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The Semen Tsunami (House/Wilson, NC-17 crackfic)
Title: The Semen Tsunami
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Blame the people over at House's House of Whining. And also: when the vulture flies sideways, the moon has hair on its upper lip.
Words: 2,200~
A/N: Bad fic and meta-crack (as well as just plain crack), with some self-sporked MST, rolled into one. A conversation was struck up on HHoW about fanfic cliches, as well as bad smut hates. I mentioned a semen tsunami and was then obligated to write about it. This is the result. I had fun writing this, which can't mean anything good. XD
The Semen Tsunami
by Ticcy
HOUSE: Okay, with a title like that? I'm totally not getting involved. Especially seeing I am involved.
WILSON: The title rolls off the tongue, though, don't you think? 'The Semen Tsunami'.
HOUSE: Rolls like a giant wave of Do Not Want.
WILSON: Yeah, you're probably right. I'm not sure if I want to witness this myself. Not all pain is gain, after all.
HOUSE: God. Tell me when it's over.
When Wilson lets himself into House's apartment with his keylike the fandom cliché it's become in an odd kind of way, he barely gets a chance to close the door behind him when he finds himself being shoved up against it. By House, of course. (Duh?)
“House--!”
House's mouth crushes down on his, cutting off his exclamation of surprise. Wilson thinks to pull away and snap that he's only just come through the door because he's tired, damn it, and he's had a long day at work, and really, does House need to--
Wilson grunts quietly as House presses his weight against him, and then moans when he feels House's hand grope at his dick. House is all tongue and lips and rough stubble against his mouth, hands roaming over his crotch and his chest and, oh god, Wilson's already hard---
Okay, no. That's not really what happens. The author was just shamelessly trying to lure you into the story.ADMIT IT, YOU'RE JUST HERE FOR THE PR0N. It goes more like this:
“House?” Wilson called out as he stepped through the front door of House's apartment. It was raining outside; he gave his rain-spattered hair a quick, mildly irritated comb-through with his fingers before calling out again, louder, “House?”
“In here,” House called back from the bathroom. “Peeing.”
“Thanks for clarifying,” Wilson replied with a roll of his eyes as he elbowed the front door shut, juggling two plastic bags of takeout in one hand. “I'm sure the neighbours appreciate you clarifying that for me, too.”
“I could up the ante and shout out that I'm spanking the monkey?”
“It's your dignity, not mine.”
“I'm peeing with the door wide open! Like there's any dignity in that.”
Wilson pocketed his keys as he began to head around the couch. “Also your apartment.”
“I can say and do what I want in my apartment.”
“Which means also your neighbours – also not mine.”
“Announcing my business to all and sundry a day keeps the morons at bay. As well as the door-to-door Jehovah's Witnesses.” The toilet flushed and a few moments later, Wilson heard House heading down the hall towards the living room---
Actually, scrap the pathetic, futile attempt at plot to justify any reasoning for impending PWP. Fast forward to after dinner. Shifting back to present tense againbecause all MST-worthy fics never stick to one narrative tense because sticking to one narrative tense is for squares!
They eat dinner: Chinese, because it's always Chinese, because them eating Chinese has been a fandom cliché since Damned If You Do and it will never, ever die (and why the hell don't House and Wilson have scurvy from all the apparent Chinese they consume, by the way?) and sometime between drinking their second bottle of beer each and having an argument over remote control ownership, Wilson finds himself caught up in a hungry, limb-entangled kiss on the couch.
House is on top of him now, one hand up Wilson's shirt while his other hand gropes and rubs the front of Wilson's trousers, and Wilson moans as he rakes his fingers through the older man's hair. House sucks and nibbles at Wilson's lips, thrusts his tongue in slow, sinuous strokes and grins evilly when the younger man groans again because he loves it when Wilson groans, almost as much as he loves random POV shifts.
“Jimmy,” he murmurs hotly against Wilson's mouth. Random fact number one: House always calls Wilson 'Jimmy'. It's true - happens in canon all the time.
Theoncologist Oncolgist slides his hands from House's hair to his back, and runs them slowly down to his ass. “Greg,” he whispers in reply. See random fact number one in previous paragraph.
