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The One Where They're Girls, And Make The Most Of It

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"The thing is," Wilson says, slumping into the chair opposite House's desk, "guys keep hitting on me."

"So?" House says, glancing over top of his magazine. "You're hot."

Wilson blushes--very prettily, he's been assured. He's probably spent more time blushing since this whole...thing...than he has staring at his breasts. Which. Is kind of saying a lot. "The problem is," he says, "they're guys who used to be women."

He's finally managed to wrench House's attention away from Teen Beat. House stares at Wilson like he's an utter moron. "Are you kidding?" he asks. "That's your problem?"

"Of course it is," Wilson says, not fazed by the look, but somewhat intimidated by the fact that there's clearly another problem that he's overlooked that House is now going to explain to him. In detail.

"You think it would be better to be hit on by an actual that they're all women?"

"Ah," Wilson says, and the blush deepens. He can feel his face heating, and he looks down, then glances up at House through his eyelashes. They're longer than they used to be, and thicker, and he somehow can't help that everything he does now feels like flirting. "Well. But they'd women."

House's stare takes a turn towards incredulous. "You are so straight that you're insecure unless you're being hit on by a woman," he says. "Even knowing that that woman used to be a man. Even knowing that you are now a woman."

"Well, when you put it that way," Wilson starts, but House throws down his magazine in disgust. He's magnificent in his scorn; his breasts are heaving inside his lower-than-Cuddy's-lowest-cut top even though (Wilson estimates quickly) he's only a B-cup. When House rolls his eyes, now, the movement includes a disdainful toss of his wild mane of hair out of his face.

"Would it be better if I hit on you?" House asks. "Since I look like the gender you're trying so hard to convince yourself you're supposed to want?"

"Um, no, that's--that's fine," Wilson says, and stands up. He came to House for comfort and a little reassurance, and clearly that was the moment when things went horribly wrong. Right now, he can't imagine why he did. Maybe it's the hormones.

"Because I will," House says, and now he's grabbed his cane and stalked around the desk to stand in front of Wilson.

"You just want to feel me up again!" Wilson accuses, backing away with no small amount of terror. Sure, he's no Cuddy, but there's more than a handful there, and House hasn't really stopped noticing since all this began. He's noticing right now, in fact. And Wilson can't help but forgive him; he'd be noticing too, if he had a mirror: his blush has moved downwards, and he really hasn't been able to find a bra that fits exactly right, and he's kind of spilling out the top of the only one he managed to buy without dying of embarrassment.

"Key word: again," House says. "You didn't exactly object the first time."

"That was the first week!" Wilson objects, furiously embarrassed but also unable to really look away from House's mouth. "Everyone was--"

"Everyone else was freaking out," House says. "I was feeling you up."

So maybe House was just lying in wait for Wilson to have his sexual crisis of faith, but that doesn't make Wilson any less surprised when House closes the gap between them and kisses him. The first thing Wilson thinks is he shaved, but of course that's ridiculous, now, since House hasn't had a beard since this began. The second thing Wilson thinks, when House's tongue invades his mouth, is that House is such a slut; but House hasn't really changed and Wilson imagines (because he has never, ever spent time thinking about this before right now) that this is exactly how House would kiss: deep and wet and messy and definitely, definitely playing for keeps.

"Oh my God," Wilson manages to get out. There are breasts pressed against him and that's not new; the part where they're pressed against his breasts definitely is. House dives back in and kisses him harder, but now there are hands--hands in new places, places that quite literally have never had hands (except his own; he couldn't resist, and he's sure no one blames him) on them before. House strokes his breast through the bra--his other hand has reached under Wilson's blouse and is fumbling with his bra clasp. He can't get it open, and he growls into Wilson's mouth in frustration.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, Wilson feels wonderfully, marvelously happy. It's not that he's jealous of House's brains, or his way of going through life without giving a rat's ass for what anyone else thinks, or--well, Wilson just isn't jealous. He's not. But it's good to know that there's one area where he's better than House. He is more skilled, more talented, more practiced. He is, in a word, amazing. So he reaches around behind House and undoes his bra with a flick of his fingers.

Even though Wilson's a woman, he hasn't lost the knack.

"Great," House says, "now yours," and Wilson finally gets free of the scratchy confines of elastic and lace. "Very nice," House says, and his voice is husky but higher than it used to be--and still, the frequency seems tuned directly to Wilson's--well, not his cock, he has to correct himself, but to his clit. Wilson squirms, feeling the slide of wetness between his legs, which is wrong, so wrong, so incredibly wrong--that is, right up until the moment that House goes for third base.

Then things start feeling very right indeed.

"Hey," he says (rather feebly, he has to admit, but it seems to be the thing to say--or at least, most of the women he's been with have said it at one point or another), "aren't you--this is, ah, a little fast, don't you think?"

