#specagentfoxmulder

   It was late on a Wednesday so the bar was pretty much empty, save for the group of girls who appeared to be celebrating something off in the corner and a few older men up by the bar. The line-dropper left the bar with an angry flourish, to which Wilson rolled his eyes. They were the only people using the booths, so as soon as Wilson’s empty mug hit the tabletop someone was by their table, asking if they’d like more to drink.

   Wilson ordered two more beers and House asked for a shot of whiskey each. 

   House had a higher tolerance than Wilson did, but even Wilson knew he wasn’t too drunk; too drunk to drive, yes, but they had planned for that. He was just drunk enough to get lost in his thoughts and feel his cheeks warm uncomfortably, which was apparently just enough to start thinking unnecessarily deep about mundane things.

   I bet you twenty dollars I can kiss you without touching you.

   “Worth every penny,” House said.

   Wilson pulled himself out of his thoughts to find that their drinks hadn’t been dropped off yet, so their change hadn’t been either. He furrowed his brows. “What?”

   “The rest of the line. You kiss them, and then after you say it’s worth every penny.”

   “Did I say that out loud?”

   “You were doing your constipated face.” House shrugged.

   Wilson scoffed. “I do not look constipated when I’m confused, House, we’ve been over this.” That happened to be when their drinks were dropped on the table with their change, and Wilson cleared his throat and smiled apologetically. The last thing the employees needed to hear was (although he disagreed entirely) his embarrassing facial expressions. 

   He waited until they were alone before glaring at House and taking his shot of whiskey, although with less grace than House did. “So what, you just lunge yourself at the woman and hope she’s all right with that?”

   House made a particularly ugly noise then. “Of course not, Wilson. I thought you were the panty peeler here.” He took a long drink of his beer. Wilson prided himself on being able to tell exactly when the alcohol started to hit House, and smiled when he recognized the brief, but quick, blinks, followed by widening eyes and a cleared throat. “It’s a line you use on someone you’re already dating.”

   “Oh.”

   He contemplated the line itself; contemplated using it one day, and contemplated his beer, and contemplated one too many times when he realized he was contemplating how it was possible to ever win the bet. It was impossible to kiss someone without touching them, how else would you caress their mouth with your own without your mouths touching?

   He kept drinking his beer, trying to picture some way around losing the bet; the person accepting the challenge would have to know it was impossible too, so why would you even try it on someone you didn’t know? Why would you, even sceptically, stare at a man you didn’t know and say okay slowly with eyebrows raised?

   “We’re at the booth, not the toilet.”

   Wilson blinked at him. “Hmm?”

   House smirked and swirled his nearly-empty mug of beer, eyes on the table as he did. Wilson couldn’t help but find him, at that moment, ridiculously attractive with his dropped gaze and smirk and casual slouch in the booth, cheeks slightly flushed with alcohol just as his were.

   He still wasn’t drunk enough to blame it on the alcohol. Even if he could, this happened far too much when he was sober for it to have any credibility anyway.

   It finally clicked when House’s bright blue eyes met his, the smirk deepening.

   “Oh, I do not look constipated,” he huffed, shooting a glare in House’s direction before finishing off his beer. 

   Checking his watch, he stood from the booth and House followed. He’d spent more than he’d intended, even if they hadn't gotten quite as drunk as they‘d planned. Mulling over the pickup line, the conversations they’d had, and the fact House’s limp caused his arm to bump Wilson’s every other step, they slid out of the too-warm bar and Wilson was grateful for the chilly air.

   Wilson called the cab company, eyes on House’s mouth for no reason, and gave the person on the other end their location.

   They stood in silence for all of fifteen seconds before Wilson couldn’t stand it any longer.

   “How could you kiss someone without touching them? It’s impossible. Your lips touch; it’s a stupid pick up line.”

   “You’re still on about that? Thinking is a sober man’s game, Wilson. Quit while you’re ahead.” He shifted his weight onto his other foot and swayed slightly. “Besides, they’re not talking about mouths, they’re talking about hands. You’ve honestly never used this?”

   Wilson shook his head. “No?”