Wilson knows there's really no point to the affectionate exchange of names, but he groans again as House drops his mouth to his neck and starts kissing it heatedly. He arches his neck and threads his fingers through the diagnostican's hair as Greg starts to move his kisses down to his chest. This is the part where the author would usually pointlessly explicate about how he and House have been together for like, ages and this relationship means so much to him and oh my god, isn't it romantic - except Wilson's too impatient for that bullshit right now. He can has secks tiems naow plz bcoz he's a slutboi, y0.
“Oh god, House,” Wilson moans. “Greg.”
“Wilson,” House replies in a throaty groan.
“House.”
“Wilsonnnn.”
“House.”
“Oh god, Jimmy.”
Wilson scratches his nails down the older man's back, impatient to feel the diagnostician's throbbing manhood inside him. “Why are we gasping each other's names at each other constantly?” he pants.
House sucked a nipple through Wilson's shirt, loving both the way Wilson arched up against him as well as the sudden tense shift and yet another POV shift. “Because the fanfic writer sucks at writing dialogue.”
“Oh god,” the brown-haired, younger man gasped, clawing at House's back. “She should stop writing dialogue, then.”
“I agree.”
“Oh god, I want your cock in my ass.”
House moved back up and crushed his mouth against Wilson's hungrily, thrusting his hips forward as Wilson arched up underneath him. “God, it turns me on when you talk OOCly.”
“Yeah,” Wilson murmured against House's lips, his voice thick with lust. “Same with you.”
House trailed a slow lick of his tongue across Wilson's mouth before replying throatily, “Like when I say 'fuck' every second word?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck, Jimmy.”
“Yeah.”
“You fucking like that, don't you? You big fucking slut.”
“Okay,” the younger man breathed, thrusting his hips up against House's once more, “you're overdoing it a bit now.”
“Not my fault. The author--”
“I know,” Wilson cut him off. “Get back to wanting to fuck me so she'll stop writing dialogue.”
House kissed him again, hard, their hands roaming over each other's bodies as they thrust their hips and groaned and moaned in pleasure – yadda yadda yadda , they move to the bedroom just as the narrative tense shifts again.
When they reach House's enormous bed, House discards his cane, which does the obligatory clichéd clattering on the floor, and they start kissing again, Wilson tugging off the Rolling Stones t-shirt House is wearing (because he's always dressed in a Rolling Stones or Pink Floyd t-shirt in canon, right?) with deft hands. Greg pulls off Wilson's tie and unbuttons his shirt, with his skillful, slender pianist fingers. Wilson pulls back from the kiss to look into the diagnostician's brilliant blue orbs while the older man gazes into James' chocolate doe eyes.
Oh god, oh god, the writer feels a purple prose moment coming on. They move to the bed, House lowering his body atop of Wilson so their bodies meet like the sea and the sky meets in a beautiful sunset horizon, and James continues to gaze into House's cerulean eyes as their bodies start moving together like the gentle ebb and flow of the tide. Their cocks rub against each other, the tips leaking with precome.
House Greg Hou~ Greg Gregg The writer agonises about which proper noun to use for the diagnostician like those fics that continually jump in the narrative from House to Greg, Wilson to James, and back again, while the older man reaches between their bodies and gathers their leaking cocks in his hand. Wilson moans and arches up against the diagnostician, still staring into his baby blues, their cocks positively oozing with precome now.
On the nightstand just happens to be a bottle of lube, which House reaches for once their dripping cocks are so hard and throbbing and red and swollen that they just have to buttfuck. House stares into Wilson's puppy dog brown orbs while slicking up their love pickles---
HOUSE: Okay, I can't stand this anymore. She just called my penis a 'love pickle'. A pickle. I am offended on behalf of my penis.
WILSON: Offend my ass with your penis, instead, once this is over. It'll make you feel better.
HOUSE: A pickle, Wilson. I'm so never going to have a boner again.
---and when he slides his skillful, deft pianist finger into Wilson's winking asshole, James gazes adoringly into Greg's azure orbs.
“Oh yes,” he breathes as House starts to stroke his prostate. “Right there, Greg.”
“Fuck,” the diagnostician groans.
“Greg.”
“Jimmy.”
“Greg.”
“Jimmy.”
“Oh god,” Wilson calls out wantonly, arching his back as House rubs his prostate again, “make her stop writing dialogue.”