House pulls back almost a full step. His full lips are red and pouty from kissing, and his breasts, peeking through his shirt, are really more perky than any forty-something drug addict deserves. He looks at Wilson, and Wilson looks back. "No," House says, and Wilson has to agree.

"Oh," Wilson says. "Good." And then he rips off House's shirt.

House's chest looks...different. Wilson rolls his eyes at himself for that bit of inanity, but it's more than just the breasts. House is still slim, his arms are still muscular, and--well--the breasts, again, yes, Wilson's impressed, very, ah, interested--but House is softer, curvier than he was before.

It's--the thing is, Wilson can't pretend it's not House. When he touches House's breasts, running his thumbs over House's nipples, the gasp and the look that House gives him is completely familiar--testing, evaluating, and just a little bit smug. And just like always, Wilson wants to wipe that look off House's face, break through to the person underneath. So he leans forward and takes House's nipple in his mouth and sucks, hard.

"Wilson--" House hisses his name between his teeth, and, "So that's why--"

"What?" Wilson asks, pulling back, wondering if he was too rough.

House yanks him back by his hair, and says, "That's why women always say don't stop."

Wilson hums agreement and goes back to town, since that's clearly what House wants, and House pulls and tugs at him until House has his desk under his ass. Wilson moves forward and then all of a sudden--out of nowhere--everything feels so intensely perfect that he's amazed he hasn't come already. "Oh--Jesus," he says. He's stepped just so and now he's riding House's good thigh, and his clit is pressed into House's leg and it's so good but it's not enough, so he grabs House's hips and pushes forward again.

House is in an awkward position, and he can't get much leverage with Wilson's weight on him, but he rocks his thigh forward to meet Wilson's thrusts as best he can, and he takes Wilson's breasts in his hands and pinches his nipples. Wilson throws his head back and gasps--the two sensations seem to blend together into something even better, and it's all so overwhelming that he almost closes his eyes, except that House is watching him; and House's eyes, Wilson realizes, haven't changed at all, and that's what he's thinking when he comes.

He feels good, even afterwards; he doesn't want to go to sleep at all. And the way House is staring at him, like he's figured out every last part of him, makes Wilson want to escape, so he does it the best way he knows how. He slides down House's legs--they're gorgeous, and they seem to go on forever--until he's on his knees. Wilson pushes up House's skirt (House. In a skirt. It defies imagination, but House seems to like them; apparently they're easier even than sweats, and he looks hot in them and knows it). Wilson pulls down House's panties (and he emphatically does not want to know the story behind them; he's too afraid that the words "Cuddy" and "panty raid" will come into it somehow), and then, once more, he's in a place where he feels very comfortable indeed.

"This is so weird," Wilson says, his lips against House's inner thigh. He's confident, though; he might be having a personal crisis, but, well, he knows it: he is excellent at making women come. It doesn't work quite the way it usually does--House is pushy and grabs at his shoulders, and Wilson has to work out the angle of his tongue, but all of a sudden House's fingers tighten on his shoulder and he's so wet that Wilson easily slides a finger into him and presses up. House's pussy (and, oh God, Wilson can never unthink those two words together) contracts around his finger, and House makes a sound that Wilson's never heard before, either from a man or a woman; something whining and entreating, almost his name, and Wilson sucks at House's clit and adds another finger and House comes again: Wilson can tell, he always could. House, that lucky bastard, is clearly riding a wave of orgasms, and Wilson's generous enough to let him and even help him along. Only when House's hand on his shoulder pushes at him does he back off and stand up, and then House grabs his arm and pulls him into a kiss. It's softer and goes on longer, this time, and Wilson doesn't really want it to end. Finally, though, he manages to get his clothes together and find House's top for him.

That's when Wilson realizes where they are: House's office, with nothing but glass between them and the halls.

He whirls on House and demands, "We just--and the blinds were open the whole time?" So there really is something worse than suddenly being a woman, he thinks, and that's having amazing sex with his best friend--also, insanely, a woman--in front of the entire hospital full of his gender-switched colleagues.

"Oh, don't get your panties in a twist," House says, peaceably. He looks the most relaxed that Wilson's ever seen him. "This whole place has been an orgy for weeks."


"I've got all the good blackmail material," House says, grinning. "Trust me, this didn't even come close."

Wilson huffs and puts his hands on his hips, insulted. "Not even close?"

House leers at him. "Well, maybe. I couldn't really say without further investigation."

Wilson stares back at him evenly. "I've always admired your dedication to research," he says.

"Plus, Cameron's having an existential crisis," House adds. "Something about penis size. Wanna ditch?"

"Yeah," Wilson says, with a shrug. "Okay."

Apparently semi-public sex has solved the problem of guys hitting on him; there aren't any remarks or wolf-whistles as Wilson and House leave the hospital, and the only hand on his ass (which, he has to admit, turned out amazing in the switch), is one that, after all, is welcome to be there.