Chapter 1: transmasc reader
Chapter Text
You’ve been working at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital as a nurse for a few years now, so you’re accustomed to Dr. Gregory House’s style of communication: direct, blunt, and even demeaning. Since he’s the Head of Diagnostics department on the fourth floor, you don’t see the man around often. When he’s in your area, it’s usually him making a swift entrance to berate one of your colleagues before storming off.
So when Dr. House makes another one of these impromptu visits, you don’t think anything of it. You’re focused on your paperwork, and you don’t notice his expectant gaze until his voice is breaking through the silence.
“You,” he says sharply, pointing a finger at you. Your heart jumps in your chest. “With me. Now.”
“You know my name, House,” you huff, begrudgingly heading over to him. You know better than to test the diagnostician’s patience.
House rolls his eyes, motioning for you to follow after him. “Come on. And bring supplies for an injection.”
“What is it?” you try to ask, confused by this sudden request. You gather the requested supplies before following after House as he heads down the hall. He pauses in front of an empty room and throws his clipboard into the chart holder just outside. You blink in bewilderment, struggling to process what’s going on. House doesn’t seem to care, instead entering the empty room and getting settled on the exam table. Confused, you follow after him and close the door. Maybe he just needs to have a private conversation? Though that doesn’t explain why he’s sitting on the exam table as if he’s a patient. Maybe this is another one of his tests, where he pretends to have something outlandishly rare. He’s somewhat infamous for those experiments.
You sigh and set your supplies down on the nearby counter, before turning to House expectantly.
There’s a beat of silence, before he just hands you a vial wordlessly. You blink and look down at it, reading the label. It’s testosterone cypionate.
…You’re starting to understand why he called you here. There’s no patient, because House is the one getting the injection. He needs his T shot.
And, for some reason, he’s chosen you to be the one to administer it.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” House scoffs, as if sensing your thoughts. He glares at you hard. You frown at the remark, before reluctantly accepting that he has a point. You’re the safest option of the nursing staff, considering you’re also transgender. It was the most logical option.
At least, until you realize there’s a hole in that logic. “Why aren’t you just doing this yourself?” you ask. House doesn’t ask—or, more accurately, use—others for help. Ever.
“Wilson laced my coffee with more coffee,” House scoffs. He holds out a trembling hand to demonstrate. It is shaking rather violently.
“Ah,” you say wisely. You aren’t given even a second to breathe before House is continuing to speak.
“Time’s ticking,” he says languidly, tapping his fingers against his knee loudly. “People are dying.”
“People are always dying,” you say with a shake of your head, begrudgingly returning your attention to the matter at hand. You inspect the vial before placing it on the nearby counter. It’s a better idea to prep the injection site first.
You sigh and look down at the vial, then over at him. “Intramuscular, right?” you question. House jerks his head in a mockery of a nod. You frown. “You’re going to need to take those jeans off,” you realize aloud, nodding down at his pants. The shot is usually administered near the thigh area, which isn’t accessible when he’s wearing jeans.
“Eager, are we?” House smirks.
You just stare at him, unimpressed.
“Prude,” he scoffs, before undoing his belt. You turn your back and put a new pair of gloves on, before readying the needle and vial.
“How much do you take?” you ask.
“One hundred,” House answers flatly. You extract the proper amount of medication, pretending not to feel House’s eyes on your back as you do it. Once the needle is prepped, and the sound of rustling clothing has stopped, you turn back around.
House has shed his jeans, leaving them in a disorganized pile on the nearby chair. He raises a brow, taking notice of how your gaze flits down to his thighs and catalogues the area.
“Like what you see?” he sneers.
You roll your eyes. “Left leg, I’m assuming?” you ask instead.
House doesn’t say anything; you take that as a confirmation. You suppose you shouldn’t have bothered asking—giving him the shot in his bad leg would just be stupidity. You push the thought aside and rip the alcohol wipe out of its package before cleaning the area on the inside of his thigh. A minute flinch runs through House—you pretend not to notice.
“Ready?” you ask him, after you toss the medical wipe and pick up the syringe again.
“Shut up,” House scoffs.