   “Is that a question or a statement?” Wilson rolled his eyes and House simply craned his head around, as if expecting the taxi already. “I always won. They get pissy when you expect them to follow through with the money.”

   “Bullshit.”

   “No really, so you start making other bets.”

   “I meant,” Wilson started, realizing he was over-pronouncing as he tended to do when buzzed and cleared his throat. “I meant you didn’t win. You are very tac--” He cleared his throat to stop a hiccup. Perhaps he was drunker than he thought. “You’re a tactile person. You touch everything.” He smirked as if that ended the argument, although he knew House well enough to know that it wouldn’t.

   “Oh yeah?”

   “Yeah,” Wilson challenged, swaying into his personal space with what he hoped was an evil grin and not a dopey smile. “You couldn’t keep your hands off anyone you were kissing.”

   House narrowed his eyes. “I bet twenty dollars I could kiss you without touching you.”

   Wilson furrowed his brows. “House I need to pay for the cab.” He wouldn’t have twenty dollars to give after paying the fare.

   “Planning on losing already?” Wilson glared at him and started reaching into his pocket, seconds away from saying that the bet was on, when House shook his head. “All right fine. Loser does the winner’s laundry.”

   “I always do your laundry, House.”

   “You’ll be losing anyway.”

   “No I won’t.” House opened his mouth, blue eyes alight and smile wide, and Wilson shook his head, waving his hand at House to stop him from talking. “And I always pay for lunch and dinner, so no.”

   House scoffed. “I always win, Wilson. You can call up Stacy and ask.”

   “I’m not going to call Stacy over this bet,” Wilson growled. House shrugged, somehow with arrogance oozing from the movement, and Wilson smirked. “Fine. Loser has to do whatever the winner wants for a week. Within reason,” he added when House opened his mouth with an evil gleam to his eye. He didn’t know what within reason meant, or what House had planned, but he still wasn’t drunk enough to let that slide, and House sighed disappointingly. “Not that it matters, because I’ll be winning anyway.”

   “You’re either drunker or dumber than you look if you really think that.”

   Wilson shrugged with a smirk. “Those are my terms.”

   House narrowed his eyes and looked Wilson over; eyes trailing down and then up, his tongue sneaking out to moisten his lip and Wilson wondered if perhaps he’d been planning to trick House into kissing him all along. Was it unfair of him to do that? Then again, it wasn’t as if House couldn’t back out of the bet, and he’d been the one to make it in the first place.

   “Fine, challenge accepted.”

   Wilson nodded and suddenly couldn’t meet House’s eyes, so he stared at his mouth instead. Even still, his chest tightened so he looked at his collarbone.

   “Did you want me to kiss the top of your head or what?”

   Wilson managed to let loose a chuckle before forcing himself to look up and into House’s face. House didn’t hesitate to move forward and press his lips against Wilson’s.

   Although Wilson knew it was coming, it still shocked him. They stood outside of a mostly-empty bar, pink neon sign their only source of light other than the moon, the buzzing from it reminding him of the porch-hanging bug zapper his great-grandparents had had, and House’s mouth was against his, eyes closed (Wilson could tell because his were wide open).

   House’s lips were more chapped than he’d wanted, but less dry than they looked, and moving gently against his own. Wilson didn’t move his, though; kept his closed, although not tightly. He let House nudge and caress and hum and he still had a hard time comprehending that this was happening; that they were kissing and despite the warm, pleasant buzz, and the fact he mulled over the mundane, he couldn’t justifiably blame the alcohol.

   A hint of tongue brushed his bottom lip and--

   “What are you doing?” Wilson didn’t even realize he’d pulled away until after he’d talked. 

   If anybody looked constipated when confused it was House. “Kissing you.” The ‘duh’ was implied.

   “Oh.”

   This time, Wilson leaned forward. Their noses bumped awkwardly once and they both turned their heads the same direction, before Wilson snorted back a chuckle and tilted his head the other way. Wilson let House tease his mouth open, tongue sneaking in and Wilson giggled.

   “Did you just want to call it a tie or what?” House’s voice was gruff and quiet, so close he could barely feel his lips moving with each word. 

