Jul. 18th, 2006 11:38 am
Title: Sensory Association
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lovely_ambitionTitle: Sensory Association
Fandom: House M.D.
Pairing: House/Chase
Prompt: Taste
Word Count: 295
Rating: PG-13
Author's Notes: What House tastes like.
In a green recliner with cushions older than the Clinton presidency, House lies reclined and comfortable, unwilling to move, because if he moves, he risks dislodging Chase from his current taste of kissing House's neck with deliberate slowness and experimental nips, tugs, and licks.
"Whiskey," Chase mumbles.
House just tips his head back and looks ceiling-wards. "A bit spilled, yeah," he comments, like a gold star in verbal form for Chase's ability to taste aspects of other liquids and foods and objects on House's skin. His leg is propped up comfortably on the ottoman and he wonders if Chase is comfortable straddling him like that. "Chase…" he starts, getting him to shift a little.
"Cologne," he continues. "But old."
"It is not old cologne," House snaps.
Chase grins boyishly and it lightens his face, makes him look his age for once. "I meant, it's about a day old." He kisses House's neck with slowness, paying attention to it carefully, like he's trying not to miss anything. "Fabric softener," he says, both words drawn out and god, but House didn't think the words 'fabric softener' could sound that sexy, but what do you know when run through the incredibly sensual lips of an attractive Australian. He eases back and gives House a bemused grin, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Wilson's influence?"
"I do use fabric softener," House counters, even if Chase is right - he just can't know that he was right about something.
Chase returns to kissing House's neck, just under the jaw; lips sliding along to under his ear and then back, focusing on the crook of neck and shoulder.
He doesn't say anything, but he pauses there, kissing slowly.
"What?" House prods. "What's it taste like?"
Chase glances up, but barely. "Just you."
THE END
Fandom: House M.D.
Pairing: House/Chase
Prompt: Taste
Word Count: 295
Rating: PG-13
Author's Notes: What House tastes like.
In a green recliner with cushions older than the Clinton presidency, House lies reclined and comfortable, unwilling to move, because if he moves, he risks dislodging Chase from his current taste of kissing House's neck with deliberate slowness and experimental nips, tugs, and licks.
"Whiskey," Chase mumbles.
House just tips his head back and looks ceiling-wards. "A bit spilled, yeah," he comments, like a gold star in verbal form for Chase's ability to taste aspects of other liquids and foods and objects on House's skin. His leg is propped up comfortably on the ottoman and he wonders if Chase is comfortable straddling him like that. "Chase…" he starts, getting him to shift a little.
"Cologne," he continues. "But old."
"It is not old cologne," House snaps.
Chase grins boyishly and it lightens his face, makes him look his age for once. "I meant, it's about a day old." He kisses House's neck with slowness, paying attention to it carefully, like he's trying not to miss anything. "Fabric softener," he says, both words drawn out and god, but House didn't think the words 'fabric softener' could sound that sexy, but what do you know when run through the incredibly sensual lips of an attractive Australian. He eases back and gives House a bemused grin, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Wilson's influence?"
"I do use fabric softener," House counters, even if Chase is right - he just can't know that he was right about something.
Chase returns to kissing House's neck, just under the jaw; lips sliding along to under his ear and then back, focusing on the crook of neck and shoulder.
He doesn't say anything, but he pauses there, kissing slowly.
"What?" House prods. "What's it taste like?"
Chase glances up, but barely. "Just you."
THE END
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