fic: glossolalia
Title: Glossolalia
Author: magie_05
Word Count: 1,700
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating/Warnings: NC-17, dirty talk (of a sort)
Summary: Contrary to what people might think, House really does listen when Wilson's talking. When it's relevant, of course.
“Are you listening to me?”
Hands on his hips, eyebrows at the high-water mark. Whenever the conversation reaches this particular impasse, House typically stops pretending to ignore Wilson and switches to actually ignoring him. House is just being stubborn, blah blah blah. Communication is key in a relationship, yadda yadda yadda. As the rambling continues, House contents himself in the knowledge of how incredibly wrong Wilson is. House always listens.
There are just certain moments in which he listens more carefully.
Like when they’re propped up awkwardly on the sofa, TV on mute, Wilson’s hands up his shirt. That warm, soft mouth against his, taking it slow, taking Wilson’s bottom lip between his teeth. He pulls backs and looks down at Wilson’s hair spread out on a throw pillow, mouth open, chin tilted back and pulse throbbing. Oh, yeah. This is one of those moments that makes House willing to hear just about anything that comes out of that wet, pink mouth.
“Mmm,” he exhales, as House sucks a patch of skin behind his ear, a low note that House can feel rumbling against his lips. On his back, Wilson’s palms start moving a little faster, tracing random patterns, the occasional fingernail sending chills up House’s spine. He swallows a grunt and works his way over Wilson’s jaw, mostly to hear Wilson’s breath coming out in deep, shuddering bursts, slowly dragging his lips across lightly stubbled skin before closing his eyes, slipping his tongue back into the warm depth of Wilson’s mouth.
For a moment all he can hear are the short, wet sounds between their lips and his own heartbeat in his ears. He smirks into the kiss because it sounds almost obscene: Wilson stealing quick breaths in between soft suckling sounds, making out like horny teenagers. Of course, then House gets an image of Wilson as a horny teenager, which speeds things along considerably.
“Ohhh,” Wilson says, long and drawn-out, as House slips a hand over his crotch, palming him through layers of warm fabric. The notes are still hanging in the air when Wilson’s stilled hands spring into action, sliding out of House’s shirt and reaching up touch his face, fingers sliding into his hair, pulling him back in for a kiss. House starts moving his thumb in small circles against the firm bulge between Wilson’s legs, just so he can swallow the delicious little moans leaking out of his throat.
There’s a loud suctioning sound when Wilson suddenly wrenches House’s head back, looking up at him with blown pupils. “Let’s go to your bed. Your room,” he corrects himself quickly, laughing breathlessly, “Your bedroom.”
House doesn’t need to be told twice.
He wonders if Wilson is aware of making these little half-grunts, half-moans as he undresses them both in the hallway. He wonders what he ever did to deserve being the object of so much intensity, those dark eyes roving over his chest as the shirt is discarded, the hum in Wilson’s throat, the way his lips tickle as they meet House’s collarbone. He wonders why he’s thinking when he could be listening.
“Hmpf,” Wilson’s saying, scraping his face across House’s chest, pressing him awkwardly into the bedroom door. He gasps when House comes to his senses and tugs at Wilson’s hair, pulling his head back, biting at his neck while he works open Wilson’s slacks. “God, House.”
Those words, that needy, breathless tone drives them backwards, kisses jarred with each limp but never broken. House groans himself when Wilson’s pants fall to the floor, hands free to slide down warm skin to Wilson’s ass, settling there with a sure grip.
Wilson makes a short, sharp noise into House’s mouth and his eyes fly open briefly, then slam shut as he groans again and starts trying to check House’s back teeth for cavities. Right before House passes out from lack of oxygen, Wilson pulls back noisily and speaks against House’s lips. “Yours too.”
Really, House only needs minimal undressing; his pants are already unzipped and unbuttoned and that’s about all the preparation he needs for what he’s got in mind. But Wilson’s mouthing his earlobe, speaking lowly now, “C’mon.”
His jeans fall to the floor a second later. House really doesn’t get enough credit for how much he does for Wilson.
The lights are off as he pushes Wilson into the sheets, so he focuses more on the sounds, the feelings, bedsprings creaking and kissing Wilson’s throat, choked moaning as Wilson brings their hips together. “Unh,” Wilson remarks, his mouth open and eyes screwed shut, “you are so…mmm…that’s…oh,” The rest of his thought fades off into a breathy moan.
House has to smile into Wilson’s neck. Now is when his listening skills are really put to the test.
Communication is key to any relationship, of course. And so what if sometimes Wilson’s well-rehearsed lectures go to waste? This is what’s important. The fact that he’s got a mental dictionary for Wilson’s babbling and breathless little moans says more about their relationship than any circular, daytime argument.
