#chase x reader

Hello, oh thank you that's so sweet.

And thank you for sending this in I loved it and I agree Chase taking charge and being in doctor mode at home sounds fab!

I had to scroll through a few episodes to find a condition that fit this but I finally found one and I think it went well. You'll have to let me know what you think.

(And I agree the first few seasons were the best with that particular team, that's the setting I usually base my fics in)

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

ofc, sorry that it took so long, i hope you will like it and this is what you wanted :3

You walked through hospital still tired after last night.

You knew Cameron and Chase for some time, you worked in the same place but barely ever talked. You heard that they were dating. It was one of the most popular topics to gossip about among the hospital staff, well maybe second most popular, because the first place was always occupied by whatever mess House had made.

So that was your all connection to Chase and Cameron… till the night two weeks ago.

That night you decided to go to bar, hoping for relax with your favorite drink after a long exhausting day, maybe also hoping to meet someone hot and spend hot night together.

What you didn’t expect at all was meeting your colleague Chase.

You remember your shock when you heard “Hey” said with that characteristic Australian accent.

That’s how you get involved with Chase. Something that was supposed to be just a drink between two coworkers happened to be something more. He told you that he is in the open relationship and that Cameron doesn’t mind, in this case you also didn’t mind and that’s how you ended in bed with him.

it happened few another times.

You hoped nobody in hospital didn’t notice, you didn’t want them to get wrong assumptions about your relationship after all his girlfriend didn’t mind it, but you were sure that more observant ones noticed tension between you and Chase and how you blushed sometimes when he teased you.

House even asked you once are you Chase’s mistresses or you, cameron and him are in threesome, which resulted in him getting lecture from Cuddy about not harassing his coworkers.

You couldn’t say that what he said didn’t get stuck in your head. You always found Cameron really pretty and wouldn’t mind having threesome with them at all.

Luckily you weren’t the only one who thought this way because few days later Chase asked you would you be interested into threesome with them, you obviously agreed.

And that’s how you ended up here, dizzy cause of emotions and experiences of the last, blushing slightly when you noticed that both Chase and Cameron were looking in your direction.

New hair

"How was it at the barber's?" You asked your boyfriend while preparing dinner for you two. You were expecting subtle change, he didn’t tell you what he had planned. You also clearly didn’t expect anything drastic, he had the same hair for years after all.

"Okay don't get mad. It’s kinda different." He said hiding behind jacket he held.

"Oh my god of course i won’t be mad, why would i?" You chuckled. Actually it was kinda adorable in your eyes that he was stressing about it so much.

"okay so, what do you think?" She said putting down jacket and showing off his new hairstyle. He seemed kinda nervous.

Your eyes widen, not because you didn’t like it, you just were surprised, that’s all.

"I knew you will hate it." He said with sigh.

"No! I do not hate it!"

"You don’t have to lie.”

"But i really don’t!" You said while coming closer to him and cupping his face in your hands.

"you really don’t?"

"I really don’t, i find it really cute. I was just surprised that’s all."

"Yes?"

"Of course" you said chuckling and messing his hair a bit. "I really love it."

You gave him little kiss on the lips.

"I was scared you won’t like it, you always said how you love my longer hair."

"Honey, i love you, you are the most beautiful person in the world to me and different hairstyle won’t change it. I find it really great, it fits you."

"You really think so? You are not saying this just to not hurt my feelings?"

Summary: Post Dispatch canon. Second Chance Romance.

But then every once in a while, I see this picture and I get it.

But the tension in the room hadn't left with the patient.

You leaned against the edge of the glass table, twirling a clinic pen between your fingers. Being Gregory House’s daughter came with a lot of baggage—chiefly, an inherited radar for when people were lying through their teeth. And right now, your boyfriend was practically vibrating with unspoken secrets.

Robert Chase was staring intently at a blank whiteboard, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. The usual easygoing, slightly arrogant smirk he wore around the hospital was completely gone.

"Everyone's gone home, Robert," you said softly, breaking the silence. "My dad is probably at a bar, and Foreman and Cameron left an hour ago. You can stop pretending you're studying the non-existent labs."

Chase let out a long, slow breath. He turned to look at you, his blue eyes clouded with an anxiety you rarely saw in him. He walked over, stopping just a foot away, but he didn't reach out to touch you like he normally would.

"Your father's comments during the differential," Chase began, his voice dropping an octave. "About the patient's lifestyle. About the power dynamics, the control, the... submission."

"He was being his usual closed-minded, provocative self," you sighed, rolling your eyes. "He likes to shock people. You know how he is. Why are you letting it get to you?"

