Title: Heart Thrown Open
Mar. 13th, 2011 04:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cosmic_tuesdaysTitle: Heart Thrown Open
Author: Hannah R. Orlove
Fandom: House, MD
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: House/Wilson
Notes: I took a note fromthedeadparrot and wrote indulgent Valentine's Day porn while working under a deadline. Sequel to Fight Down Height. Title comes from the song Near Wild Heaven.
They spent a good chunk of an hour figuring out a racing route. Both of them wanted a long stretch of road to work from, but House didn’t want to get near the highway, which limited easy choices. He pointed out that the road had to be continuous, not straight, leading to a small disagreement over which way to go and where to eventually end up.
Wilson was glad it was Sunday; none of the paparazzi would be out.
“You like the attention and you know it.” House pulled his gloves on while Wilson wrapped a scarf around his mouth. Attention was one thing; photographs of the world’s first Unmanned Flying Oncologist showing up on random websites were another. At least they could ask him first. “If you drove to work, they wouldn’t be a problem.” Didn’t they bother House? “I can hear them coming.”
Getting a handle on how to listen had been the first thing House had done after his powers had started, more out of necessity than anything else. Figuring out how to keep out of everyone else’s head had been a challenge; he couldn’t turn it off, for one thing, and for another, he actually wanted to hear them. When he wasn’t being prodded into coma patients’ rooms and PET scans, at any rate.
He hadn’t figured out how to speak without getting an aura-accompanied migraine. The link between them would be fascinating to explore if it didn’t hurt so much to get good data. It wasn’t as though he wanted to practice, but Cuddy had forbidden him from doing it for the rest of the month, and whenever he tried to speak it was almost as bad as speaking itself.
Which was why he and Wilson had set up a set of hand signals for the race – nonverbal communication once again saving the day. There were the regular ones for turning right and left that every cyclist learned, but a few that were specific to the two of them. A raised right fist to indicate he’d heard Wilson, palm-down open left hand to show he was agreeing, left fist for disagreement, a few more to round out the small set.
House took a look at Wilson and raised his left fist to his face, smirking. Wilson sighed and adjusted his goggles – a gift from House, he was happy to point out; he was just finishing off the outfit. “You look like you escaped from a Howard Hughes movie set.” House didn’t know where he’d managed to get his hands on those pants, or why he’d kept them, unless this was his chance to live out his childhood aviator fantasies, in which case that led to another fold in one theory behind the specific manifestations.
But journal articles could wait. For now, there was a race to be had.
House pulled down his helmet, held out his hand, and got a loud yes in reply. And they were off, House hunched down over his bike and Wilson a couple of feet away, over and up just enough to see both hands.
Listening to Wilson during flying was getting less strange, but there was still that outside-of-the-brain itch from listening to something he had no body memory of or for. Chase running was familiar and sometimes fun to ride along with; Cameron adjusting herself in her seat when she thought nobody was watching wasn’t nearly as arousing as he’d as expected, and even more alien. Wilson flying or Brenda fire-starting was a step beyond that, his own set of experiences falling flat in trying to come up with a working translation for people who couldn’t travel along like he could.
Right now, there wasn’t any need to translate, just to listen. It wasn’t peaceful, the flying Wilson was doing right now, not compared to the flying he was used to, needing more concentration to stay so low and so close to House. This wasn’t instinctual, but there were action patterns he was learning, and learning fast at that; plenty of body-words on how to move in any number of situations.
So he did practice at night when he thought House was asleep. Why he thought he could keep it – well, that was a very good reason. House smirked and went a bit faster; he’d just have to act surprised on his birthday, then.
Wilson caught up without any hesitation or surprise, something inside pushing forward, letting him overtake House for a moment. He frowned, leaned a bit lower and upped his speed a bit; this was new. He’d already been going pretty fast, and Wilson was doing just fine, happy and cheerful on top with something more savory right under that.
It probably looked pretty silly. Not just the low flying, but also the fact that they kept inching past each other, like something out of a Warner Brothers cartoon, with neither staying ahead for very long.
House? He raised his hand to show he’d heard the question.
You lose. He didn’t have time to react before Wilson zoomed off and up – feeling that he hadn’t been trying at all for the whole race and this, this now, was really going fast, like House wouldn’t have believed if he hadn’t been riding along. Which he didn’t do for very long, instead stopping to gather himself back into his own head before heading back home.
Wilson was already there when he arrived, which House had been expecting, along with the nakedness. The kissing frenzy as soon as he’d closed the door wasn’t a shock, either. Heavy flying always left Wilson exhilarated and excited and elated, and when he really pushed himself like he just had – like he happily showed House and wasn’t giving up yet – more than half-hard. House didn’t ask why, too preoccupied. Wilson hadn’t come down yet, still holding himself up in the air, not putting any weight on House’s body while he wrapped his arms and legs around him and kept kissing, doing that licking thing on the underside of his tongue House liked so much. Not that the kissing was needed right now; Wilson was so horny House wondered why the neighbors weren’t getting it on themselves.