Knowing that’s the best you’re going to get, you inject the testosterone into his thigh. You’re at a bit of an awkward angle, leaving you forced to lean over House. When his knee bucks up ever so slightly, you put a hand down to prevent it from moving further.
“Cold ass hands,” House scowls, glaring at your gloved hand on his thigh like it’s an unwelcome guest. He looks at you, then looks away and scoffs. “Easy, Jack Frost.”
“Clever,” you say flatly. You sense him twitching a bit still and look up to glare at him. “Kick me and I’ll kill you.”
“No promises,” House responds.
You stifle another sigh, finishing off the shot before pressing a piece of gauze to the area. House rolls his eyes at the unnecessary material, but he holds it to his thigh while you dispose of the needle.
“And where’s the Band-Aid that keeps me from falling apart?” House asks moments later.
You always keep a few spare Band-Aids in the pockets of your scrubs, just in case. They prove very useful for moments like these.
“Well, I have Hello Kitty and Star Wars Band-Aids to choose from,” you respond, pulling them out of your pocket. “The two genders.”
House chokes on a dry sound. Was that a laugh? No, you must’ve imagined it.
“How will I ever choose?” he says sarcastically. House then reaches into his own pocket and procures a regular Band-Aid, putting it on his thigh.
“You’re no fun,” you scoff, begrudgingly putting the children’s Band-Aids away. Putting a Cinnamoroll Band-Aid on House would’ve made you unreasonably happy. You’re not quite sure why—it’s just a funny picture. But of course, House is a complete spoilsport.
For a few seconds, neither of you move. You’re just content to steal this moment—a brief reprieve in the middle of your hectic days at the hospital.
It can’t last forever, unfortunately. Both of you have better things to be doing than sharing a somewhat awkward silence in an exam room.
You look over at House to find he’s still not wearing his jeans from before. You exhale. “Put your pants on before we get sent to HR.”
“I am HR,” House says with the unshakeable certainty of someone who has committed endless HR violations. You struggle not to laugh.
“Sure,” you say skeptically, turning your back to give him some privacy. You throw your gloves away and wash your hands, waiting for him to finish up before turning back around. “And, hey, you’re welcome.”
As you expect, House does not thank you. Instead, he pushes himself off the exam table with an exaggerated groan.
“One star,” House states flatly. “Unprofessional conduct. Wanted a strip tease. Was feeling me up.”
“Thanks for the glowing review, House,” you sigh, watching as House promptly walks off without another word.
You shake your head. Just another day at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.
Chapter 2: transfem reader
Notes:
Warnings: hospitals, shots and needles. probably some medical inaccuracy too, idk.
Chapter Text
You’ve been working at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital as a nurse for a few years now, so you’re accustomed to Dr. Gregory House’s style of communication: direct, blunt, and even demeaning. Since he’s the Head of Diagnostics department on the fourth floor, you don’t see the man around often. When he’s in your area, it’s usually him making a swift entrance to berate one of your colleagues before storming off.
So when Dr. House makes another one of these impromptu visits, you don’t think anything of it. You’re focused on your paperwork, and you don’t notice his expectant gaze until his voice is breaking through the silence.
“You,” he says sharply, pointing a finger at you. Your heart jumps in your chest. “With me. Now.”
“You know my name, House,” you huff, begrudgingly heading over to him. You know better than to test the diagnostician’s patience.
House rolls his eyes, motioning for you to follow after him. “Come on. And bring supplies for an injection.”
“What is it?” you try to ask, confused by this sudden request. You gather the requested supplies before following after House as he heads down the hall. He pauses in front of an empty room and throws his clipboard into the chart holder just outside. You blink in bewilderment, struggling to process what’s going on. House doesn’t seem to care, instead entering the empty room and getting settled on the exam table. Confused, you follow after him and close the door. Maybe he just needs to have a private conversation? Though that doesn’t explain why he’s sitting on the exam table as if he’s a patient. Maybe this is another one of his tests, where he pretends to have something outlandishly rare. He’s somewhat infamous for those experiments.
You sigh and set your supplies down on the nearby counter, before turning to House expectantly.
