it?
>>>Curl Theory<<<
Summary: Your curls have declared war on you. Unfortunately for House, he happens to be present when the battle begins… and somehow ends up personally involved in trying to tame them.
Hii !! Not a request but rather a question :3 I was wondering if you have like a taglist ?? Because if you do I’d love to be put on it I love your work sm it’s so yummy 🥹
Hiii! First of all thank you for reading my fics :)
I created a tag list for this fanfic After Everything. Other than this I don’t have it. However I would love to create one if readers want me too.
I can tag you on the future fics when I post them. Would you like that?
(If anyone wants to be tagged on future posts feel free to message me)
Can I make a house md fanfic request where it's set in season one and reader is houses alternative girlfriend and is in her 30s and mostly works around dead bodys (I'm not good at medical related stuff💔) and one day she is sitting in her ln her office and house comes in giving her a blood sample and saying "since vampires drink blood... Taught you would want it" and reader giving him a weird look but then house walking over to her and kissing her leading to them almost making out until reader stops saying she doesn't want to ruin her makeup
>>>Vampire Girlfriend<<<
Summary: Working in pathology means you spend most of your days around the dead, wear mostly black, and have a sense of humor about it. Naturally, House has decided this means you’re a vampire.
Pairing: Gregory House x Reader
Genre: playful romance, teasing, fluff, banter
Most doctors avoided the pathology wing of PPTH unless they absolutely had to be there.
Too quiet.
Too cold.
Too many reminders that not every patient made it out alive.
You, however, liked it.
After years working with autopsies and lab reports, the silence had become comforting rather than eerie. No frantic alarms. No demanding patients. Just careful work, paperwork, and the soft buzz of fluorescent lights.
You were sitting in your office that afternoon, legs crossed under your desk while reviewing notes from a recent autopsy. A small mirror rested beside the chart where you had been touching up your eyeliner earlier.
Your style had always leaned a little alternative — black clothes, silver rings, dark lipstick. It wasn’t exactly the usual hospital look.
House loved to comment on that.
Which was why the door suddenly opening without a knock made you sigh before you even looked up.
“That better not be you, House.”
A familiar voice answered immediately.
“It is.”
Of course it was.
You looked up just in time to see Gregory House limping into your office with his cane, holding a small vial between two fingers like he had brought you something very important.
You narrowed your eyes.
“What did you steal from the lab this time?”
House held up the vial.
“Gift.”
You stared at the dark red liquid inside.
“…That’s blood.”
“Yes.”
“You walked across the hospital to give me blood.”
He shrugged casually.
“Since vampires drink blood… I thought you’d want it.”
You blinked slowly.
Then leaned back in your chair, folding your arms.
“Let me make sure I understand this correctly.”
House waited.
“You think I’m a vampire.”
“Your wardrobe suggests it.”
“And your brilliant idea was to bring me a snack.”
“Exactly.”
You gave him the most unimpressed look you could manage.
“House, I work with corpses.”
“Yes.”
“I do not drink patients.”
“You’ve never denied it before.”
You sighed.
“I’m dating an idiot.”
House raised an eyebrow.
“You’re dating a genius.”
“You brought me blood.”
“You’re welcome.”
Despite yourself, you laughed softly.
House watched you for a moment — the faint smile, the way your dark hair fell across your shoulder, the rings glinting when you reached for the vial.
He liked this office.
It was quieter than the rest of the hospital.
And you looked comfortable here.
You turned the vial slowly between your fingers.
“You realize if anyone walked in right now, it would look like you’re feeding my blood addiction.”
House leaned his hip against your desk.
“That’s the most believable explanation for why you date me.”
You snorted.
“Your personality is the believable explanation.”
House tilted his head slightly, watching you.
Then, without warning, he stepped closer.
You looked up.
“…Why are you suddenly in my personal space?”
House didn’t answer.
Instead, he leaned down and kissed you.
The kiss caught you by surprise — not because you minded, but because House rarely started things so openly.