House starts twisting a second finger into Wilson's lubed up pucker, while still stroking James' dribbling cock. “I want to fuck you.”
“Oh god, House, fuck me.”
“I am going to fuck you.”
Wilson arches his back again, clawing at the sheets in desperation. “Please, fuck me!”
House stares at the younger man in lust, loving it when Wilson begs, again almost as much as he loves the random POV shift. “Fuck, that's hot.”
“Fuck,” Wilson gasps.
“Fuck, yeah.”---
WILSON: What's with all the 'fucking'?
HOUSE: No idea. She probably thinks it's hot.
WILSON: Huh. Hot? Right. Further up, did you notice my asshole was winking?
HOUSE: I'm not even going there. You with a winking asshole? Brings about a whole new meaning to the term 'brown eye'.
WILSON: Haha, oh god.
HOUSE: The Eye of Wilson: it sees all. Screw Mordor and Middle-Earth. It's all in Princeton-Plainsboro.
WILSON: 'The Lord of the Ring'?
HOUSE: Hahahaha. The brown-eyed ring that winks.
WILSON: Haha. But it's not just my apparent winking asshole: in the meta world, I'm never going to get a hard-on again; but in her world, however, I have a leaking penis.
HOUSE: Correction: both of us have a leaking penis.
WILSON: I know. How is that even hot?
HOUSE: It isn't. But it would appear that instead of getting a standing ovation from you, I seem to have gotten the clap.
WILSON: Or vice versa. 'Inflammation of the foreskin reminds me of your smile...'
HOUSE: Except for the part where you don't have a foreskin, Wilson.
---House pushes a third finger into the younger man in typical slash fanfic one-finger-two-finger-three-finger-COCK fashion before he moves on top of Wilson and, sans condom, he ensconces his oozing love truncheon into Wilson's blossoming rosebud.
HOUSE: WHAT?
WILSON: Uh... wow. My ass has never seemed so... unappealing until now. It winked and now it's blossoming? That's like something out of a David Lynch movie.
HOUSE: You can talk. I apparently have been upgraded to a love truncheon.
WILSON: More likely downgraded.
HOUSE: Downgraded to a love truncheon.
WILSON: That oozes.
HOUSE: That oozes, yes. Holy crap.
By this point, the writer is seriously considering never writing sex again. They move together, House thrusting into Wilson in fast, hard strokes while the oncologist Oncolgist grasps at the sheets and cries out words of undying love for the older man. James stares into House's azure orbs as he feels his climax start to mount in him, an orgasmic crescendo unlike any other he'd ever experienced before. He feels House's thrusts get faster and more frantic as they near a mostly-urban mythical simultaneous orgasm. And with one final thrust, House tumbles over into the chasm of climactic euphoria just as Wilson suddenly begins to come – and come – and come--
Not an average tablespoon-sized serving of ejaculate, no: a fountain of creamy seminal syrup spews out of his cock, gushing up over his body like a rush of water from a broken dam. He keeps coming and coming, harder and faster until his come is blasting against the wall. It's a current, a rushing rapid of semen that quickly floods the bed in a thick, creamy deluge and House is left clawing at the bed to stay afloat.
“I love you, James!” he cries out, still in the throes of his own orgasm. The younger man and the diagnostician meet orbs and stare at each other as House swims against the tide of semen towards Wilson, while theoncologist Oncolgist continues to spew seed from his love stump. House splutters and chokes as he manages to tread through the oncoming tsunami of semen until he is at last captured in the arms of his love.
And James spurts out the last of his come and they lie together in semen-covered bliss.
“I love you,” House whispers adoringly.
“I love you, too, Greg.”
HOUSE: What... just happened.
WILSON: ...I think you almost just drowned in my semen.
HOUSE: Uh... You apparently have rocket launching ejaculatory abilities.
WILSON: Yeahhh... Colour me disturbed.
HOUSE: No wonder you couldn't maintain a relationship – you douched all the women you slept with to death with your spooge.
WILSON: So that's where I was going wrong. I always wondered.
HOUSE: You know, this is just proof that badfic is like the gene pool.
WILSON: How is it like the gene pool?
HOUSE: There's no lifeguard.
WILSON: Just like there wasn't a lifeguard to rescue you from the raging rapids of my spewing seed?