“Erg,” means it’s time for the lube. “Ahh,” with a high-pitched little squeak on the end means Wilson’s quite enjoying the slick palm squeezing up and down his cock, adding a little twist at the end. “Hou-oh-w..wait,” means Wilson’s got something in mind a little more thorough than a quick jerk-off.
He finds himself on his side a second later, watching Wilson coat his hand with thick, shiny gel, stupefied as Wilson reaches back and starts sliding fingers around his own entrance, grunting and panting, staring House right in the eye.
He’s going to take that as an invitation.
They both moan as House crushes their mouths back together, pulling Wilson’s leg over his hip, two fingers picking up excess lube and joining in Wilson’s admirable goal.
Wilson breaks the kiss so he can start keening, throwing his head back and simply writhing, leaving House no alternative but to bury his face in Wilson’s neck so his own moans can be absorbed into sweat-damp skin.
Seconds later, it seems, Wilson’s making that raw, flustered, desperate sound that invariably means he’s ready.
House moves his hand so Wilson can turn over to his side, chest to back, nose in Wilson’s hair, steadying hand on his hip. There’s no more room for conversation, verbal or otherwise, as he slides just barely in, giving Wilson time to adjust, giving himself time to admire the reaction.
Wilson’s shaking, hyper-stimulated, shuddering little moans leaking out with each exhale. When the stars clear from his field of vision, House sees his face: eyes squeezed shut, biting his lower lip, a muscle in his jaw working as he tries to hold in the noise.
This, of course, is unacceptable.
He pushes in a little more, just as slowly, the first syllable of Wilson’s name exploding out of his lungs before he can stop himself. It’s incredible and painful and clearly not enough, but it does have the desired effect. “Ah! - oh, god - oh, my god…House-jesus…”
House is enjoying the religious worship, even if Wilson is a Jew committing blasphemy. “You okay?” he murmurs, mostly because he wants to hear Wilson’s answer.
“Yeah…yeah - god. Feels…so…ah,” words fail him as House gives up and slides all the way in, slowly but as firmly as this position will allow.
Wilson starts whimpering in a foreign language.
He keeps himself still so he won’t miss a sound, breathy nonsense, made-up vowels and low hiccups. Meanwhile, his palm slides up Wilson’s chest, leaving goosebumps in its wake, while he sucks contentedly on Wilson’s earlobe. “Hou-” is about the first syllable he’s been able to identify, but he really should get Wilson’s point by the way his hips are squirming, muscles tightening around House’s cock, until finally one definite, desperate, magical word reaches his ears, “please.”
Well, he did ask nicely.
House’s muscles lock, palm flat and firm on Wilson’s chest to hold them flush, back straining, sweat breaking out as he pivots back and forth, in and out, groaning unrestrainedly and listening to Wilson shout approval in some boisterous, made-up language.
Wilson tells him all he needs to know on nights like this, his body moving, accepting, panting different sounds at different decibel levels, each important in its own way, every second meaning something. High, short, resonating cries means House has found his prostate on a particularly deep thrust, moving constantly but unpredictably, drawing this out as long as he can. Sibilant sounds pushed through his teeth are Wilson’s sex-speak for ‘faster.’ Long, drawn-out, desperate groans means he needs more, wrapping his own fist around his cock until House replaces it, stroking roughly up and down once before going lower to rub at his balls. This draws out a short sob that is translatable only as ‘do that again.’
Then there are all the parts House can’t quite decipher. “Grrgg,” could mean either ‘I’m too incoherent to form the words, but I just wanted to let you know this encounter is so far quite enjoyable,’ or, just as easily, ‘we shouldn’t have had tacos for dinner.’ He’s unclear about some of the noises Wilson can make with his mouth clamped shut, but they do make him wonder about those people who claim that certain intense religious experiences make them speak in tongues. Amazing religious experience, really good sex…maybe they're not so far off. Just as indecipherable is Wilson seeking out his free hand and lacing their fingers together, holding on as tightly as he can, screaming nonsense into the pillow as he comes.
After a night like this, House isn’t far behind.
He hears the first three coherent English words that come out of Wilson’s mouth moments later, but they don’t make any sense.
Not until he pulls back, until Wilson rolls over and his hands wipe sweat off of House’s forehead, until lazy kisses lull him down to Earth. He hears himself repeat a phrase he’d thought he was done with.
Wilson’s smiling as he wipes them both off, settles onto the pillow, pulls up a blanket. As he settles naked against House’s side, he’s making low noises in his throat, content and sleepy and completely inarticulate.