Your hand instinctively grabbed the front of his jacket to steady yourself as he kissed you again, slower this time.
Warm.
Unhurried.
You could feel the faint scratch of his stubble and the familiar scent of his cologne.
When you pulled back slightly to breathe, you laughed under your breath.
“House…”
He didn’t move far.
His hand had settled lightly on the edge of your desk beside you.
“Yes?”
“That was unexpected.”
“Complaining?”
“Not exactly.”
Your fingers were still holding his jacket.
House noticed.
His mouth curved slightly before he leaned down again, kissing you once more.
This time it lingered.
Your hand slid up to his shoulder while his brushed softly against your cheek, tilting your head just enough to deepen the kiss.
For someone who claimed to hate emotional attachment, he was being suspiciously affectionate.
You were just beginning to forget about work entirely when you suddenly pulled back.
House frowned slightly.
“…What.”
You reached for the mirror on your desk and examined your lipstick.
“I just fixed this.”
House stared at you.
“You stopped kissing me… because of lipstick.”
You nodded seriously.
“I spent fifteen minutes on it.”
“You work with dead bodies.”
“Yes.”
“And makeup is your priority.”
You snapped the mirror shut.
“Absolutely.”
House shook his head slowly.
“You’re impossible.”
You stood up from your chair, now only inches away from him.
“Correction,” you said, smiling faintly. “I just have standards.”
House raised an eyebrow.
“You stopped making out with me for eyeliner.”
You leaned forward slightly, brushing your fingers over his jacket collar.
“I didn’t stop.”
“Oh?”
“I paused.”
House studied your expression.
“…That’s a dangerous word.”
You smiled.
“Good.”
He huffed quietly, but there was no real annoyance in it.
Your hand slipped into his for a second — a rare, gentle moment neither of you usually acknowledged out loud.
Then you glanced at the blood vial still sitting on your desk.
“You know I’m keeping this.”
House groaned softly.
“I regret everything.”
You held it up with a grin.
“Best gift you’ve ever given me.”
House picked up his cane and started toward the door.
Just before leaving, he looked back at you.
“…You’re still a vampire.”
You smiled sweetly.
“And you’re still the idiot who brought me dinner.”
House shook his head.
But there was a small smile on his face when he walked out.
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Where the reader is a doctor who doesn’t like blood. She watches someone draw blood from a patient then sways on her spot as he wraps his arms around her waist to steady her. "Are you ok?" He asked the reader she tries to speak but passes out in his arms as he catches her and holds her bridal style as her head lolls on his shoulder. He takes her to the Med bay and waits for her to wake up then confesses that he loved her for a long time. They become GF/BF.
Thank u ☺️
>>>Irony<<<
Summary: You’re a brilliant doctor at Princeton-Plainsboro… with one deeply embarrassing secret: you hate blood.
Pairing: Gregory House x Reader
Genre: fluff, hurt/comfort, soft House, confession, coworkers to lovers
Working at PPTH meant seeing things most people couldn’t handle.
Rare diseases.
Emergency surgeries.
Blood.
Lots of blood.
For most doctors, it eventually became normal.
For you…
It never did.
You were excellent at diagnostics — observant, intelligent, able to notice tiny symptoms others missed. But whenever blood appeared in large quantities, your stomach did a very inconvenient flip.
Which was why you tried very hard to avoid watching procedures involving needles.
Unfortunately, today wasn’t one of those days.
You stood near the counter in the patient room while Chase prepared a syringe to draw blood from the patient.
You kept your arms crossed, pretending to review the chart.
Totally calm.
Totally professional.
Absolutely not nervous.
Across the room, leaning against the wall with his cane, Gregory House watched everything with mild boredom.
And then he noticed you.
You had gone suspiciously pale.
House frowned slightly.
He had worked with you long enough to recognize that look.
Your shoulders had stiffened.
Your breathing had slowed.
Your eyes kept flicking toward the syringe before quickly looking away.
Interesting.
Chase slid the needle carefully into the patient’s arm.
Dark red blood filled the vial.
Your stomach dropped.