   Wilson, forehead pressed to House’s and noses touching, chuckled a little against House’s mouth. “I’m sorry, I just--I’ve just never kissed you before.” Halfway through his sentence the situation really sunk in; shot straight to his gut and his chest tightened. He was kissing House, finally, and he kept ruining it. What was wrong with him?

   “I’ve never kissed you either and I’m not--”

   Wilson shut him up by attacking his mouth sloppily; he knew it was sloppy because House stiffened and made an odd noise, and for the first second it was awkward, but finally House tilted his head and pushed forward, matching Wilson’s speed and ferocity, both of them breathing heavily through their noses and gasping whenever they had the chance before swooping in for more.

   It had sounded so easy, to be able to kiss someone without touching their face; shoulders; sides. Especially considering this kiss wasn’t even supposed to be anything but a bet, but he couldn’t separate his emotions from this; not with House suckling on his lip and nipping on the tip of his tongue. He clenched his hands into fists to prevent himself from clutching onto House’s shirt and yanking him closer.

   Seeing as this was likely the only time he’d be able to kiss House, he put everything he could into it. Wilson’s clenched-fists had strayed in the direction of House so he’d firmly planted them on his hips to stop them and while he didn’t know where House’s hands were, he knew the kiss was frenzied and rough. Teeth clacked and beard scraped over his skin uncomfortably; there was too much tongue on both their ends and neither of them were particularly quiet (and Wilson admitted the grunts and huffs and groans didn’t sound arousing, so much as frustrated, as they were competing). From an outsider’s perspective, it would have looked ridiculous.

   From his perspective, though, it was different. It was rough and demanding and his heart couldn’t figure out its proper beating pattern; his stomach lurched and his lungs didn’t have as much room as he wanted and needed. The mixture of beer and whiskey on House’s tongue was more intoxicating than the drinks themselves had been; his head spun with each swoop and skin buzzed with the want to feel House’s hands. His fingers dug into his own sides because he wanted more than anything to card through House’s thinning hair and scratch down his back but he couldn’t; not if he wanted to win, and having House do his own laundry (and cook, as he was actually a pretty damn good chef) was worth more than a grab of House’s ass.

   Besides, doing all of that would betray something more than his victory at this point.

   House pulled away, bursts of alcohol-scented air hitting him in the face. Wilson opened his eyes to see parted, kiss-swollen lips and flushed cheeks, and bright blue eyes and what if he grabbed House’s jaw and kissed him again anyway? He could blame it on too much booze if House jerked away, but then he’d lose the challenge and if House didn’t reciprocate, it wouldn’t be worth it.

   “Declaring a draw?” Wilson smirked and him, despite being disappointed.

   “Shut up.”

   House’s eyes swept over Wilson’s face in a way that made him feel exposed; had he said or done something that clued House in on how he felt? Then again, House had been kissing him back so what had he done that was any different? House tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “Huh.”

   “What?”

   House shook his head and shushed him, then leaned forward and pressed his lips gently to Wilson’s. His tongue flicked out, slowly, and Wilson's eyes fluttered shut. House’s lips moved slowly and softly; bringing in his bottom lip carefully and compared to the roughness before, it was maddeningly slow and soft and perfect and Wilson melted into it; brushed their lips together and massaged tongues, slowly and softly and his hands raised, reaching for House’s face, and he stopped them in midair before forcing them down again.

   It was wet and warm and soft and slow and Wilson just took his time; slipped his tongue across and around House’s slowly, taking in every touch of his teeth and taste buds and roof of his mouth; mapping and memorizing the way it felt.

   HONK!

   They jumped and jerked away, turning in unison to face the taxi by the curb. 

   “Timeout until we get back home.” House slapped him on the back before he started over to the cab.

   Wilson followed, breathless, into the cab, sitting behind the passenger seat and met the eyes of the taxi-driver through the rear-view mirror. He gave his address quickly and could feel his cheeks burning hot, not only from the buzz and the fact he’d been kissing House, but because the driver had obviously seen them going at it and he couldn’t defend himself because who in their right mind would believe it was just a competition, and especially since Wilson didn’t believe that himself anymore; at least it wasn’t on his end, but the last part of that kiss seemed like it wasn’t on House’s either.