But House hears what’s important.
Author: magie_05
Word Count: 1,700
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating/Warnings: NC-17, dirty talk (of a sort)
Summary: Contrary to what people might think, House really does listen when Wilson's talking. When it's relevant, of course.
“Are you listening to me?”
Hands on his hips, eyebrows at the high-water mark. Whenever the conversation reaches this particular impasse, House typically stops pretending to ignore Wilson and switches to actually ignoring him. House is just being stubborn, blah blah blah. Communication is key in a relationship, yadda yadda yadda. As the rambling continues, House contents himself in the knowledge of how incredibly wrong Wilson is. House always listens.
There are just certain moments in which he listens more carefully.
Like when they’re propped up awkwardly on the sofa, TV on mute, Wilson’s hands up his shirt. That warm, soft mouth against his, taking it slow, taking Wilson’s bottom lip between his teeth. He pulls backs and looks down at Wilson’s hair spread out on a throw pillow, mouth open, chin tilted back and pulse throbbing. Oh, yeah. This is one of those moments that makes House willing to hear just about anything that comes out of that wet, pink mouth.
“Mmm,” he exhales, as House sucks a patch of skin behind his ear, a low note that House can feel rumbling against his lips. On his back, Wilson’s palms start moving a little faster, tracing random patterns, the occasional fingernail sending chills up House’s spine. He swallows a grunt and works his way over Wilson’s jaw, mostly to hear Wilson’s breath coming out in deep, shuddering bursts, slowly dragging his lips across lightly stubbled skin before closing his eyes, slipping his tongue back into the warm depth of Wilson’s mouth.
For a moment all he can hear are the short, wet sounds between their lips and his own heartbeat in his ears. He smirks into the kiss because it sounds almost obscene: Wilson stealing quick breaths in between soft suckling sounds, making out like horny teenagers. Of course, then House gets an image of Wilson as a horny teenager, which speeds things along considerably.
“Ohhh,” Wilson says, long and drawn-out, as House slips a hand over his crotch, palming him through layers of warm fabric. The notes are still hanging in the air when Wilson’s stilled hands spring into action, sliding out of House’s shirt and reaching up touch his face, fingers sliding into his hair, pulling him back in for a kiss. House starts moving his thumb in small circles against the firm bulge between Wilson’s legs, just so he can swallow the delicious little moans leaking out of his throat.
There’s a loud suctioning sound when Wilson suddenly wrenches House’s head back, looking up at him with blown pupils. “Let’s go to your bed. Your room,” he corrects himself quickly, laughing breathlessly, “Your bedroom.”
House doesn’t need to be told twice.
He wonders if Wilson is aware of making these little half-grunts, half-moans as he undresses them both in the hallway. He wonders what he ever did to deserve being the object of so much intensity, those dark eyes roving over his chest as the shirt is discarded, the hum in Wilson’s throat, the way his lips tickle as they meet House’s collarbone. He wonders why he’s thinking when he could be listening.
“Hmpf,” Wilson’s saying, scraping his face across House’s chest, pressing him awkwardly into the bedroom door. He gasps when House comes to his senses and tugs at Wilson’s hair, pulling his head back, biting at his neck while he works open Wilson’s slacks. “God, House.”
Those words, that needy, breathless tone drives them backwards, kisses jarred with each limp but never broken. House groans himself when Wilson’s pants fall to the floor, hands free to slide down warm skin to Wilson’s ass, settling there with a sure grip.
Wilson makes a short, sharp noise into House’s mouth and his eyes fly open briefly, then slam shut as he groans again and starts trying to check House’s back teeth for cavities. Right before House passes out from lack of oxygen, Wilson pulls back noisily and speaks against House’s lips. “Yours too.”
Really, House only needs minimal undressing; his pants are already unzipped and unbuttoned and that’s about all the preparation he needs for what he’s got in mind. But Wilson’s mouthing his earlobe, speaking lowly now, “C’mon.”
His jeans fall to the floor a second later. House really doesn’t get enough credit for how much he does for Wilson.
The lights are off as he pushes Wilson into the sheets, so he focuses more on the sounds, the feelings, bedsprings creaking and kissing Wilson’s throat, choked moaning as Wilson brings their hips together. “Unh,” Wilson remarks, his mouth open and eyes screwed shut, “you are so…mmm…that’s…oh,” The rest of his thought fades off into a breathy moan.
House has to smile into Wilson’s neck. Now is when his listening skills are really put to the test.
Communication is key to any relationship, of course. And so what if sometimes Wilson’s well-rehearsed lectures go to waste? This is what’s important. The fact that he’s got a mental dictionary for Wilson’s babbling and breathless little moans says more about their relationship than any circular, daytime argument.
