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Coolie
by phinnia
Sight (House)
Dazzleshot memory: breath catches. Seconds elongate. Black and white stillshot: colours bleed out in darkness. Above, Jimmy's body is elegant lines: frost-edged by moonlight, draped in ribbony shadow firs fluttering teasingly over sweet softness, aching hardness. Streams of moist breath combine, forming thin fog. Background - layered shadows on shadows: desire-dark eyes, washed-out face, black cherry mouth, sentinel trees, icy stars beyond. Fucking beautiful.
Taste (Wilson)
Desperate inhaled breath, melting snowflake dots his tongue: an arrow of sharp cold shocks the palate and he warms it again on the other's lips and skin, leaves languid twisting tongue-trails behind. Greg tastes like lust and black coffee, bitter pills and primordial coppery saltiness, smoky testosterone. Animal desires for sex return them to an ancient state; everything mingles with everything else. Delicious.
Smell (House)
Scents: chorded, primal songs for the nose. Low notes of earth flow up into melodic harmonics of dark green pine below singing high frozen knives of fresh white snow. Entangled, faded counterpoint of Jimmy's cologne weaves around his aftershave. Feather-light triangle-trips of musky sweat despite the temperature, and the indefinable glissando that is Jimmy overwhelms all. Perfect.
Sound (Wilson)
Crunch of snow, crisp snap of needles below. Ragged breathing ripped raw from the throat. Whispers like shouts overlap ringing silence; Greg's half-choked moans, his keening, needy whimper echoes back around them with the volume turned up to eleven. Dampened wingbeats swirl above, covering their bodies with invisible blankets; the owl's call is long, hollow and low. Wilson jumps: a growling, sensual laugh is bitten off underneath him. Incredible.
Touch (House)
Cold wetness, melting snow below: sharp prickle of needles against bare skin. Waves of heat (Jimmy's heat) cradle him, flowing down from above. Dripping jeans and sodden cotton weave chafe and cling, pushed aside to allow silken skin against its opposite. The frozen air shocks but also excites. Teeth and nails dig, raise tangible darkened lines. Exquisite.
The Sixth Sense: Intuition (Wilson)
They swirl together, bitter yang to flawless yin, each carrying pieces of the other: no words needed. Raised brows, smoldering looks, wanton pressure palpable behind kisses. A feathery touch grows to a desperate grope in seconds one day, remains pliant the next, dependent on near-invisible twists of mouth and eyes and sound. Hips slant, need; mouths respond, catching stickiness before it settles. Bliss.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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