Itemized Lists (1/1)
A House Fanfiction
Written by Kate "SuperKate" Butler


Getting a blowjob in the clinic had to be one of his five favorite sexual acts.

Greg House decided this with idle speculation as he sat in the clinic, propped up against the back of the examination table while Wilson perched on the edge, blathering about baseball stats and his least-favorite players. House hadn’t meant to think of sex – in fact, he rather liked thinking of baseball, and knew just as much about it as Wilson did – but there was something about the movement of the other man’s lips that was definitely reminiscent of third base. And that wasn’t even including the tantalizing vision of Wilson’s tongue, which kept darting out of his mouth as he tried to remember so-and-so’s batting average.

Yes, he affirmed with a curt nod that Wilson probably assumed assented his shared hatred of the Chicago Cubs, getting a blowjob in the clinic was number five on his top-five list. Leaning back against the exam table, his pants barely opened and Wilson’s mouth around him, his tongue doing all sorts of devilish tricks that he himself knew he’d never master. And, of course, with that, there would be Wilson’s hands rubbing over his legs, sometimes causing a pleasurable spark of pain on his bad thigh, or managing to make their way down to his ass and explore there.

Plus, Wilson always blew him with his eyes wide open. He’d never seen a woman do that, and somehow, it was unspeakably sexy.

He shifted the way he was sitting and smiled tersely as Wilson moved from his hatred of the Cubs to his equally ardent hatred of the White Sox.

If clinic-blowjobs were number five, then, House figured that number four had to be watching Wilson touch himself. It was a strange kink he’d never imagined himself imbued with until one night, when he’d teased Wilson to the point where he lost all patience and stroked himself. There was something about watching Wilson’s hands – which somehow managed to look both gentle and strong, all at the same time – roam over his own thighs and hardness, his own fingers against his dark hair and pale skin.

Of course, the times that Wilson would actually bring himself off for House’s watchful eyes were rare. House never asked and certainly never begged, no matter how much he longed to see Wilson enjoy himself on that level, and he could sometimes catch a spark of mischief in those big brown eyes, waiting for some sound of approval or otherwise as Wilson ran his own fingers down his stomach.

Yeah, watching was number four. He ran a finger under his collar as Wilson, still talking, shifted the way he was sitting and, in the process, rolled his hips ever-so-slightly. The clinic was suddenly getting a bit warm. He’d have to have Cuddy check on the air conditioner.

But what about number three? Wilson began to ruminate on the Orioles, which of course, reminded House of that Orioles game that had landed them in a stall in the men’s room, Wilson pressed against the wall and writhing against his body, arguing as House’s lips traveled down his neck that, really, he didn’t want to miss the game. Ah, yes, number three, the art of public seduction.

It wasn’t often that the two men went somewhere they wouldn’t be recognized, because House figured that every middle class idiot in the state of New Jersey and possibly beyond had come into the clinic at least once, and thusly gotten a taste of his unique brand of medicine. Fine. But the rare times that they went somewhere exotic – maybe up New York City to see that band Wilson really liked or catch a monster truck rally that wouldn’t be coming to Jersey, or perhaps down to Baltimore for some crab cakes and an Orioles game – the result was inevitable: one of them would end up pinned against a wall or a bathroom stall or the seat of the Corvette as they made out like wild monkeys. House was pretty sure it wasn’t that they were incapable of controlling themselves – after all, they only ever had one clinic-rendezvous a week, if that – but just that the freedom from Jersey and all its sniveling twits did amazing things to their collective libido. Well, either that or Wilson just liked to tease more when they were on an adventure, and if there’s one thing House cannot abide by, it’s Wilson’s constant teasing.

Speaking of teasing, Wilson just did that hip-roll-shift business again with such a smile on his face that House is fairly sure it was not an accident, which means he is either going to melt into a puddle of goo on the exam table or jump Wilson’s bones. And he’s actually hoping for the former rather than the latter, because any minute, Cuddy is going to show up, demanding to know where he is and why the Hell he isn’t, you know, actually working in the clinic.

Though he’d be working on something entirely different, were it the latter, so maybe that’s not all-together a bad thing.

There went the hip-roll again, which really, brings House right to numbers two and one. Two and one, he figures, go hand-in-hand, because they’re basically the same thing.

And that’s: the sex.

House would love to claim that Wilson was his first foray into the wet and wild world of boinking other men, but really, that would be a lie. He’d always been experimental enough to try anything once, or twice, or four times if he’d really enjoyed it. This had irked Stacy, when he’d made things like pickle-and-peanut-butter sandwiches for lunch, because really, some of his experiments made no sense. Pickles and peanut butter. Chocolate and cheese. Fucking other men.

