Hello! Can I request a yandere house x reader
I hope this is okay but it's where reader is very sickly since childhood and House finds a treatment to make reader better (reader can be a new case for him or just saw reader at the hospital and he got curious since he keeps seeing them there) but since reader got better they start to interact with others/go out into the world. So House starts lowkey poisoning reader to make them sick and dependent on him
Your Poison (Yandere! Gregory House x GN! Reader)
Summary: You are cured by Dr. House, you soon realize your freedom was an illusion. He's not your savior, but your owner, and he'll use your own illness to keep you trapped forever.
Warning: manipulation, imprisonment, forced treatment, gaslighting, emotional abuse, psychological abuse, isolation, medical abuse, threats of violence, depiction of chronic pain/illness, needles/injections and power imbalance.
Since the beginning of your life, you had been cursed with a rare disease that no doctor could name or cure. An illness that hijacked your immune system and unleashed excruciating attacks of nerve pain without warning. Within your central nervous system, neurons would fire chaotically, leaving you writhing in agony for weeks. Something was fundamentally wrong with your brain, yet no scan or biopsy could reveal the truth.
Your nervous system was different, mutated, perhaps. Every unknown signal triggered a distress response throughout your entire body. You had become a prisoner in your own flesh.
So when Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital requested you for a case study, you felt a flicker of hope you hadn't experienced in years. PPTH had gained renown for curing the incurable, for solving medical mysteries that baffled the rest of the world. This might be your last chance at a normal life.
The day you arrived, the Dean of Medicine herself seemed stunned by your medical mystery. "Dr. House will be taking your case," she had said with an expression that mixed professional concern with personal fascination.
You had no way of knowing that Dr. Gregory House had been following your case for years, that your medical file had become his obsession, his white whale. When Cuddy dropped your thick file on his desk, he felt a surge of something dark and possessive.
"Cuddy! Is this a late birthday present?" The head of diagnostics spoke with his usual sarcasm, though his eyes betrayed genuine excitement as he realized what he held. He leaned his stubbled cheek on his palm, a smug smirk forming as he saw the annoyance in Cuddy's sharp gaze. "Don't let it get to you, House." She dismissed his words quickly, leaving his office.
House's blue eyes settled on your file. His finger traced the edge with reverence. He had waited for this, for you. You were his puzzle, his masterpiece in waiting. As he flipped through the pages, something twisted inside the crippled doctor. His eyes darkened as he absorbed every detail of your suffering.
Most people tried to see the best in House, but the truth was simpler, he enjoyed being needed. He relished being someone's last hope, it gave him power, absolute control. It was because of him that people lived, and that knowledge did something intoxicating to him.
The first time he saw you, your face captivated him. There was something in your bright eyes, the way you looked at him as your savior, that grew on him with each visit. House was aware of this dangerous attachment, which is precisely why he initially tried to avoid you. House doesn't attach, he owns. And when he owns, there is no escape.
With each visit to PPTH, you felt your life transforming. You were going out, making friends, being adventurous. For the first time, you felt alive.
"Alive. How novel." House hummed to himself, looking down at your file with his reading glasses. "Your neurons have stopped throwing a tantrum on the scans. Progress, I suppose."
You had been coming to the clinic frequently. The research his team had done was extensive, and House had found a way to suppress your neurons erratic firing, preventing those painful signals from ravaging your body. It wasn't a nerve blocker or a sedative. You kept your motor function and normal pain responses, but the stress signals were suppressed. You could finally live without fear of another attack.
Yet your happiness gnawed at the diagnostician. Weren't you supposed to be happy with him? He had given you your life back. The way you talked about your new "friends" felt like a betrayal.
You were supposed to be grateful to him. You were only like this because House allowed it.
He was your attending doctor. What he decided went. So when he decided you needed to be dependent on him again, that's precisely what happened.
The first crack appeared during a routine follow-up. You were telling him with genuine excitement about a weekend trip you'd taken with new friends.
"And the view from the top was incredible, House! I never thought I'd be able to climb something like that. It was amazing, I-"
"Amazing." House interrupted, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous tone that always made your stomach clench. He didn't look up from the file he was pretending to read. "Did your 'neurons' happen to take a coffee break while you were out playing with the other children? Or does this condition have a social calendar I'm not aware of?"
Your blood ran cold. "I… I don't understand."