You swallowed hard.
It’s fine.
You’re a doctor.
You’ve seen worse.
The room felt warmer.
Your vision blurred slightly at the edges.
House pushed himself off the wall.
“Chase,” he said casually, “are you planning to drain the patient or just collect a sample?”
Chase glanced up. “What?”
“You’re taking forever.”
Chase frowned but continued wrapping the tube.
You tried to focus on the chart in your hands.
The letters swam.
The room tilted slightly.
Oh no.
Your fingers tightened around the clipboard.
You took a slow breath.
“Okay,” you whispered quietly to yourself. “You’re fine.”
But your body disagreed.
Your balance shifted.
The floor seemed to move under your feet.
And suddenly—
Strong arms wrapped around your waist.
You gasped softly as someone pulled you back against them before your knees could give out.
House.
You recognized him instantly — the familiar scent of his cologne, the firm steadiness of his grip.
His voice was unusually gentle.
“Easy.”
Your head spun.
You tried to focus on his face.
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.
You opened your mouth to answer.
“I—”
Your vision went completely dark.
Your body went limp.
For a split second, everything froze.
Then House caught you fully as you fainted.
Your head fell softly against his shoulder.
Chase stared.
“…Did she just pass out?”
Foreman blinked in disbelief.
“She’s a doctor.”
House rolled his eyes.
“Yes, Foreman. Apparently doctors also come with an off switch.”
Your arms hung loosely as House adjusted his grip.
For a moment he simply looked down at you.
Your face was pale, your lashes resting softly against your cheeks.
You looked peaceful.
Fragile.
Something protective flickered across his expression.
Then he shifted his hold and lifted you into his arms.
Bridal style.
Chase’s eyebrows shot up.
“House—”
But House was already walking toward the door.
“She fainted,” he said flatly. “Try not to analyze the obvious.”
Your head rested against his shoulder as he carried you down the hallway.
Several nurses stared.
House ignored them completely.
⸻
The med bay was quiet.
House gently set you down on one of the beds.
Your hair had fallen across your face.
Without thinking, he brushed it aside.
Then he leaned against the nearby counter, arms crossed, cane resting beside him.
And waited.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
House didn’t leave.
He could have.
Normally he would have.
But instead he stayed, watching the slow rise and fall of your breathing.
His expression softened in a way no one else ever saw.
Finally, you stirred.
A soft groan escaped you.
Your eyes fluttered open.
The bright ceiling lights made you squint.
You blinked slowly.
Then you noticed someone standing beside the bed.
Your gaze focused.
“…House?”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Congratulations. You’re alive.”
You blinked again, memory returning in pieces.
Chase.
The syringe.
Blood.
Oh.
“Oh no.”
House tilted his head slightly.
“That’s your first reaction?”
You slowly sat up.
Your face burned with embarrassment.
“I fainted.”
“Yes.”
“In front of everyone.”
“Yes.”
You buried your face in your hands.
“This is the most humiliating moment of my professional life.”
House snorted.
“You fainted dramatically. Points for style.”
You peeked through your fingers.
“You caught me?”
“Yes.”
You slowly lowered your hands.
“…Did you carry me?”
House hesitated.
“…Yes.”
“Bridal style?”
“…Yes.”
You stared at him.
Then groaned softly.
“I’m never showing my face in this hospital again.”
House shrugged.
“You’re the only doctor I know who passes out from blood.”
“The irony is painful.”
For a moment, silence settled between you.
Then you noticed something strange.
“…You stayed.”
House looked away.
“Someone had to make sure you didn’t fall off the bed.”
You smiled slightly.
“That sounds suspiciously caring.”
House shifted uncomfortably
“I’m not caring.”
“Right.”
You swung your legs off the bed.
The room tilted slightly again, but House immediately stepped forward.
His hand gently steadied your arm.
The touch was warm.
Careful.
You looked up at him.
He didn’t pull away right away.
For once, neither of you made a sarcastic comment.
The moment lingered.
House cleared his throat.