And that’s really what it had been, way back when. No relationship, no real interaction, just down-and-dirty sex, no holds barred and no questions asked. It’d never been that way with Wilson, though; they’d had their twisted, stupid friendship first, and then the amazing extra-curricular activities, and then, by some miracle, a real-life relationship in which they could go out to dinner, come home, watch TV, and sleep together, all without one ending up dead in a ditch with the Jersey CSI team investigating.

Of the sexual acts that included sex, House had to say that number two was topping. Wilson, the submissive human puppy-dog he was, had always just let House take the lead, contenting himself with being pushed into the mattress and just, well, ravished. House liked the word ravished, because really, that’s how Wilson always looked, his perfect hair mussed and his eyes clouded with lust and his throat flushed from kisses, nips, and just the arousal of the situation. And House, well, he did like topping. A lot, given that it beats blowjobs and watching and public ministrations in Camden Fields’ rest rooms. Plus, being the top was almost always easier to maneuver, what with the bum leg and all.

House always figured that it was good he had the infarction before they’d started sleeping together; if they’d both been fully mobile the first few times, the sheer pleasure and frequency would have killed them both.

Wilson’s smirking, now, and his eyes drift from House’s face to an entirely other part of his anatomy. He’s still talking about baseball, but dammit, House can tell that he’s figured out how boring the topic really is. He adjusts himself, trying Wilson’s stupid hip-roll and failing (how does the man do that?), and lets Wilson just shoot him another -

Wait, home runs? Dammit, Wilson knows more than he lets on, now doesn’t he?

And then, there’s House’s all-time favorite sexual act in the universe: Wilson topping.

He’s never told this to Wilson, mostly because he doesn’t want to freak Wilson out. Even though they’ve been sleeping together for the last year, the fact of the matter is that Wilson is still sometimes like a proper Catholic schoolboy about their sex life, which is hilarious considering the fact that he’s never been squeamish about sleeping with women and, beyond that, he’s not even Catholic. But that doesn’t stop him from being appropriately bashful and sharing with House that adorable, uncertain smile that is reserved exclusively for him.

But the fact of the matter that House likes to be in control of almost everything. His life has spiraled out of his grip enough times that, now, he overcompensates and clutches harder to what he can exert power over. And that, really, is the whole reason he loves diagnostic medicine; he starts out with no control, but he gets to take over before the end of the day. And nothing feels better than grasping onto that disease and making it his bitch, metaphorically speaking.

But there’s something about Wilson being in control that delights him in all the right ways. Wilson’s weight pressing against his body, the spark of pleasure and pain as Wilson pushes in and just takes him, overpowers him, devours all the energy and passion he has to offer. Never, in House’s life, has there been a sweeter surrender, and he always trembles when Wilson shifts and brushes him in just the right spot, half because it’s pure, unadulterated lust and half because it’s Wilson, in charge. The boy-wonder oncologist is also a boy-wonder in the sack, and – as Wilson moves against him, thrusting and moaning and muttering incoherence that sometimes includes a breathless “Greg” – House sometimes thinks it’s a shame that his friend and lover wasted so much time on women, thus cheating the males of the world out of some very hot sex.

And now, hot sex is the only thing on his mind as Wilson scoots closer to him, sliding down the exam table so their legs touch. They keep talking about baseball – or really, Wilson does, since House hasn’t said anything for a long time – and he reaches a hand to brush over the crotch of House’s pants, so light and airy that House almost thinks it was a mistake.

But Wilson’s grinning, so it’s no mistake.

House is about to suggest they try to make a baseball play of their own when the door bursts open and Cuddy, all heaving breasts (damn her low-cut shirts) and wild-eyed glare. “House!” she bellows in such a throaty voice that he’s convinced her cleavage is where she keeps all her excess hot hair. “Clinic duty is not, ‘Let’s sit in an exam room and screw around with Wilson!’”

Wilson rolls his eyes in a subtle way, and House sighs as he slides off the table. “And what if I told you we were solving the world’s hunger problem?”

“You’d be a liar.” She’s holding the door open, now, and pointing out it.

“Yes, well, I suppose our theories on everyone in the Sudan going to a Yankees game and eating hot dogs there is maybe a smidgeon too complex for you.” He slides off the table and steadies himself with Wilson’s knee. Cuddy will write off the contact as a need for balance, and nothing more. He glances up at his best friend. “We’ll continue this solution to the world’s problems later.”

“Yeah,” Wilson nods, and House smiles as he limps out. Wilson knows what he meant, even if Cuddy’s glower is now marred by a bit of confusion. Cuddy will never figure it out, and that’s alright.

Because, really, if she knew that House was going to let Wilson top tonight and lose himself in that blissful surrender of skin-on-skin and white-hot passion, she’d probably fall over dead.

Then again, maybe telling her wouldn’t be such a bad idea, after all.