"Of course you don't." He said, finally lifting his gaze. His eyes were like chips of ice. "I monitor the data. It's my job. And the data says you're having a relapse. Not of the original disease, but of something far more common and infinitely more stupid: optimism." He stood up, his cane thumping a menacing rhythm on the floor as he walked toward you. "You were a medical footnote. I made you readable. And your first thought is to go find a new book club?"
"They're my friends," you stammered, backing away. There was something off about him.
"People lie," House said, his voice a low sneer. "Symptoms don't. And right now, your symptoms are screaming 'ungrateful' with a side of 'amnesia about who saved their ass." He was in your personal space now, his scent of antiseptic and old leather filling your senses. "We need to recalibrate. The current formula isn't accounting for… extraneous stupidity."
The next injection felt different. It burned going in. Within a day, the fog started creeping back into the edges of your vision. The phantom aches returned. You canceled your plans for the week, telling your friends you were "just feeling a bit off."
When you saw House again, you were pale and shaky. "House, I think it's coming back," you whispered, your eyes pleading.
"Of course it is," he said, not an ounce of sympathy in his voice. He was enjoying this, you could see it in the slight, cruel twist of his lips. "You went out. You had 'fun.' You introduced variables I can't control. I told you this was a system, not a suggestion box. But you don't listen, do you?" He prepared another syringe, this one a slightly different shade of clear. "This is a higher dosage. It should knock the rebellion out of your neurons. Again."
The relief was immediate, but so was the new rule. "No more 'adventures'," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "No more 'friends.' Your system is too fragile. It needs a controlled environment. It needs me."
Your world shrank to his office, the clinic, and your small apartment. Your friends stopped calling. House would "casually" mention he'd run into them and "explained" your condition was worsening, that you needed rest and quiet. He was isolating you, one calculated conversation at a time.
The final straw came when your phone buzzed with a text from one of them: 'Movie night Friday? We miss you!'
Before you could reply, a familiar rap sounded on your apartment door. You knew who it was without looking. House never knocked; he announced his presence like a storm.
You scrambled to hide your phone, but it was too late. He let himself in, his cane clicking accusingly on the hardwood floor. His eyes, cold and predatory, scanned your face, then dropped to the phone still clutched in your hand.
"Let me guess," he began, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "A summons from the island of misfit toys? An invitation to exchange vapid pleasantries and pretend your body isn't a ticking time bomb?"
"House, they're j-just worried about me," you pleaded, your voice trembling.
"They're bored," he corrected, taking a step closer. "You're this week's feel-good story. The moment you require actual effort, they'll find a new stray to feel sorry for. But I'm not bored. And you're not a stray; you're a specimen." He was towering over you now, his shadow engulfing you. "I'm the reason you're not currently drooling in a wheelchair. You don't get to take my diagnosis and show it off like a prize-winning poodle."
He snatched the phone from your hand. His thumb moved with brutal efficiency, blocking the number without even reading the name. Then, with chilling calm, he opened your contacts and social media apps, one by one, systematically blocking every name he recognized. He was erasing your life right in front of you.
"There," he said, tossing the phone onto the couch. "Problem solved. Now you can focus on what's important."
A wave of terror and defiance washed over you. "You can't d-do this! This is my life!"
"Was. Past tense." He corrected, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that was far more terrifying than a shout. "Now you're mine. Every pain-free moment you have is a direct withdrawal from the Bank of Me. You want entertainment? Fine. I'll let you watch me work. You want affection? I'll let you know when you've earned it."
The sheer cruelty of it all broke something inside you. You lunged for the door, a desperate, animal instinct to flee taking over. You didn't make it two steps.
A searing, white-hot agony exploded in your leg. You cried out, collapsing to the floor. You looked up to see House's taller figure standing over you, a small, filled syringe in his calloused hand. He hadn't even injected you, he'd just pressed it against your thigh, the pressure enough to trigger a cascade of pain.
"Ah, yes," he said, his voice laced with a dark, clinical curiosity as he watched you writhe. "Look at that. A textbook allodynic response. Your nerves are so exquisitely broken, a feather feels like a knife. It's pathetic. And beautiful. And all mine."
He knelt down, his face inches from yours, his blue eyes filled with a terrifying mix of ownership and intellectual arousal. He wasn't just a doctor, he was a god, and you were his creation, his suffering masterpiece.