Pushing Wilson off just long enough to start taking his clothes off, “Get your hands away, it won’t help me go faster,” before getting back to what they’d been doing, heavy and deep, House making a low sound when Wilson moved over to his neck, going softly, the way he knew House liked for foreplay, “Damn straight I like that,” interesting turn of phrase, “Get your ass into bed.”
They hadn’t tried it yet with Wilson above House with just a tongue or lips or a hand touching and nothing else even close, “Not today we’re not,” but maybe another time, experiment with it, see how it felt, “You’d fall down,” at least he didn’t have to work to get his own words out, “Like I care right now.”
Wilson was getting too far to have a good inner monologue, just a very basic one, nothing terrifically complicated about his patients or parents or things he knew House wasn’t supposed to be listening to, only direct instructions for House. Get on the bed, get it out, let me do this.
His fingers were slicked-up, the cold lube strange with how warm Wilson thought he was. House squirmed, face-up, bearing down and wishing that Cuddy had let him go through with his plans to try speaking after a morphine injection until Wilson shifted just enough to reach his prostate, not even needing to be told, he knew how to listen to House’s body. House hadn’t asked if he knew what he was doing; the first time, Wilson hadn’t stopped his thoughts from running circles around Stephen and Todd and Mark, and House knew more than enough to not mention any of them afterwards. It’d been a long time from them to House, but some things you don’t forget. Like when to put in a second finger, and to keep his mouth playing at the slit just like that, tip of the tongue teasing it back-and-forth, going down to get the tongue under the foreskin before it went back completely.
That Wilson wasn’t locked up with pain and closer to fifty than forty went a long way towards energizing House’s own arousal. Even lightly listening to Wilson would have been enough to get House aroused, never mind how it felt to get right in and feel Wilson roll on the condom – so careful, even now, that House had to laugh, the biggest sound either of them had made since getting into the bedroom. He moves his legs out a bit, sighed when Wilson tugged his balls just so, and smiled when he felt Wilson start to push in. Some sort of weird ouroboros, yin-yang fucking, in Wilson’s head and his own, so good he thought he might come right the second Wilson started thrusting.
Double the pleasure, double the fun. There wasn’t any way to figure out what it was like to literally fuck yourself – not unless you were Garrity from legal – but this was close, and Lord, did it ever feel good.
Author: Hannah R. Orlove
Fandom: House, MD
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: House/Wilson
Notes: I took a note from
thedeadparrot and wrote indulgent Valentine's Day porn while working under a deadline. Sequel to Fight Down Height. Title comes from the song Near Wild Heaven.They spent a good chunk of an hour figuring out a racing route. Both of them wanted a long stretch of road to work from, but House didn’t want to get near the highway, which limited easy choices. He pointed out that the road had to be continuous, not straight, leading to a small disagreement over which way to go and where to eventually end up.
Wilson was glad it was Sunday; none of the paparazzi would be out.
“You like the attention and you know it.” House pulled his gloves on while Wilson wrapped a scarf around his mouth. Attention was one thing; photographs of the world’s first Unmanned Flying Oncologist showing up on random websites were another. At least they could ask him first. “If you drove to work, they wouldn’t be a problem.” Didn’t they bother House? “I can hear them coming.”
Getting a handle on how to listen had been the first thing House had done after his powers had started, more out of necessity than anything else. Figuring out how to keep out of everyone else’s head had been a challenge; he couldn’t turn it off, for one thing, and for another, he actually wanted to hear them. When he wasn’t being prodded into coma patients’ rooms and PET scans, at any rate.
He hadn’t figured out how to speak without getting an aura-accompanied migraine. The link between them would be fascinating to explore if it didn’t hurt so much to get good data. It wasn’t as though he wanted to practice, but Cuddy had forbidden him from doing it for the rest of the month, and whenever he tried to speak it was almost as bad as speaking itself.
Which was why he and Wilson had set up a set of hand signals for the race – nonverbal communication once again saving the day. There were the regular ones for turning right and left that every cyclist learned, but a few that were specific to the two of them. A raised right fist to indicate he’d heard Wilson, palm-down open left hand to show he was agreeing, left fist for disagreement, a few more to round out the small set.
House took a look at Wilson and raised his left fist to his face, smirking. Wilson sighed and adjusted his goggles – a gift from House, he was happy to point out; he was just finishing off the outfit. “You look like you escaped from a Howard Hughes movie set.” House didn’t know where he’d managed to get his hands on those pants, or why he’d kept them, unless this was his chance to live out his childhood aviator fantasies, in which case that led to another fold in one theory behind the specific manifestations.
But journal articles could wait. For now, there was a race to be had.