   And really, who suggested doing that bet with his best friend unless it, at least a tiny bit, meant something more?

   If House had only meant it as a competition, why was he crowding him against the door when they had enough room? Why was he leaning into him, hand on his knee? They did lean on each other and hold onto each other more than strictly necessary when they drank, but Wilson knew where that line was; exactly how much he had to drink to get House to that level, to get himself to that level, and they hadn’t reached it.

   Buzzing in his ears, he hardly heard himself tell the driver to keep the change when they stopped at the loft; knew that House was walking quickly and that Wilson was keeping pace for a reason; knew that they shouldn’t have been that eager to finish the bet, and knew that he kept walking faster and faster the closer to his door they were, and that House didn’t mock him for being eager, simply matched his speed if he happened to get ahead of him, just as Wilson matched his speed when it was the other way around. 

   Wilson opened the door for House, then followed him inside, shutting the door behind him.

   Click of the door, thud of his head, and the smacking of lips. The slap of House’s hand against the door; the rustling of shirts sliding against each other and the amplified sounds of sighs and breaths and Wilson’s nails scrabbling against the wood, hands flat and down past his hips, House’s hands on either side of Wilson's head but not touching, and tongue in his mouth and the now-familiar tilt of House’s head and scrape of stubble sending shivers down his spine.

   Wilson's fingers curled and released in the want to clutch at something--House’s ass, shirt, face--and he whimpered. House pulled away and his already-closed eyes squeezed tighter, waiting for him to mock it, and instead House’s lips were on his clavicle, sucking and licking upward, to the side of his neck.

   Mouth free, Wilson could breathe as heavily as he needed, tilting his head back and to the side, giving House better access. His eyes snapped open and he stared at the ceiling, seeing patterns he never noticed before.

   It was getting more difficult to keep his hands at his side, against the door, so he pulled his backside against the door long enough to stick his hands behind himself and pin them there. This made his pelvis push into House’s, and he really regretted not drinking more now because he was having no problem getting hard, and there was no way House hadn’t felt that. 

   House chuckled against his neck, and his arms prickled, hairs on end.

   Wilson felt the slow grin against his neck, and then House canted forward; grinding their pelvises together and well, at least he wasn’t the only one hard.

   Wilson spread his legs, giving House room to fit between. “This isn’t looking good for your victory, Wilson,” House murmured into his ear, before nipping his earlobe.

   He arched his back and clenched his teeth at the sensation of House licking the shell of his ear. The witty, dry retort disappeared in a moan when House thrust against him, zippers sliding together, and bit down where his jugular was.

   Shoving at each other bodily, House’s hands still pressed against the door and Wilson pinning his own with his butt, was so maddeningly not enough and yet too much that Wilson didn’t know how to proceed; he gyrated his hips and met each of House’s forward-thrusts, chests pressing together and wrinkled clothes rubbing against his skin, and he wished for genuine contact; but he couldn’t get it, not without losing. It was a trivial thing to worry about, especially considering they were rutting against each other, and maybe if he were more sober and not busy trying to get more friction from House’s own hardness he’d be able to figure out why he cared, but House was nipping at his jaw and breathing hotly across his skin and pressing harder with each roll of his hips. 

   When House made it to his mouth again, he slid back into the open-mouthed, wet and too-much-tongue kiss with ease, teeth pulling at House’s bottom lip, and both of them pulling away after only a few seconds to breathe, just to go at it again, and again, and it was far too hot and stuffy and he was achingly hard; the fabric that separated them and the friction was more chafing than arousing, and his clothes were too heavy on his shoulders and chest and lungs constricted with not enough air and hands twitched with the want of hot skin.

   “That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” House chuckled against Wilson’s adam’s apple.

   Wilson swallowed. He hadn’t even realized he’d been saying his name. “Sorry,” he murmured, because now he remembered, quite vividly, just how loudly he had gasped out his best friend’s name, in a tone that had only ever been cried out in the privacy of his room, lube-slathered hand around his cock.