There’s a beat of silence, before he just hands you a vial wordlessly. You blink and look down at it, reading the label. It’s testosterone cypionate.
…You’re starting to understand why he called you here. There’s no patient, because House is the one getting the injection. He needs his T shot.
And, for some reason, he’s chosen you to be the one to administer it.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” House scoffs, as if sensing your thoughts. He glares at you hard. You frown at the remark, before reluctantly accepting that he has a point. You’re the safest option of the nursing staff, considering you’re transgender. It was the most logical option.
At least, until you realize there’s a hole in that logic. “Why aren’t you just doing this yourself?” you ask. House doesn’t ask—or, more accurately, use—others for help. Ever.
“Wilson laced my coffee with more coffee,” House scoffs. He holds out a trembling hand to demonstrate. It is shaking rather violently.
“Ah,” you say wisely. You aren’t given even a second to breathe before House is continuing to speak.
“Time’s ticking,” he says languidly, tapping his fingers against his knee loudly. “People are dying.”
“People are always dying,” you say with a shake of your head, begrudgingly returning your attention to the matter at hand. You inspect the vial before placing it on the nearby counter. It’s a better idea to prep the injection site first.
You sigh and look down at the vial, then over at him. “Intramuscular, right?” you question. House jerks his head in a mockery of a nod. You frown. “You’re going to need to take those jeans off,” you realize aloud, nodding down at his pants. The shot is usually administered near the thigh area, which isn’t accessible when he’s wearing jeans.
“Eager, are we?” House smirks.
You just stare at him, unimpressed.
“Prude,” he scoffs, before undoing his belt. You turn your back and put a new pair of gloves on, before readying the needle and vial.
“How much do you take?” you ask.
“One hundred,” House answers flatly. You extract the proper amount of medication, pretending not to feel House’s eyes on your back as you do it. Once the needle is prepped, and the sound of rustling clothing has stopped, you turn back around.
House has shed his jeans, leaving them in a disorganized pile on the nearby chair. He raises a brow, taking notice of how your gaze flits down to his thighs and catalogues the area.
“Like what you see?” he sneers.
You roll your eyes. “Left leg, I’m assuming?” you ask instead.
House doesn’t say anything; you take that as a confirmation. You suppose you shouldn’t have bothered asking—giving him the shot in his bad leg would just be stupidity. You push the thought aside and rip the alcohol wipe out of its package before cleaning the area on the inside of his thigh. A minute flinch runs through House—you pretend not to notice.
“Ready?” you ask him, after you toss the medical wipe and pick up the syringe again.
“Shut up,” House scoffs.
Knowing that’s the best you’re going to get, you inject the testosterone into his thigh. You’re at a bit of an awkward angle, leaving you forced to lean over House. When his knee bucks up ever so slightly, you put a hand down to prevent it from moving further.
“Cold ass hands,” House scowls, glaring at your gloved hand on his thigh like it’s an unwelcome guest. He looks at you, then looks away and scoffs. “Easy, Elsa.”
“Clever,” you say flatly. You sense him twitching a bit still and look up to glare at him. “Kick me and I’ll kill you.”
“No promises,” House responds.
You stifle another sigh, finishing off the shot before pressing a piece of gauze to the area. House rolls his eyes at the unnecessary material, but he holds it to his thigh while you dispose of the needle.
“And where’s the Band-Aid that keeps me from falling apart?” House asks moments later.
You always keep a few spare Band-Aids in the pockets of your scrubs, just in case. They prove very useful for moments like these.
“Well, I have Hello Kitty and Star Wars Band-Aids to choose from,” you respond, pulling them out of your pocket. “The two genders.”
House chokes on a dry sound. Was that a laugh? No, you must’ve imagined it.
“How will I ever choose?” he says sarcastically. House then reaches into his own pocket and procures a regular Band-Aid, putting it on his thigh.
“You’re no fun,” you scoff, begrudgingly putting the children’s Band-Aids away. Putting a Cinnamoroll Band-Aid on House would’ve made you unreasonably happy. You’re not quite sure why—it’s just a funny picture. But of course, House is a complete spoilsport.
