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scoville units
title: scoville units
author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
phinnia
rating: nc-17
warnings: none
disclaimer: a wandering minstrel I, a thing of shreds and patches; I own nothing.
author's note: the quotes are from apocalypse now. the title is taken from the measure for 'heat' in peppers. here endeth the random facts for the day. forbad_goth because she asked for house and wilson in bed testing a new vicodin replacement, and because she's not having the best day.
He stared at the ceiling, watched the fan blades spin, and wished for a bolt of lightning to strike him dead.
It failed.
Another reason God was a sham.
His voice was hoarse, gravelly. "I hate you."
"Mmm." Wilson replied, noncommittal. His hands skated over the scar, their heels digging into the tangled flesh at its edges.
"Oh here, try this, it's easier on your liver than Vicodin." House mocked.
"Mm."
"Great idea, except for, you know, the whole doesn't work thing. Bit of a problem with your fantastic plan."
Wilson was silent, choosing to speak through gentle pressure instead of giving his voice a chance to misstep.
It was July; hot, sticky and silent, the kind of weather that steals breaths before they're taken. Ten o' clock at night and it was only barely starting to cool; they'd be lucky to see sleep before one. Nudity in weather like this was more for survival than eroticism, even if his leg hadn't been streaming fire down every nerve. Wilson's skin shimmered quietly in the glow from the single bedside lamp, and his hair was heavy, wet, two shades too dark.
House felt a trickle of sweat dribble through his hair and watched the fan spin some more. "Saigon ... shit; I'm still only in Saigon. Every time I think I'm gonna wake up back in the jungle."
"When I was home after my first tour, it was worse. I'd wake up and there'd be nothing. I hardly said a word to my wife, until I said "yes" to a divorce. When I was here, I wanted to be there; when I was there, all I could think of was getting back into the jungle. I'm here a week now … waiting for a mission … getting softer; every minute I stay in this room, I get weaker, and every minute Charlie squats in the bush, he gets stronger. Each time I looked around, the walls moved in a little tighter." Wilson quoted; his knuckles tugged at another knot of pain, and House hissed through his teeth.
"Never thought - you'd be one for war movies."
"Never thought you would be, considering." Wilson countered, a slight smile at the corners of his mouth.
"I just imagined my father as Kilgore. Wasn't that hard."
"Not Kurtz?"
"Violent. Not crazy."
"Ah."
Something loosened, and suddenly House could breathe again without rationing the movement of exhalation. He reached forward, running his fingers through Wilson's hair, a silent gesure of thanks.
Wilson leaned over and trailed his tongue up the inside of House's thigh, his breaths cool against the spit-wet skin. House wasn't hard, but Wilson took him in his mouth anyway, relishing the sensitive skin rolling across his palate, the delicious smells of salt and musk.
House stretched, settling back on the pillows with a sigh. "What's this, my prize for sitting back and taking it like a good boy?"
"Shut up." Wilson mumbled, shifting a little to bring himself in closer contact with House's chest, seeking friction against his coarse chest hair. A stray breeze caught in the fan and swirled across their bodies like an invisible dust devil, and House's sigh turned into a soft, stuttering moan as he repositioned Wilson properly.
He closed his eyes, abandoning himself to the pleasures of heat and skin and beautiful muscles surrounding him, being surrounded by him, and his fickle mind skipped back a dozen years to Vietnam. He'd gone two weeks one January on a whim, searching for chilies hiding their heat in innocuous packages and dark eyes that kept secrets. When he'd returned his office had been moved next to some new guy, a dark-eyed flirt who resisted all of House's attempts to shake him.
He groaned again as Wilson's tongue fluttered, flickered, twisted mischeviously: his nails caught on that pale, shining skin, tearing jagged lines down its smoothness; he tried to concentrate, to reciprocate, but all he could do was hold on to those swaying, rolling hips and try not to choke on the firm curve of Wilson's cock as it spilled warm, sticky fluid into his throat. Wilson clung to House with all four limbs like a drowning man clinging to a board, and House groaned and sank back on the pillow, bucking his hips twice before exhaustion hit like a wave.
"Hot." he groaned.
