O Captain, My Captain!
She/Her; Bisexual; I'm a lover of all movies/shows
Top ones are: House, Stranger Things, Loki, TADC
An artist so drop a request in the ask box!
I feel like this needs said so imma say it. And it definitely needs said during Pride.
I like how all these āintellectualsā (transphobic supremacists), are acting so smart when they learned pronouns as a child and still canāt understand them as an adult.
all i want for 2026 is that gigantic rancid AI bubble to finally burst in such a catastrophic way that the consequences will be so good and i'll never have to see another AI generated image ever again
You ever just, think of kissing your f/o so bad to make them weak in the knees and breathless with a dazed look in their eyes all to just hear them whisper your name with that raw hunger of want and desire to keep going.
Summery:House notices a sudden shift in your daily habitsāfrom avoiding your mandatory morning coffee to an uncharacteristic wave of irritabilityāhe 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 didnāt 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.
"Iām just tired, House," you sighed, tossing the chart onto the desk and leaning your head back against the vinyl chair. "Go terrorize Cuddy. Iām not in the mood to be your verbal punching bag today."
House didnāt 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 Foremanās 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 Chaseās 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.
Houseās 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 youād brought over to his apartment to celebrate a mutual victory over a near-impossible diagnosis. One thing had led to anotherāa 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 abdomenāa protective, subconscious gesture.
Houseās 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 tenderāyouāve been adjusting your lab coat straps all day. Your lower back hurts, your olfactory senses are in overdrive, youāre 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 itās 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 youād 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 saveāfocused, 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
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Being a regular ass person trying to get to work in the middle of a Spider-Man and Doc Ock fight. You probably should seek shelter, but your boss will yell at you if you miss any more work. Otto is slammed into the ground literal inches from you. As he's getting up and dusting himself off, you SWEAR he glances at you and winks. You don't know whether to be terrified or flattered, and now you're gonna be late for work.
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