For a few seconds, neither of you move. You’re just content to steal this moment—a brief reprieve in the middle of your hectic days at the hospital.
It can’t last forever, unfortunately. Both of you have better things to be doing than sharing a somewhat awkward silence in an exam room.
You look over at House to find he’s still not wearing his jeans from before. You exhale. “Put your pants on before we get sent to HR.”
“I am HR,” House says with the unshakeable certainty of someone who has committed endless HR violations. You struggle not to laugh.
“Sure,” you say skeptically, turning your back to give him some privacy. You throw your gloves away and wash your hands, waiting for him to finish up before turning back around. “And, hey, you’re welcome.”
As you expect, House does not thank you. Instead, he pushes himself off the exam table with an exaggerated groan.
“One star,” House states flatly. “Unprofessional conduct. The nurse wanted a strip tease. Was feeling me up.”
“Thanks for the glowing review, House,” you sigh, watching as House promptly walks off without another word.
You shake your head. Just another day at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.
Chapter 3: nb reader
Summary:
This is House/Reader focused, but there's no explicit romance. The reader is a nurse.
Warnings: hospitals, shots, needles & stuff. probably some medical inaccuracy too, idk.
Chapter Text
You’ve been working at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital as a nurse for a few years now, so you’re accustomed to Dr. Gregory House’s style of communication: direct, blunt, and even demeaning. Since he’s the Head of Diagnostics department on the fourth floor, you don’t see the man around often. When he’s in your area, it’s usually him making a swift entrance to berate one of your colleagues before storming off.
So when Dr. House makes another one of these impromptu visits, you don’t think anything of it. You’re focused on your paperwork, and you don’t notice his expectant gaze until his voice is breaking through the silence.
“You,” he says sharply, pointing a finger at you. Your heart jumps in your chest. “With me. Now.”
“You know my name, House,” you huff, begrudgingly heading over to him. You know better than to test the diagnostician’s patience.
House rolls his eyes, motioning for you to follow after him. “Come on. And bring supplies for an injection.”
“What is it?” you try to ask, confused by this sudden request. You gather the requested supplies before following after House as he heads down the hall. He pauses in front of an empty room and throws his clipboard into the chart holder just outside. You blink in bewilderment, struggling to process what’s going on. House doesn’t seem to care, instead entering the empty room and getting settled on the exam table. Confused, you follow after him and close the door. Maybe he just needs to have a private conversation? Though that doesn’t explain why he’s sitting on the exam table as if he’s a patient. Maybe this is another one of his tests, where he pretends to have something outlandishly rare. He’s somewhat infamous for those experiments.
You sigh and set your supplies down on the nearby counter, before turning to House expectantly.
There’s a beat of silence, before he just hands you a vial wordlessly. You blink and look down at it, reading the label. It’s testosterone cypionate.
…You’re starting to understand why he called you here. There’s no patient, because House is the one getting the injection. He needs his T shot.
And, for some reason, he’s chosen you to be the one to administer it.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” House scoffs, as if sensing your thoughts. He glares at you hard. You frown at the remark, before reluctantly accepting that he has a point. You’re the safest option of the nursing staff, considering you’re nonbinary. It was the most logical option.
At least, until you realize there’s a hole in that logic. “Why aren’t you just doing this yourself?” you ask. House doesn’t ask—or, more accurately, use—others for help. Ever.
“Wilson laced my coffee with more coffee,” House scoffs. He holds out a trembling hand to demonstrate. It is shaking rather violently.
“Ah,” you say wisely. You aren’t given even a second to breathe before House is continuing to speak.
“Time’s ticking,” he says languidly, tapping his fingers against his knee loudly. “People are dying.”
“People are always dying,” you say with a shake of your head, begrudgingly returning your attention to the matter at hand. You inspect the vial before placing it on the nearby counter. It’s a better idea to prep the injection site first.
You sigh and look down at the vial, then over at him. “Intramuscular, right?” you question. House jerks his head in a mockery of a nod. You frown. “You’re going to need to take those jeans off,” you realize aloud, nodding down at his pants. The shot is usually administered near the thigh area, which isn’t accessible when he’s wearing jeans.