HOUSE: Not even the babes from Baywatch would've been able to save me from that oncoming storm. You belong in a freak show. Blast cannonballs with your penis.
WILSON: I always wanted an outstanding talent. Something that set me apart from everyone else... That wasn't really what I had in mind, however.
HOUSE: Well, now you can have sex and set yourself apart from your sexual partner by the power of your ejaculation. Vamoose them across the room in the blink of an orgasm.
WILSON: Yeah. Turbo sperm. I should make myself a superhero's outfit. Who needs Dr. Wilson Wonderboy Oncologist when I could be Turbo Sperm Man?
HOUSE: Oncolgist, Wilson.
WILSON: My bad. Oncolgist.
HOUSE: So... want to get Chinese?
WILSON: And increase our chances of getting scurvy? Sure. Why not.
A/N: Should I post this to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
house_wilson? Or is it too... you know. =S
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Blame the people over at House's House of Whining. And also: when the vulture flies sideways, the moon has hair on its upper lip.
Words: 2,200~
A/N: Bad fic and meta-crack (as well as just plain crack), with some self-sporked MST, rolled into one. A conversation was struck up on HHoW about fanfic cliches, as well as bad smut hates. I mentioned a semen tsunami and was then obligated to write about it. This is the result. I had fun writing this, which can't mean anything good. XD
by Ticcy
HOUSE: Okay, with a title like that? I'm totally not getting involved. Especially seeing I am involved.
WILSON: The title rolls off the tongue, though, don't you think? 'The Semen Tsunami'.
HOUSE: Rolls like a giant wave of Do Not Want.
WILSON: Yeah, you're probably right. I'm not sure if I want to witness this myself. Not all pain is gain, after all.
HOUSE: God. Tell me when it's over.
When Wilson lets himself into House's apartment with his key
“House--!”
House's mouth crushes down on his, cutting off his exclamation of surprise. Wilson thinks to pull away and snap that he's only just come through the door because he's tired, damn it, and he's had a long day at work, and really, does House need to--
Wilson grunts quietly as House presses his weight against him, and then moans when he feels House's hand grope at his dick. House is all tongue and lips and rough stubble against his mouth, hands roaming over his crotch and his chest and, oh god, Wilson's already hard---
Okay, no. That's not really what happens. The author was just shamelessly trying to lure you into the story.
“House?” Wilson called out as he stepped through the front door of House's apartment. It was raining outside; he gave his rain-spattered hair a quick, mildly irritated comb-through with his fingers before calling out again, louder, “House?”
“In here,” House called back from the bathroom. “Peeing.”
“Thanks for clarifying,” Wilson replied with a roll of his eyes as he elbowed the front door shut, juggling two plastic bags of takeout in one hand. “I'm sure the neighbours appreciate you clarifying that for me, too.”
“I could up the ante and shout out that I'm spanking the monkey?”
“It's your dignity, not mine.”
“I'm peeing with the door wide open! Like there's any dignity in that.”
Wilson pocketed his keys as he began to head around the couch. “Also your apartment.”
“I can say and do what I want in my apartment.”
“Which means also your neighbours – also not mine.”
“Announcing my business to all and sundry a day keeps the morons at bay. As well as the door-to-door Jehovah's Witnesses.” The toilet flushed and a few moments later, Wilson heard House heading down the hall towards the living room---
Actually, scrap the pathetic, futile attempt at plot to justify any reasoning for impending PWP. Fast forward to after dinner. Shifting back to present tense again
They eat dinner: Chinese, because it's always Chinese, because them eating Chinese has been a fandom cliché since Damned If You Do and it will never, ever die (and why the hell don't House and Wilson have scurvy from all the apparent Chinese they consume, by the way?) and sometime between drinking their second bottle of beer each and having an argument over remote control ownership, Wilson finds himself caught up in a hungry, limb-entangled kiss on the couch.
House is on top of him now, one hand up Wilson's shirt while his other hand gropes and rubs the front of Wilson's trousers, and Wilson moans as he rakes his fingers through the older man's hair. House sucks and nibbles at Wilson's lips, thrusts his tongue in slow, sinuous strokes and grins evilly when the younger man groans again because he loves it when Wilson groans, almost as much as he loves random POV shifts.