"See?" he murmured, his voice a silken poison. "This is what happens when you forget the rules." He gently brushed a strand of hair from your sweat-soaked forehead, a gesture of mock tenderness that made your skin crawl. "Don't worry. I'll fix it. I always do. But let's be clear: you don't get a life. You get the life I prescribe. And if you try to run again… next time, the needle doesn't come out clean."
He leaned in closer, his lips brushing your ear.
"I'll snap it off in the muscle. A little souvenir to remember me by."
He stood up, leaving you trembling on the floor, and prepared a syringe from his bag. The relief was almost instantaneous as the medication entered your system, the pain receding like a tide. But this time, it felt different. It wasn't freedom; it was a leash being tightened.
"Up," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for disobedience. "We're going back to the lab. You've earned yourself a sleepover."
That was the first night he kept you. It wouldn't be the last.
Your world became a sterile room with a bed that felt more like a cage and a window that showed a world you were no longer part of. House was your only visitor, your only connection to the outside. He controlled everything: when you ate, what you watched on television, when you received your medication. The medication that kept the pain at bay but also kept you docile, compliant.
"The color's returning to your face." he'd say during his daily examinations, his hands lingering on your skin longer than necessary. "The treatment's not killing you. Success."
But you knew the truth. He had perfected his poison, creating a delicate balance that kept you just well enough to function but sick enough to need him. You were his masterpiece, his living experiment, and he was never letting you go.
One evening, as he sat by your bed reviewing your chart, you found the courage to speak. "Why are you doing this?"
He looked up, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before they hardened again. "Doing what? Performing a miracle? Curing the incurable? Don't be so dramatic. I'm just adjusting the chemistry."
"You're not curing me," you whispered, tears stinging your eyes. "You're keeping me sick."
House stood up, his cane thumping softly on the linoleum floor as he approached your bed. He leaned down, his face so close you could feel his breath on your cheek.
"I am giving you relevance," he said, his voice low and intense. "Before me, you were a folder in a filing cabinet. Now you're the most interesting puzzle in the building. Every doctor dreams of a case like you, one that proves they're smarter than god."
His fingers traced your jawline, sending a shiver through your body. "I gave you a function. You give me data I can't get anywhere else. Fair trade."
"What?" you asked, barely able to breathe.
"A distraction. A reason to care about something other then my own misery," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "It's inefficient, but there it is."
His lips met yours then, not with passion but with possession, a claim being staked. You wanted to fight, to push him away, but your body betrayed you, responding to his touch with a mixture of fear and something else you didn't want to acknowledge.
When he pulled back, his eyes were dark with triumph. "You feel it? That little jolt? That's not a connection. That's fear. And it's the most honest thing you've felt all day."
As the weeks turned into months, you learned to play your part. You became the perfect patient, grateful, compliant, devoted. You learned to anticipate his needs, to say the words he wanted to hear. But inside, a part of you remained untouched, waiting for an opportunity to escape.
House knew this, of course. He was too intelligent not to. But he enjoyed the game, the constant push and pull between you. It was another symptom to monitor, another variable to control in his grand experiment.
One day, a new nurse assigned to your wing made a critical mistake, she left her access card unattended for a moment while responding to an emergency down the hall. It was the chance you had been waiting for.
With a heart pounding against your ribs like a trapped bird, you slipped out of your room and made your way to the hospital exit. Freedom was so close you could taste it.
But as you pushed through the doors and felt the cool night air on your face, a familiar voice called out from behind you.
"Lost? The gift shop's that way."
You turned to see House leaning against the wall, his expression unreadable but his eyes burning with an intensity that made your blood run cold. He wasn't angry. He was amused.
"I have to admit," he said, pushing himself off the wall and approaching you slowly, "I'm impressed. I didn't think you had it in you."
"Please," you begged, tears streaming down your face. "Just let me go. I won't tell anyone. I'll just disappear."
House laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. "Disappear? You can't even go to the bathroom without my permission. You're a walking experiment I designed. Where would you go? How long before the pain comes back? How long before you're banging on my door, begging for the needle?"
He was right, and you both knew it. You were his, completely and irrevocably.
"Come on," he said, taking your arm. "We have work to do. I've been working on a new formula. Something a bit more… permanent. Something to make sure you never forget who owns you."
As he led you back inside, you caught your reflection in the glass doors, a pale, haunted-looking stranger with eyes that had seen too much. But in that reflection, you also saw House standing behind you, his expression one of absolute possession.
You were his patient, his experiment, his obsession. And as he had promised, there was no escape.