"Because he was wrong," Chase said flatly.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden sharpness in his tone. "Wrong about the pathology?"

"Wrong about the psychology." Chase took a step closer, the vulnerability in his face hardening into something much more intense, much more grounded. "He talks about dominance like it’s just a mask for bullies or people with a lack of control in their real lives. He thinks it's a joke. A pathology." He looked directly into your eyes, his gaze unwavering. "It’s not."

The pen stopped spinning in your hand. "Robert..."

"I knew the terminology today because it’s not just textbook knowledge for me," he admitted, the words spilling out with a mix of relief and raw honesty. "Before I came to Princeton-Plainsboro, back in Australia... it was a part of my life. I’m a dominant. I have been for years."

The confession hung heavily in the quiet room. You stared at him, processing the image of the golden-boy intensive care specialist—the man who usually let your father berate him without a fight—holding that kind of absolute, intentional authority behind closed doors.

"You're a Dom," you repeated, your voice a quiet murmur, not judgmentally, but trying the weight of the word on your tongue.

"Yes," Chase said, his posture shifting. The nervous tension seemed to melt away, replaced by a sudden, commanding stillness. It was a side of him he usually kept tightly under wraps at the hospital. "And looking at you right now, knowing whose daughter you are—knowing how much you have to keep your guard up every single day just to survive Gregory House—I’ve spent the last six months wanting to give you a space where you don't have to be in control."

Your breath hitched. The implication of his words sent a sudden, electric shiver down your spine.

"You think I want to submit to you?" you asked, your voice trembling slightly, though not from fear.

"I think you spend twenty-four hours a day carrying the weight of the House legacy, fighting to be taken seriously, and managing a brilliant, toxic man," Chase said, stepping into your personal space. He didn't touch you, but the sheer proximity made your heart race. "I think the idea of handing the reins over to someone you trust entirely—someone who will protect you, take care of you, and demand your absolute obedience for a few hours—scares you. And excites you."

He reached out then, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His touch was incredibly gentle, but there was an underlying current of absolute certainty in it.

"I love your fire," Chase whispered, his eyes dark and focused entirely on you. "But I know how to handle it. If you let me."

You looked at him, really looked at him—the sharp jawline, the intense focus, the absolute lack of hesitation. For months, you had known him as the pretty-boy doctor, the attentive boyfriend, the man who brought you coffee. But beneath that was a man who knew exactly who he was, and exactly what he wanted.

"And if my dad finds out?" you whispered, a tiny, defiant smirk playing on your lips despite the pounding of your heart.

Chase smiled back, a slow, devastatingly confident expression that made your knees a little weak. He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear.

Clara House doesn't do emotion. As a brilliant diagnostician, and the daughter of the notoriously cynical Gregory House, she views the human heart as a muscle, and love as a chemical glitch. She has spent her life behind a fortress of data, whiteboards, and absolute control.

Robert Chase knows all about brilliant, broken people. An intensive care specialist running from his own family ghosts, he is the only man at Princeton-Plainsboro who can match Clara’s fierce intellect without flinching. Their connection is sharp, competitive, and charged with an undeniable, electric tension. They are perfect partners in the clinic. They are entirely in control.

But when they leave the sterile hospital glare for a quiet townhouse in Hopewell, New Jersey, the metrics begin to fail. Caught between her terrifying fear of vulnerability and his fierce, unwavering determination to protect her, the intellectual armor starts to fracture.

He knows how to save a life in the ICU, but can he teach a woman who relies entirely on numbers how to trust the space where the data ends?

Chapter 1: The Anatomy of an Accident

Chapter 2: The Logic of the Confrontation

Chapter 3: The Incubation Period

Chapter 4: The Positive Result

Chapter 5: The Complication

Chapter 6: The Standard Deviation of Panic

Chapter 7: The Pathology of Proximity

Chapter 8: The Diagnostic of the Dinner

Chapter 9: The Hilton Hypothesis

Chapter 10: The Chronicity of Chaos

Chapter 11: The Practicality of Fluids

Chapter 12: The Metric of the Matrix

Chapter 13: The Toxicity of Truth

Chapter 14: The Geometry of the Nest

Chapter 15: The Rheology of Resilience

Chapter 16: The Hydrostatic of the Heart

Chapter 17: The Kinematics of Labor

Chapter 18: The Viscosity of the Vernacular

Chapter 19: The Kinetics of Contamination

Chapter 20: The Equilibrium of the Element

Chapter 21: The Drift of the Seasons

By the time the maples near the barn had turned their deep, heavy crimson for the fifth time, the townhouse in Hopewell had developed its own internal mechanics—an organic, self-regulating equilibrium that no longer required the constant intervention of electronic metrics.