“Eager, are we?” House smirks.
You just stare at him, unimpressed.
“Prude,” he scoffs, before undoing his belt. You turn your back and put a new pair of gloves on, before readying the needle and vial.
“How much do you take?” you ask.
“One hundred,” House answers flatly. You extract the proper amount of medication, pretending not to feel House’s eyes on your back as you do it. Once the needle is prepped, and the sound of rustling clothing has stopped, you turn back around.
House has shed his jeans, leaving them in a disorganized pile on the nearby chair. He raises a brow, taking notice of how your gaze flits down to his thighs and catalogues the area.
“Like what you see?” he sneers.
You roll your eyes. “Left leg, I’m assuming?” you ask instead.
House doesn’t say anything; you take that as a confirmation. You suppose you shouldn’t have bothered asking—giving him the shot in his bad leg would just be stupidity. You push the thought aside and rip the alcohol wipe out of its package before cleaning the area on the inside of his thigh. A minute flinch runs through House—you pretend not to notice.
“Ready?” you ask him, after you toss the medical wipe and pick up the syringe again.
“Shut up,” House scoffs.
Knowing that’s the best you’re going to get, you inject the testosterone into his thigh. You’re at a bit of an awkward angle, leaving you forced to lean over House. When his knee bucks up ever so slightly, you put a hand down to prevent it from moving further.
“Cold ass hands,” House scowls, glaring at your gloved hand on his thigh like it’s an unwelcome guest. He looks at you, then looks away and scoffs. “Easy. You’re a fucking popsicle.”
“Well, thanks,” you say flatly. You sense him twitching a bit still and look up to glare at him. “Kick me and I’ll kill you.”
“No promises,” House responds.
You stifle another sigh, finishing off the shot before pressing a piece of gauze to the area. House rolls his eyes at the unnecessary material, but he holds it to his thigh while you dispose of the needle.
“And where’s the Band-Aid that keeps me from falling apart?” House asks moments later.
You always keep a few spare Band-Aids in the pockets of your scrubs, just in case. They prove very useful for moments like these.
“Well, I have Hello Kitty and Star Wars Band-Aids to choose from,” you respond, pulling them out of your pocket. “The two genders.”
House chokes on a dry sound. Was that a laugh? No, you must’ve imagined it.
“How will I ever choose?” he says sarcastically. House then reaches into his own pocket and procures a regular Band-Aid, putting it on his thigh.
“You’re no fun,” you scoff, begrudgingly putting the children’s Band-Aids away. Putting a Cinnamoroll Band-Aid on House would’ve made you unreasonably happy. You’re not quite sure why—it’s just a funny picture. But of course, House is a complete spoilsport.
For a few seconds, neither of you move. You’re just content to steal this moment—a brief reprieve in the middle of your hectic days at the hospital.
It can’t last forever, unfortunately. Both of you have better things to be doing than sharing a somewhat awkward silence in an exam room.
You look over at House to find he’s still not wearing his jeans from before. You exhale. “Put your pants on before we get sent to HR.”
“I am HR,” House says with the unshakeable certainty of someone who has committed endless HR violations. You struggle not to laugh.
“Sure,” you say skeptically, turning your back to give him some privacy. You throw your gloves away and wash your hands, waiting for him to finish up before turning back around. “And, hey, you’re welcome.”
As you expect, House does not thank you. Instead, he pushes himself off the exam table with an exaggerated groan.
“One star,” House states flatly. “Unprofessional conduct. Wanted a strip tease. Was feeling me up.”
“Thanks for the glowing review, House,” you sigh, watching as House promptly walks off without another word.
You shake your head. Just another day at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.
Avis13 on Chapter 1 Sat 15 Nov 2025 12:49PM UTC
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defectivehero on Chapter 1 Sun 16 Nov 2025 01:01AM UTC
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laevitas on Chapter 1 Sat 15 Nov 2025 11:50PM UTC
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defectivehero on Chapter 1 Sun 16 Nov 2025 01:02AM UTC
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