House pulled down his helmet, held out his hand, and got a loud yes in reply. And they were off, House hunched down over his bike and Wilson a couple of feet away, over and up just enough to see both hands.
Listening to Wilson during flying was getting less strange, but there was still that outside-of-the-brain itch from listening to something he had no body memory of or for. Chase running was familiar and sometimes fun to ride along with; Cameron adjusting herself in her seat when she thought nobody was watching wasn’t nearly as arousing as he’d as expected, and even more alien. Wilson flying or Brenda fire-starting was a step beyond that, his own set of experiences falling flat in trying to come up with a working translation for people who couldn’t travel along like he could.
Right now, there wasn’t any need to translate, just to listen. It wasn’t peaceful, the flying Wilson was doing right now, not compared to the flying he was used to, needing more concentration to stay so low and so close to House. This wasn’t instinctual, but there were action patterns he was learning, and learning fast at that; plenty of body-words on how to move in any number of situations.
So he did practice at night when he thought House was asleep. Why he thought he could keep it – well, that was a very good reason. House smirked and went a bit faster; he’d just have to act surprised on his birthday, then.
Wilson caught up without any hesitation or surprise, something inside pushing forward, letting him overtake House for a moment. He frowned, leaned a bit lower and upped his speed a bit; this was new. He’d already been going pretty fast, and Wilson was doing just fine, happy and cheerful on top with something more savory right under that.
It probably looked pretty silly. Not just the low flying, but also the fact that they kept inching past each other, like something out of a Warner Brothers cartoon, with neither staying ahead for very long.
House? He raised his hand to show he’d heard the question.
You lose. He didn’t have time to react before Wilson zoomed off and up – feeling that he hadn’t been trying at all for the whole race and this, this now, was really going fast, like House wouldn’t have believed if he hadn’t been riding along. Which he didn’t do for very long, instead stopping to gather himself back into his own head before heading back home.
Wilson was already there when he arrived, which House had been expecting, along with the nakedness. The kissing frenzy as soon as he’d closed the door wasn’t a shock, either. Heavy flying always left Wilson exhilarated and excited and elated, and when he really pushed himself like he just had – like he happily showed House and wasn’t giving up yet – more than half-hard. House didn’t ask why, too preoccupied. Wilson hadn’t come down yet, still holding himself up in the air, not putting any weight on House’s body while he wrapped his arms and legs around him and kept kissing, doing that licking thing on the underside of his tongue House liked so much. Not that the kissing was needed right now; Wilson was so horny House wondered why the neighbors weren’t getting it on themselves.
Pushing Wilson off just long enough to start taking his clothes off, “Get your hands away, it won’t help me go faster,” before getting back to what they’d been doing, heavy and deep, House making a low sound when Wilson moved over to his neck, going softly, the way he knew House liked for foreplay, “Damn straight I like that,” interesting turn of phrase, “Get your ass into bed.”
They hadn’t tried it yet with Wilson above House with just a tongue or lips or a hand touching and nothing else even close, “Not today we’re not,” but maybe another time, experiment with it, see how it felt, “You’d fall down,” at least he didn’t have to work to get his own words out, “Like I care right now.”
Wilson was getting too far to have a good inner monologue, just a very basic one, nothing terrifically complicated about his patients or parents or things he knew House wasn’t supposed to be listening to, only direct instructions for House. Get on the bed, get it out, let me do this.
His fingers were slicked-up, the cold lube strange with how warm Wilson thought he was. House squirmed, face-up, bearing down and wishing that Cuddy had let him go through with his plans to try speaking after a morphine injection until Wilson shifted just enough to reach his prostate, not even needing to be told, he knew how to listen to House’s body. House hadn’t asked if he knew what he was doing; the first time, Wilson hadn’t stopped his thoughts from running circles around Stephen and Todd and Mark, and House knew more than enough to not mention any of them afterwards. It’d been a long time from them to House, but some things you don’t forget. Like when to put in a second finger, and to keep his mouth playing at the slit just like that, tip of the tongue teasing it back-and-forth, going down to get the tongue under the foreskin before it went back completely.
That Wilson wasn’t locked up with pain and closer to fifty than forty went a long way towards energizing House’s own arousal. Even lightly listening to Wilson would have been enough to get House aroused, never mind how it felt to get right in and feel Wilson roll on the condom – so careful, even now, that House had to laugh, the biggest sound either of them had made since getting into the bedroom. He moves his legs out a bit, sighed when Wilson tugged his balls just so, and smiled when he felt Wilson start to push in. Some sort of weird ouroboros, yin-yang fucking, in Wilson’s head and his own, so good he thought he might come right the second Wilson started thrusting.
Double the pleasure, double the fun. There wasn’t any way to figure out what it was like to literally fuck yourself – not unless you were Garrity from legal – but this was close, and Lord, did it ever feel good.