   “Don’t apologize. I’ve always liked encouragement.” His voice was raspier and lower than usual. His lips moved against his adam’s apple before biting down on the spot next to it; sucking on that spot before licking his way down to his clavicle.

   “I’ll keep that in mind.”

   House stopped and Wilson winced; maybe (although entirely accidentally) implying this could happen again wasn’t the best course of action.

   House took a step back, hands leaving the door and bodies no longer touching. He narrowed his eyes and Wilson quickly looked away, cheeks burning and pants uncomfortably tight and he didn’t need to check and see if they were tenting, because he knew they were, and House just stood there, unaware or uncaring that Wilson’s heart was in his throat and lungs had ceased to function properly. 

   “Undo your pants.”

   If it were possible for eyes to get whiplash, Wilson’s would have. “What?”

   House huffed and rolled his eyes; his cheeks were flushed and his shirt was wrinkled, plus the bulge at the front of his pants was very obvious. With a shrug, House sunk to his knees, placing his hands on his thighs. “Undo your pants,” he said again, kneeling in front of Wilson with his head tilted back and a quirked eyebrow.

   Wilson's hands were on his belt before he hesitated. He met House’s eyes challengingly and felt his grin stretch across his face. House's smirk faltered and Wilson, instead, put them on his hips. “Why don’t you undo them?”

   House glared and Wilson kept smirking.

   Instead of undoing Wilson’s buckle and losing, House just let out one dark chuckle. With a shrug, he leaned forward and mouthed Wilson’s bulge.

   The heat of House’s mouth through his pants forced out a grunt and the back of his head thunked against the door. Lust and alcohol fuzzed out any half-thought that made it to his brain, his cock aching to be free and thrust into his hot, wet mouth. House mouthed and licked, dampening the fabric and Wilson’s pelvis surged forward. 

   He heard the tell-tale sound of a zipper and he glanced down, something triumphant on the tip of his tongue, but then he saw House had only unzipped his own pants, hand working out his own cock and pumping it, his pleasured grunts muffled by Wilson’s growing arousal.

   His fingers had been digging into his hips, but now they were reaching for House's head--

   Wilson jerked them back; rubbed his face and exhaled shakily, before nodding and clenching his teeth. “Okay, okay, I’ll undo my pants,” he relented, exasperated, and despite how goddamn horny he was, still managed to glare at House who just curled his lips at him and raised his eyebrows. “Ass,” he added as an afterthought, hurriedly unbuckling his belt and sliding free the button and zipper. 

   “Hey, you’re the genius who thought your blowjob meant more to me than you.” He took that moment to spit on his palm and then start stroking himself again. He licked his lip and closed his eyes, making a noise that Wilson would never forget. 

   Wilson shoved his pants down and then stood back up, to have House’s hot, wet mouth slide of the head of his dick and he leaned his head against the door, rocking his hips back and forth, groaning and gasping as House slid back and forth over his shaft, tongue swirling around the top before going down again.

   The sounds of his slick mouth slipping over his cock and House jerking off was almost louder than his breath; than the heart pounding in his ears. It was warm and wet and probably a little sloppy but Wilson was too far gone to really critique House on it; all he cared about was how goddamn good it felt--it had been a long, long while since anyone had kissed him, took his cock into their mouth, and House was and he’d wanted this for so long, but it wasn’t even real, it was a bet, a dare, and House sucked him deeper, cock hitting the back of his throat--

   Wilson slapped his hand over his mouth after a loud cry and bucked forward; House choked and Wilson tried to say an apology but it got lost into his palm.

   “You don’t have to cover your mouth, Wilson. I like it loud.” He was breathy and his voice cracked; Wilson eyed him, hand blurring over his cock and cheeks a bright red, eyes squeezed closed. “Never hear me complain when you shout my name whacking it, do you?”

   “You heard that?”

   “No, but now I know you have.” House licked the tip of his dick, then winced. He stopped jerking himself and winced again. “Really shouldn’t have gotten on my knees.”

   Wilson moved to help him stand and House gave him the glare he always gave him. He stood slowly, wincing as he did, before he stood in front of Wilson. Wilson stepped forward, about to ask if House was okay, but House kissed him before he could talk. Their cocks brushed together and he undulated his hips, hand closing into a fist to stop himself from stroking the both of them.