“Jimmy,” he murmurs hotly against Wilson's mouth. Random fact number one: House always calls Wilson 'Jimmy'. It's true - happens in canon all the time.
The
Wilson knows there's really no point to the affectionate exchange of names, but he groans again as House drops his mouth to his neck and starts kissing it heatedly. He arches his neck and threads his fingers through the diagnostican's hair as Greg starts to move his kisses down to his chest. This is the part where the author would usually pointlessly explicate about how he and House have been together for like, ages and this relationship means so much to him and oh my god, isn't it romantic - except Wilson's too impatient for that bullshit right now. He can has secks tiems naow plz bcoz he's a slutboi, y0.
“Oh god, House,” Wilson moans. “Greg.”
“Wilson,” House replies in a throaty groan.
“House.”
“Wilsonnnn.”
“House.”
“Oh god, Jimmy.”
Wilson scratches his nails down the older man's back, impatient to feel the diagnostician's throbbing manhood inside him. “Why are we gasping each other's names at each other constantly?” he pants.
House sucked a nipple through Wilson's shirt, loving both the way Wilson arched up against him as well as the sudden tense shift and yet another POV shift. “Because the fanfic writer sucks at writing dialogue.”
“Oh god,” the brown-haired, younger man gasped, clawing at House's back. “She should stop writing dialogue, then.”
“I agree.”
“Oh god, I want your cock in my ass.”
House moved back up and crushed his mouth against Wilson's hungrily, thrusting his hips forward as Wilson arched up underneath him. “God, it turns me on when you talk OOCly.”
“Yeah,” Wilson murmured against House's lips, his voice thick with lust. “Same with you.”
House trailed a slow lick of his tongue across Wilson's mouth before replying throatily, “Like when I say 'fuck' every second word?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck, Jimmy.”
“Yeah.”
“You fucking like that, don't you? You big fucking slut.”
“Okay,” the younger man breathed, thrusting his hips up against House's once more, “you're overdoing it a bit now.”
“Not my fault. The author--”
“I know,” Wilson cut him off. “Get back to wanting to fuck me so she'll stop writing dialogue.”
House kissed him again, hard, their hands roaming over each other's bodies as they thrust their hips and groaned and moaned in pleasure – yadda yadda yadda , they move to the bedroom just as the narrative tense shifts again.
When they reach House's enormous bed, House discards his cane, which does the obligatory clichéd clattering on the floor, and they start kissing again, Wilson tugging off the Rolling Stones t-shirt House is wearing (because he's always dressed in a Rolling Stones or Pink Floyd t-shirt in canon, right?) with deft hands. Greg pulls off Wilson's tie and unbuttons his shirt, with his skillful, slender pianist fingers. Wilson pulls back from the kiss to look into the diagnostician's brilliant blue orbs while the older man gazes into James' chocolate doe eyes.
Oh god, oh god, the writer feels a purple prose moment coming on. They move to the bed, House lowering his body atop of Wilson so their bodies meet like the sea and the sky meets in a beautiful sunset horizon, and James continues to gaze into House's cerulean eyes as their bodies start moving together like the gentle ebb and flow of the tide. Their cocks rub against each other, the tips leaking with precome.
On the nightstand just happens to be a bottle of lube, which House reaches for once their dripping cocks are so hard and throbbing and red and swollen that they just have to buttfuck. House stares into Wilson's puppy dog brown orbs while slicking up their love pickles---
HOUSE: Okay, I can't stand this anymore. She just called my penis a 'love pickle'. A pickle. I am offended on behalf of my penis.
WILSON: Offend my ass with your penis, instead, once this is over. It'll make you feel better.
HOUSE: A pickle, Wilson. I'm so never going to have a boner again.
---and when he slides his skillful, deft pianist finger into Wilson's winking asshole, James gazes adoringly into Greg's azure orbs.
“Oh yes,” he breathes as House starts to stroke his prostate. “Right there, Greg.”
“Fuck,” the diagnostician groans.
“Greg.”
“Jimmy.”
“Greg.”
“Jimmy.”
“Oh god,” Wilson calls out wantonly, arching his back as House rubs his prostate again, “make her stop writing dialogue.”
House starts twisting a second finger into Wilson's lubed up pucker, while still stroking James' dribbling cock. “I want to fuck you.”
“Oh god, House, fuck me.”
“I am going to fuck you.”