It was late October, and the first frost of the season had left a delicate, geometric lattice of white ice along the lower panes of the living room window.

At 22:30, the house was quiet. Clara sat on the broad hearth of the brick fireplace, her long legs drawn up to her chest, her chin resting on her knees. The wood fire was burning down to its embers, casting a deep, amber glow across the pine floorboards and throwing long, soft shadows against the built-in bookshelves.

Robert Chase lay stretched out on the rug beside her, his head resting in her lap. His eyes were closed, his face completely relaxed in the warmth of the hearth, his breathing deep and synchronous with the steady, rhythmic snap of the dying coals.

Clara’s right hand moved slowly through his blonde hair, her long, pale fingers tracing the silver strands that had gathered thickly around his temples over the years. Her touch was unhurried, lacking any analytical intent; it was simply a slow, tactile measurement of his presence, a validation that the physical mass beside her was constant, solid, and entirely real.

"Foreman called after the shift," Chase murmured into the darkness, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against her thigh. He didn't open his eyes. "The clinic is changing its intake protocol for the winter. They're removing the paper logs. Everything is going onto the central server by January."

"The administrative efficiency of an electronic registry is highly dependent on the quality of the local terminal interface," Clara said, her voice dropping into that quiet, rhythmic register that had become the baseline of their private hours. "If the network latency exceeds four hundred milliseconds, the physicians will revert to memory-based diagnostics to maintain their patient velocity. It is a predictable systemic failure."

"Let them fail," Chase whispered, his mouth curving into a small, crooked smile as he reached up and caught her hand, pulling her fingers down to his lips. He pressed a slow, warm kiss against her knuckles, his breath hot against her skin. "We aren't on the schedule until Monday. The server can crash for all I care."

Clara didn't correct his lack of professional discipline. She simply turned her hand within his grip, interlocking her fingers with his, her thumb resting steady against the quick, strong pulse at his wrist.

"Robert?" she said after a long silence.

"Yeah?"

"My internal clock indicates that we have spent exactly forty-two minutes in this specific spatial arrangement without discussing a single clinical case."

Chase opened his eyes, looking up at her from her lap. The amber light of the fire danced in his eyes. "Does that violate a parameter?"

"No," Clara murmured, her fingers tightening around his. She leaned down, her face descending into the warmth of his breath until her lips met his. The kiss was slow, deep, and entirely uncalculated, a quiet collision of two people who had spent years searching for anomalies in others, only to find their own perfect cure in each other. "The baseline is entirely stable."

From the second floor, a small, muffled thump echoed through the ceiling joists, followed by the slow, deliberate patter-patter-patter of bare feet on the wooden stairs.

Rachel appeared in the doorway of the living room, her blonde curls sticking out in wild, static spikes from her flannel pajamas, her blue eyes bright and entirely awake in the shadows. In her right hand, she was dragging an old, unraveled wool blanket with a pattern of blue anchors; in her left, she held the smooth piece of cedar shingle her grandfather had given her.

"The room is cold," Rachel announced, her small voice flat and level—a perfect structural imitation of Clara’s delivery. She walked straight over to the hearth, her bare feet silent on the rug, and wedged her small body into the narrow space between Chase’s shoulder and Clara’s hip. "The thermal convective current from the floor vent has dropped by approximately three degrees since the light went out."

Chase laughed softly, opening his arms and shifting his weight to allow the child to crawl into the center of their mass. He wrapped his arm around her ribs, pulling her down against his chest until her cold toes were tucked under the heavy gray wool of his sweater.

"The furnace has an automatic nocturnal setback, Rachel," Chase said, his chin resting on the top of her head. "It drops the temperature to conserve fuel while the humans are executing their standard sleep cycle. It’s a very common domestic algorithm."

"It’s inefficient," Rachel muttered, though she let her head drop back against his shoulder, her tiny fingers automatically curling into the fabric of his shirt with that persistent holdover of the grasp reflex.

Clara looked down at them—at the husband whose laughter had softened the stone walls of her fortress, and at the child who had broken through the pages of her books to live in the light. She reached out and pulled the anchor blanket over both of them, her hand resting flat against the small, warm curve of Rachel’s back where the breath was moving in a clean, regular twenty-two cycles per minute.

The fire dropped into its final, silent gray ash, the ambient light of the room receding until there was nothing left but the blue moonlight on the frosted window and the deep, unbroken heat of their shared circulation.