   House pulled away, then jerked his head in the direction of Wilson’s bedroom. Pants undone and pushed just low enough to release his dick, House limped away with more ease than Wilson, whose pants were tangled up around his ankles. 

   Laughing, House peeled his shirt away and threw it in Wilson’s face. Wilson tossed it to the ground and glared at House’s bare back, before pushing his shoes and pants free and leaving them in the foyer. He shouldered open his half-closed door to see House sitting on the edge of his bed, facing the door and slowly rubbing himself.

   Wilson took off his shirt and it dropped to the floor. He still didn’t move forward, just watched House play with himself. Outside of a bar in the pink neon glow of an old sign or up against the door half-clothed was somehow different than in Wilson’s darkened bedroom.

   After the moment of hesitation, he started over to the bed, the moon outside the window and the light from the foyer his only sources of light. He tripped over House’s jeans but managed to stay upright, and stood in front of House, swallowing the lump in his throat.

   The light from the hallway illuminated half of House’s face. He leaned forward and slid his lips over the head of his cock and massaged it with his tongue; licking the underside of his shaft before sucking him deeper.

   He put his hands on his hips and moaned; realized that he wasn’t comfortable with his hands there so he folded one over his chest and used the other to cover his mouth to muffle House’s name, but that wasn’t any less strange. Finally he let his hands drop to his side and clench into fists while House worked him over, only pulling away to spit into his own palm so he could keep masturbating while he twirled his tongue and bobbed his head back and forth.

   He fought the urge to squeeze his shoulder and palm the back of House’s head; he was making undignified noises every time House’s mouth slid down his erection, and with each twirl of his tongue the need to touch House grew stronger.

   He bit down on his lip as hard as his nails dug into his palm. Pelvis rocking into House’s willing, wet, hot mouth, House moving his head faster and moaning, the sounds of his spit-slicked hand jerking over his cock louder, Wilson took a step back, cocking slipping free.

   “No need to be shy, Wilson. I swallow.”

   “No, no, it’s not--really?”

   House just quirked an eyebrow for an answer, hand now smoothing himself at a leisurely pace.

   Wilson cleared his throat. “I have, you know.” He felt like such an idiot. “I have . . . stuff.”

   House’s hand stilled and Wilson moved his hand from the back of his neck to the back of his head. House blinked a few times, then shrugged. “We’re moving from novice to pro pretty fast.”

   Wilson smiled. “I’m a fast learner.”

   House smiled and scooted back on the bed. Wilson went over to the bedside table and opened the drawer. He could hear the mattress moving under House’s weight and his cock ached with the anticipation and from lack of attention. He sifted around in his drawer but there wasn’t enough light for him to see well, so he switched on the bedside lamp.

   He saw the lube first and pulled it out, tossing it onto the bed. He grabbed a condom and threw that on the bed also, shutting the drawer with his hip.

   The wattage of the lamp was dull, so the golden glow really only lit up half the bed. It was still enough to see House, his right getting full brunt of the light as he put on the condom. He didn’t move to cover up his scar, or slide under the comforter to hide the lower half of his body.

   Wilson got on the bed and moved over to him. Clutching the headboard House was sitting against, he swung one leg on either side of House and kissed him. It wasn’t needy or frenzied or rough. Simply mouths sliding together in a rapidly-getting-familiar rhythm, and he heard the cap of the lube popping open.

   He heard the slicking and he pulled away from House, staring down at him. The light showed the other side of his face this time, but a softer colour; a warmer colour. It wasn’t the ethereal pink glow from the bar sign and it wasn’t the bright reality of the hallway, but something in between.

   House tossed the bottle aside. “There’s no way you can do this without touching me. Are you sure you’re up to the challenge?”

   Two things struck Wilson then.

   First, that House couldn’t ever say anything straight-on without wrapping it in something else. Of course he wasn’t just talking about the bet, because House never just talked about anything. Wilson could back away now and have an excuse, no matter how thin it was and pointless after everything they’d done so far.