“Erg,” means it’s time for the lube. “Ahh,” with a high-pitched little squeak on the end means Wilson’s quite enjoying the slick palm squeezing up and down his cock, adding a little twist at the end. “Hou-oh-w..wait,” means Wilson’s got something in mind a little more thorough than a quick jerk-off.
He finds himself on his side a second later, watching Wilson coat his hand with thick, shiny gel, stupefied as Wilson reaches back and starts sliding fingers around his own entrance, grunting and panting, staring House right in the eye.
He’s going to take that as an invitation.
They both moan as House crushes their mouths back together, pulling Wilson’s leg over his hip, two fingers picking up excess lube and joining in Wilson’s admirable goal.
Wilson breaks the kiss so he can start keening, throwing his head back and simply writhing, leaving House no alternative but to bury his face in Wilson’s neck so his own moans can be absorbed into sweat-damp skin.
Seconds later, it seems, Wilson’s making that raw, flustered, desperate sound that invariably means he’s ready.
House moves his hand so Wilson can turn over to his side, chest to back, nose in Wilson’s hair, steadying hand on his hip. There’s no more room for conversation, verbal or otherwise, as he slides just barely in, giving Wilson time to adjust, giving himself time to admire the reaction.
Wilson’s shaking, hyper-stimulated, shuddering little moans leaking out with each exhale. When the stars clear from his field of vision, House sees his face: eyes squeezed shut, biting his lower lip, a muscle in his jaw working as he tries to hold in the noise.
This, of course, is unacceptable.
He pushes in a little more, just as slowly, the first syllable of Wilson’s name exploding out of his lungs before he can stop himself. It’s incredible and painful and clearly not enough, but it does have the desired effect. “Ah! - oh, god - oh, my god…House-jesus…”
House is enjoying the religious worship, even if Wilson is a Jew committing blasphemy. “You okay?” he murmurs, mostly because he wants to hear Wilson’s answer.
“Yeah…yeah - god. Feels…so…ah,” words fail him as House gives up and slides all the way in, slowly but as firmly as this position will allow.
Wilson starts whimpering in a foreign language.
He keeps himself still so he won’t miss a sound, breathy nonsense, made-up vowels and low hiccups. Meanwhile, his palm slides up Wilson’s chest, leaving goosebumps in its wake, while he sucks contentedly on Wilson’s earlobe. “Hou-” is about the first syllable he’s been able to identify, but he really should get Wilson’s point by the way his hips are squirming, muscles tightening around House’s cock, until finally one definite, desperate, magical word reaches his ears, “please.”
Well, he did ask nicely.
House’s muscles lock, palm flat and firm on Wilson’s chest to hold them flush, back straining, sweat breaking out as he pivots back and forth, in and out, groaning unrestrainedly and listening to Wilson shout approval in some boisterous, made-up language.
Wilson tells him all he needs to know on nights like this, his body moving, accepting, panting different sounds at different decibel levels, each important in its own way, every second meaning something. High, short, resonating cries means House has found his prostate on a particularly deep thrust, moving constantly but unpredictably, drawing this out as long as he can. Sibilant sounds pushed through his teeth are Wilson’s sex-speak for ‘faster.’ Long, drawn-out, desperate groans means he needs more, wrapping his own fist around his cock until House replaces it, stroking roughly up and down once before going lower to rub at his balls. This draws out a short sob that is translatable only as ‘do that again.’
Then there are all the parts House can’t quite decipher. “Grrgg,” could mean either ‘I’m too incoherent to form the words, but I just wanted to let you know this encounter is so far quite enjoyable,’ or, just as easily, ‘we shouldn’t have had tacos for dinner.’ He’s unclear about some of the noises Wilson can make with his mouth clamped shut, but they do make him wonder about those people who claim that certain intense religious experiences make them speak in tongues. Amazing religious experience, really good sex…maybe they're not so far off. Just as indecipherable is Wilson seeking out his free hand and lacing their fingers together, holding on as tightly as he can, screaming nonsense into the pillow as he comes.
After a night like this, House isn’t far behind.
He hears the first three coherent English words that come out of Wilson’s mouth moments later, but they don’t make any sense.
Not until he pulls back, until Wilson rolls over and his hands wipe sweat off of House’s forehead, until lazy kisses lull him down to Earth. He hears himself repeat a phrase he’d thought he was done with.
Wilson’s smiling as he wipes them both off, settles onto the pillow, pulls up a blanket. As he settles naked against House’s side, he’s making low noises in his throat, content and sleepy and completely inarticulate.
But House hears what’s important.