Wilson arches his back again, clawing at the sheets in desperation. “Please, fuck me!”
House stares at the younger man in lust, loving it when Wilson begs, again almost as much as he loves the random POV shift. “Fuck, that's hot.”
“Fuck,” Wilson gasps.
“Fuck, yeah.”---
WILSON: What's with all the 'fucking'?
HOUSE: No idea. She probably thinks it's hot.
WILSON: Huh. Hot? Right. Further up, did you notice my asshole was winking?
HOUSE: I'm not even going there. You with a winking asshole? Brings about a whole new meaning to the term 'brown eye'.
WILSON: Haha, oh god.
HOUSE: The Eye of Wilson: it sees all. Screw Mordor and Middle-Earth. It's all in Princeton-Plainsboro.
WILSON: 'The Lord of the Ring'?
HOUSE: Hahahaha. The brown-eyed ring that winks.
WILSON: Haha. But it's not just my apparent winking asshole: in the meta world, I'm never going to get a hard-on again; but in her world, however, I have a leaking penis.
HOUSE: Correction: both of us have a leaking penis.
WILSON: I know. How is that even hot?
HOUSE: It isn't. But it would appear that instead of getting a standing ovation from you, I seem to have gotten the clap.
WILSON: Or vice versa. 'Inflammation of the foreskin reminds me of your smile...'
HOUSE: Except for the part where you don't have a foreskin, Wilson.
---House pushes a third finger into the younger man in typical slash fanfic one-finger-two-finger-three-finger-COCK fashion before he moves on top of Wilson and, sans condom, he ensconces his oozing love truncheon into Wilson's blossoming rosebud.
HOUSE: WHAT?
WILSON: Uh... wow. My ass has never seemed so... unappealing until now. It winked and now it's blossoming? That's like something out of a David Lynch movie.
HOUSE: You can talk. I apparently have been upgraded to a love truncheon.
WILSON: More likely downgraded.
HOUSE: Downgraded to a love truncheon.
WILSON: That oozes.
HOUSE: That oozes, yes. Holy crap.
Not an average tablespoon-sized serving of ejaculate, no: a fountain of creamy seminal syrup spews out of his cock, gushing up over his body like a rush of water from a broken dam. He keeps coming and coming, harder and faster until his come is blasting against the wall. It's a current, a rushing rapid of semen that quickly floods the bed in a thick, creamy deluge and House is left clawing at the bed to stay afloat.
“I love you, James!” he cries out, still in the throes of his own orgasm. The younger man and the diagnostician meet orbs and stare at each other as House swims against the tide of semen towards Wilson, while the
And James spurts out the last of his come and they lie together in semen-covered bliss.
“I love you,” House whispers adoringly.
“I love you, too, Greg.”
end
HOUSE: What... just happened.
WILSON: ...I think you almost just drowned in my semen.
HOUSE: Uh... You apparently have rocket launching ejaculatory abilities.
WILSON: Yeahhh... Colour me disturbed.
HOUSE: No wonder you couldn't maintain a relationship – you douched all the women you slept with to death with your spooge.
WILSON: So that's where I was going wrong. I always wondered.
HOUSE: You know, this is just proof that badfic is like the gene pool.
WILSON: How is it like the gene pool?
HOUSE: There's no lifeguard.
WILSON: Just like there wasn't a lifeguard to rescue you from the raging rapids of my spewing seed?
HOUSE: Not even the babes from Baywatch would've been able to save me from that oncoming storm. You belong in a freak show. Blast cannonballs with your penis.
WILSON: I always wanted an outstanding talent. Something that set me apart from everyone else... That wasn't really what I had in mind, however.
HOUSE: Well, now you can have sex and set yourself apart from your sexual partner by the power of your ejaculation. Vamoose them across the room in the blink of an orgasm.
WILSON: Yeah. Turbo sperm. I should make myself a superhero's outfit. Who needs Dr. Wilson Wonderboy Oncologist when I could be Turbo Sperm Man?
HOUSE: Oncolgist, Wilson.
WILSON: My bad. Oncolgist.
HOUSE: So... want to get Chinese?
WILSON: And increase our chances of getting scurvy? Sure. Why not.
the end, for real this time
A/N: Should I post this to
house_wilson? Or is it too... you know. =S![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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