   Second, he wasn’t drunk anymore. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t blame the alcohol.

   He hadn’t exactly been that far gone in the first place, but he’d had a pretty strong buzz for awhile. But if he was sober now, that meant House had to have been as well; it took more to get him drunk than it did Wilson, and he always sobered up faster. 

   “Hey, I’m not the one who’s going to be doing the laundry for a week.”

   “A whole week to do what you want with me and your mind goes to laundry? It’s been awhile since I’ve sucked a dick but I know I’m not that bad.”

   Wilson kissed him as an answer. “Hold yourself steady,” he said against his mouth, sneaking in his tongue once more.

   “You hold it steady.” House nipped at his bottom lip.

   “I can just get myself off on your chest, you know.”

   “All right, fine,” House sighed, but the smile pressed against Wilson’s was enough to show he wasn’t really that exasperated. Wilson kissed his mouth once more before pulling away from him and lifting up to give House room. Keeping his arm pressed against his own chest, House slid his hand down and held onto his cock. Wilson was pulling back enough that his arms were fully stretched out, still clutching the headboard.

   Wilson carefully sunk down, glad House had been liberal with the lube when the head of his cock slipped inside him. He let out a breath when he lowered himself a bit more and House carefully removed his hand, eyes squeezed shut and lips pressed tightly together.

   It had been a long time since he’d been with a man; not too long, but long enough where it was a bit uncomfortable. He slid down, taking in every inch and feeling every moment, nudging House’s lips with his. He pulled up as he licked House’s mouth open, then exhaled hotly as he pushed down again.

   Hot breath against his face, House pulled away, muscles in his jaw visibly tense. He felt the sheets shift beneath his knees and he looked down to see House fisting them, knuckles white, and he rocked his hips into Wilson. “God, Wilson,” he gritted through clenched teeth, “tell me this isn’t your first time.”

   “Well I thought hey, what better way to lose your ass virginity than by--” The vowel that burst from his mouth sounded hardly human. House had thrust upward into him and the suddenness of it shot pleasure straight through him. Back arched and head tilted back, eyes wide at the ceiling, he blinked away the bright spots that danced in front of his vision.

   Clutching the headboard hard enough for his knuckles to be white, he stared at House, meeting each of his upward thrusts with a push downward. “. . . over a bet,” he finished breathlessly. 

   House quirked an eyebrow. “Well it was a wordy answer. We’re fucking, not sharing dissertations.”

   “Speaking of wordy.”

   He plundered his mouth; really explored with his tongue, setting a steady pace while he rocked into House’s pelvis, feeling House deeper and deeper inside him. Not quite as fast as he wanted it, but House was practically shaking beneath him, grunting and gasping and Wilson dug his nails into the wood of the headboard, cock trapped between their soft abdomens. He squeezed House's waist tightly with his knees and grunted into his mouth; licked and nipped his bottom lip and slowed the rocking slightly; felt each desperate push up from House and had to pull away from the kiss to breathe.

   “Could go a bit faster,” House murmured, head tilted back and throat exposed. 

   “You could guide me if you wanted.” Although he was pretty sure that gasping in between syllables and letting out a groan at the end didn’t have the intended effect, he thought his reply was rather witty, considering. 

   One corner of the sheet slipped off the mattress from the force of House curling it around his fists. “When I win this, I’m gonna tie you up, you know that right?”

   “And ride me?”

   “Real,” House jerked his hips upward and Wilson rolled his hips forward hard enough House’s back hit the headboard, “slow.”

   “Oh that’ll happen no matter who wins, House.”

   Sweating and gasping, Wilson gyrated and held back from riding him faster and harder; as hard and fast as he wanted to, and tried to keep the maddeningly careful, and steady, rhythm.

   “Fuck it,” House growled, then grabbed Wilson’s side and forced him down and jerked up.

   Wilson wanted to somehow gloat but he couldn’t; not with the way House was holding onto him, fingers slipping down his sides and catching on his hips. He pistoned into him, Wilson no longer concerned with keeping cool; crying out and seizing House’s shoulders, blunt-nailed fingers scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders and spine and the back of his head, short, sweat-slicked curls clinging to his knuckles.