“…Wilson says I should tell you something.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“That’s already concerning.”
House rubbed the back of his neck, clearly annoyed with himself.
“I’ve liked you for a while.”
You froze.
He continued quickly, clearly uncomfortable.
“Actually… a long time. Which is stupid. And inconvenient. And probably your fault.”
You stared at him in disbelief.
“You’re confessing your feelings after I fainted?”
“Yes.”
“That’s your strategy?”
“You were unconscious. Less chance of rejection.”
You laughed softly.
House looked confused.
“You’re laughing.”
“Because you’re ridiculous.”
He frowned.
“That’s not encouraging.”
You stepped closer to him.
Closer than usual.
“You know something, House?”
“What.”
“I’ve liked you for a long time too.”
For once, Gregory House looked genuinely shocked.
“…That makes no sense.”
“Why?”
“You’re smart.”
You laughed again.
“That might be the worst compliment I’ve ever received.”
You reached out and gently took his hand.
House stiffened slightly, clearly not used to the softness.
But he didn’t pull away.
Your voice was quiet now.
“You caught me.”
“Yes.”
“You carried me.”
“Yes.”
“You waited here.”
“…Yes.”
You smiled warmly at him.
“That sounds like someone who cares.”
House sighed quietly.
“…Maybe a little.”
Your heart softened.
You stepped even closer.
Then you wrapped your arms gently around him.
House froze.
Physical affection was not something he was used to.
But after a moment…
Slowly…
His arms wrapped around you too.
Carefully.
Like you might disappear if he held you too tightly.
Your head rested against his shoulder.
“Next time I faint,” you murmured softly, “you should kiss me.”
House huffed quietly.
“That sounds medically irresponsible.”
You pulled back slightly and looked up at him.
“…So?”
He studied your face for a long moment.
Then, very gently, he leaned down.
And kissed you.
Soft.
Careful.
The kind of kiss that felt like something fragile finally falling into place.
When he pulled back, your cheeks were warm and your smile was brighter than he had ever seen.
House looked at you like he was still trying to understand how this had happened.
Author’s Note: It’s my birthday today!! 🎂🎉 So obviously the most reasonable and responsible thing to do was write a Dr. House fic instead of doing literally anything productive. This is my little birthday special because I wanted some soft Greg House content for my own emotional wellbeing. Hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed imagining this grumpy man being secretly romantic.
Y/N: You’ve been weird all day.
House: That’s a very vague accusation.
Y/N: You didn’t insult anyone in the cafeteria.
House: I was conserving energy.
Y/N: And you didn’t steal Wilson’s lunch.
House: I’m evolving.
Y/N: …Greg.
House: What?
Y/N: You forgot my birthday, didn’t you?
House: I didn’t forget.
Y/N: Then why have you been acting like this all day?
House: Because birthdays are stupid.
Y/N: Wow. Thanks.
House: They’re loud, people sing badly, and there’s always cake that tastes like regret.
Y/N: You’re unbelievable.
House: Come here.
Y/N: Why?
House: Just… come here.
(She walks closer. House reaches into his jacket and awkwardly hands her a small box.)
Y/N: Greg…?
House: Open it before I change my mind.
(Inside is a small necklace.)
Y/N: You said birthdays were stupid.
House: They are.
Y/N: Then why did you get me this?
House: Because you aren’t.
(Y/N looks up at him, surprised.)
House: Don’t make a big deal out of it.
Y/N: You bought me jewelry.
House: It was on sale.
Y/N: You remembered.
House: Obviously.
Y/N: Thank you.
House: Don’t thank me yet.
Y/N: Why?
House: Because if Wilson finds out I did something romantic, I’ll have to ruin his life.
(He gently pulls her closer and kisses her forehead.)
House: Happy birthday, Y/N.
Y/N: You’re secretly soft.
House: Don’t spread that rumor.
-end
P.S. This was inspired by a moment between me and my boyfriend, who is very House-coded—grumpy, thinks birthdays are stupid, but secretly soft. And yes, he did give me a necklace.