Wilson smiled and quirked one eyebrow. "Sure is."
author:
phinniarating: nc-17
warnings: none
disclaimer: a wandering minstrel I, a thing of shreds and patches; I own nothing.
author's note: the quotes are from apocalypse now. the title is taken from the measure for 'heat' in peppers. here endeth the random facts for the day. for
bad_goth because she asked for house and wilson in bed testing a new vicodin replacement, and because she's not having the best day. He stared at the ceiling, watched the fan blades spin, and wished for a bolt of lightning to strike him dead.
It failed.
Another reason God was a sham.
His voice was hoarse, gravelly. "I hate you."
"Mmm." Wilson replied, noncommittal. His hands skated over the scar, their heels digging into the tangled flesh at its edges.
"Oh here, try this, it's easier on your liver than Vicodin." House mocked.
"Mm."
"Great idea, except for, you know, the whole doesn't work thing. Bit of a problem with your fantastic plan."
Wilson was silent, choosing to speak through gentle pressure instead of giving his voice a chance to misstep.
It was July; hot, sticky and silent, the kind of weather that steals breaths before they're taken. Ten o' clock at night and it was only barely starting to cool; they'd be lucky to see sleep before one. Nudity in weather like this was more for survival than eroticism, even if his leg hadn't been streaming fire down every nerve. Wilson's skin shimmered quietly in the glow from the single bedside lamp, and his hair was heavy, wet, two shades too dark.
House felt a trickle of sweat dribble through his hair and watched the fan spin some more. "Saigon ... shit; I'm still only in Saigon. Every time I think I'm gonna wake up back in the jungle."
"When I was home after my first tour, it was worse. I'd wake up and there'd be nothing. I hardly said a word to my wife, until I said "yes" to a divorce. When I was here, I wanted to be there; when I was there, all I could think of was getting back into the jungle. I'm here a week now … waiting for a mission … getting softer; every minute I stay in this room, I get weaker, and every minute Charlie squats in the bush, he gets stronger. Each time I looked around, the walls moved in a little tighter." Wilson quoted; his knuckles tugged at another knot of pain, and House hissed through his teeth.
"Never thought - you'd be one for war movies."
"Never thought you would be, considering." Wilson countered, a slight smile at the corners of his mouth.
"I just imagined my father as Kilgore. Wasn't that hard."
"Not Kurtz?"
"Violent. Not crazy."
"Ah."
Something loosened, and suddenly House could breathe again without rationing the movement of exhalation. He reached forward, running his fingers through Wilson's hair, a silent gesure of thanks.
Wilson leaned over and trailed his tongue up the inside of House's thigh, his breaths cool against the spit-wet skin. House wasn't hard, but Wilson took him in his mouth anyway, relishing the sensitive skin rolling across his palate, the delicious smells of salt and musk.
House stretched, settling back on the pillows with a sigh. "What's this, my prize for sitting back and taking it like a good boy?"
"Shut up." Wilson mumbled, shifting a little to bring himself in closer contact with House's chest, seeking friction against his coarse chest hair. A stray breeze caught in the fan and swirled across their bodies like an invisible dust devil, and House's sigh turned into a soft, stuttering moan as he repositioned Wilson properly.
He closed his eyes, abandoning himself to the pleasures of heat and skin and beautiful muscles surrounding him, being surrounded by him, and his fickle mind skipped back a dozen years to Vietnam. He'd gone two weeks one January on a whim, searching for chilies hiding their heat in innocuous packages and dark eyes that kept secrets. When he'd returned his office had been moved next to some new guy, a dark-eyed flirt who resisted all of House's attempts to shake him.
He groaned again as Wilson's tongue fluttered, flickered, twisted mischeviously: his nails caught on that pale, shining skin, tearing jagged lines down its smoothness; he tried to concentrate, to reciprocate, but all he could do was hold on to those swaying, rolling hips and try not to choke on the firm curve of Wilson's cock as it spilled warm, sticky fluid into his throat. Wilson clung to House with all four limbs like a drowning man clinging to a board, and House groaned and sank back on the pillow, bucking his hips twice before exhaustion hit like a wave.
"Hot." he groaned.
Wilson smiled and quirked one eyebrow. "Sure is."