   Headboard banging a quick, inconsistent beat against the wall and mattress squeaking beneath them, they didn’t hold back with noises of their own; swearing and shouting out half-words or nothing at all.

   Teeth against his neck; shoulder; cheek; lips and tongue. Nails scratching at his chest and side and Wilson reciprocating; chests slipping by each other and fingers bruising him in awkward places; bruises he only felt somewhere in the back of his mind that didn’t hurt or feel at all, just existed, and moisture brimming at his lids as House babbled incoherently against his sternum, holding his hips steady as he slammed into him from underneath, Wilson arching his back and holding onto House’s arms to stay steady. The angle he rode him wasn’t a very balanced one and he tipped over--no, House pushed him onto his back.

  Wilson clung to him, hands grabbing at the skin of his back and legs wrapping around his waist. House planted one hand beside Wilson’s ear, mattress indenting beneath his head, and arched back, hand sneaking between them and stroking Wilson’s cock furiously.

   House pounded him into the bed and--

   Wilson came; he came sooner than he wanted, far too soon, clawing at House’s back and shouting stupidity at the ceiling. House was still moving inside him when he came down and he hissed, far too oversensitive for that. “House,” he gasped, tapping his shoulder and squirming a bit underneath him. 

   House pulled out with a half-mumbled apology and leant over him, jerking himself and pinching his lips tight. Wilson caught his breath, staring at House’s ridiculously contorting face of pleasure above him, and smiled; reached forward and cupped the side of his face while he stuttered over consonants and mewled in pleasure. The hallway light left a strip along the ceiling, and House would’ve been nothing more than a silhouette were it not for the golden glow of the bedside lamp, glinting off the sheen of sweat over his naked body.

   Aching, but relaxed, Wilson stroked his damp forehead and House turned his head, pressing a kiss and biting at his palm. Wilson watched him come undone above him; it was entirely different on this end, not lost in the haze of lust but content while House added to the mess on his chest. 

   He collapsed on him, breathing into his neck and nuzzling into his hair with his nose. Wilson couldn’t help but laugh a little; it was somehow tickling, tip of his nose brushing his ear and breath rushing across the nape of his neck. 

   House joined his chuckles. “Worth every penny,” he breathed into his ear.

   “I’m not a prostitute, House.” 

   House lifted himself up on his elbow and stared down at Wilson. “Well, worth every dirty sock and grubby wall I have to clean then.” He pushed Wilson's bangs from his forehead, eyes never leaving his. “Boy, are you gonna be sore,” he added but the taunting lilt that should’ve been there wasn’t. Instead he sounded almost reverent, and House kept tracing his hairline, even though there was nothing to push away.

   Wilson ran his fingertips up and down House’s spine. “Not as sore as you’re gonna be. I made you lose your winning streak.”

   House snorted. “Oh come on, you think I actually played this before? I’m not a moron, Wilson. I just heard it in a movie once.” He carded his fingers through Wilson's hair, eyes moving across his face and body shifting so they fit together more comfortably.

   Wilson rested his palm on the small of House’s back and leaned up to capture House’s mouth. “And you played it up anyway.”

   “I wanted you to kiss me.”

   Wilson smiled against House’s lips. “You don’t have to make everything complicated, you know.”

  House kissed down Wilson’s jaw, then settled his forehead on his collarbone. “Not anymore, anyway.”

   “You’re still going to.” He wrapped his arms around House, pulling them flush together, sticky and warm and grinning.

   “Of course.”

   Wilson grinned against House's cheek briefly before kissing his stubble. “We should probably take a bath.”

   “Ready when you are,” House muttered, although he gave no indication of moving.

   The winkled duvet itched against his back, the post-coital ache and fatigue settled in, and House’s knee was jabbing him in the thigh uncomfortably. House was heavier than he looked, or at least it felt that way with his dead weight draped over him, skin sticking to his like leather seats on a hot summer day. Wilson concluded that beard burn was aptly named, because the raw feeling around his mouth wasn’t exactly comfortable.

   Wilson closed his eyes. “In a minute.”