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NOVEMBER 16, 1997 — DAYTONA INT. SPEEDWAY — TWO HOURS UNTIL THE RACE
The bustling sound of crowds settling in bleachers is overwhelming.
Kind of.
If House hadn’t grown accustomed to it, the roar of the people as he and other teams filtered out, he’d have complained more… obnoxiously. Maybe he’d have grumbled something to Cuddy, told her to get some kind of noise-blocking headphones solely to block out their cheers. Instead, House keeps his head low, tilting his cap down, praying to whatever God there is that it'll do its job of obscuring his face to his competitor's gaze. Greetings, pleasant hellos are thrown around, and House grimaces.
The overly joyful greetings were never his thing, really. He could force a smile onto his face, offer a stiff handshake, but he’d switch back to his typical “I-want-to-get-the-fuck-out-of-here” expression in a heartbeat. House would much rather stick to his own lane, stay quiet, and pray that no one will try and socialize.
Which, ultimately, fails 99.9% of the time. People are always coming around and pestering him, “Oh, Greg! Awesome comeback at the end there, you really had that guy in a pickle with how you—”
“You’ve got to branch out more, House,” Cuddy cuts in, interrupting his train of thought. Her sunglasses hang low on the bridge of her nose, allowing him to see the unamused glare she shoots him. House can only muster up a scoff, leaning heavily on his cane as he approaches his car. Surrounding the vehicle are various competitors simply gawking at the design and his personal pit crew. “Get to know some of the other teams. Hell, talk to your own team—”
“Yeah, and risk letting them know about all my strategic planning?” By that, House means his sinister ways of sabotaging his competitors. Maybe by deliberately sneaking a member of his pit crew into their section, playing the role of an unfair distraction, or even taking extra tires for himself. He was always let off the hook. Ah, yes, the grand pleasure of having a big, strong woman as your boss, so she can threaten to sue for ableism and unfair treatment! Godspeed!
Cuddy, of course, makes an attempt to intercept, perhaps rationalizing an argument that she hopes can convert House to the holy religion of socialism. Or, maybe, that his teammates, honest to God, would not outrightly admit that what he does is outrageously wrong. House is the best they’ve got. They wouldn’t do shit.
“Nuh. No, socialization is for losers with a saviour complex.” He’s had his fair share of pitiful and confused looks, where the few competitors he’d talked with only stared at his bum leg. It was an assault of questions ranging from “what happened to your leg?” to “shouldn’t you be in a lower league than us? Y’know, ‘cause of your…” and trail off. House would end up glaring at the person, an uncomfortable tension rising between them until they finally left him alone.
He saunters toward the driver’s side of his car, hanging his cane off the wing mirror. With a loud smack at the top of the vehicle, he catches the attention of a blond mechanic, who works diligently at filling his gas tank.
“Tell it to me straight, Doc. Is she gonna make it?” He deadpans.
“Fear not, she’s got stage 4 lymphoma. May not live.” The blond’s words are thick with an Australian accent, cutting through the air with ease. He wears a boyish smile on his face, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “Kidding. She’s good for take-off. Everything is in good shape.” Chase’s smile, however, falters for a moment, and his eyebrows knit together.
“Hey, you’re not gonna do anything stupid this time round, right?” There’s an edge to his voice, almost like he’s anxious. House raises an eyebrow because, of course, he’s always on the verge of doing something risky in these competitions. Truly, there isn’t much of a point in inquiring about his actions in the near future.
The brunet, however, grins— all teeth.
“No promises.”
Chase nods, the tension between his brows relaxing.
“Just don’t mess her up too bad, yeah?” He pats the vehicle, a slight grimace on his face. “Think Foreman’ll kill you. And then me, maybe. He re-painted her yesterday.” House dismissively waves his hand around, reaching for his cane.
“Yeah, alright. Loud and clear, boss.” His fingers wrap around the head of his cane, already beginning his march away from the garage. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to ask someone for a smoke!” He shouts behind him, ignoring the glares that the rest of his team shoots him.
DAYTONA INT. SPEEDWAY — ONE HOUR UNTIL THE RACE
Cuddy, for as long as House has worked under her, will never back down from a good challenge. Especially one that House presents to her.
He’s propped against the driver’s side door, a Cuban cigar balanced between his lips. In his hand lies a sizzle lighter, painted a magnificent dark blue, and he offers it a few clicks. Before long, a small flame appears before him. Graciously, House pulls it close to the end of his cigar, letting it catch fire before pulling his thumb off the ignition. The lighter is quickly shoved into his jacket pocket, and he focuses solely on taking long, leisurely drags from the cancer stick.
His eyes slip closed, letting the heavy smell of smoke take over his senses. He pulls the cigar from his mouth, blowing out the fumes, and allowing it to surround him. This was as close as he could get to a Vicodin alternative, one that wasn’t drugs or alcohol, and especially one that wouldn’t get him suspended from competing. He parts his lips, the cigar resting easily between his teeth, and—
“House!” Cuddy. Of course, she always comes to interrupt his thoughts at some of the worst times. His eyes flutter open, purposefully blowing several smoke rings her way. She yelps, quickly swatting the cancerous fumes away. Her eyes narrow, tilting her sunglasses down simply to emphasize her dissatisfied reaction. House grins. “God, what are you? A child?” She frowns.
“But, mooooooommm…” he whines, staring at her with those piercing blue eyes of his, forced into a doe-like expression. Cuddy shakes her head, mutters about House being “unruly” and, seemingly, “how do I even put up with this guy?” She gestures behind herself. A man, maybe a little shorter than House, stands with an amused look.
And shit, that man is obnoxiously pretty.
Brown hair cut into a stupid shaggy cut, light stubble, ridiculous glasses and a pair of natural doe eyes— fuck, he’s gorgeous. He’s familiar, House notes that. Something about that smug grin that tugs at the corner of his lips. House, however, rationalizes that he’s likely seen the man from a magazine. Maybe a porn magazine, he looks like he’d be cast in a lot of nude shoots. Or those shitty promotional journals that Cuddy always wants him to get interviewed for, then have his photo taken and blown up to absolutely shitty quality on the front cover.
“I know you two never got off on the right foot, so,” Cuddy trails off and crosses her arms, a strangely satisfied expression on her face. “House, I want to introduce you to James. Formally, this time. You remember him, right?” She tilts her head, watching as the dots connect in House’s head. His eyes widen slightly. “James Wilson? Face of Joe Gibbs Racing? The guy you’re always—”
Oh.
Him. Wilson, the one guy who somehow manages to beat him every few years or so.
Wilson chuckles softly, rubbing the back of his neck. Almost like he’s nervous. Yeah, be anxious, bitch. “Well, I wouldn't call myself—”
“How the fuck did you make it to the play-offs?” House intercepts, eyes narrowing. Years of petty rage bubbling within him, rising to the surface within seconds. “‘Suaded the judges again? Gave them some shitty sob story so they’d give little Jimmy easy access in?” He sneers, his grip on the cigar growing increasingly tight. They share a beat of strained silence, and House watches how Wilson’s eyebrow twitches, a strained smile quickly spreading across his face. What else did he expect? For goody-two-shoes, pretty-boy Wilson to fight back?
As if that would ever happen.
“Well,” Wilson rocks on his heels, hand inching into his jacket pocket. “Lisa told me it’d be a good opportunity to… clear things up between us. Make amends.” When he seems to retrieve whatever object he was previously searching for, he makes his way next to House. The older man side-steps, enough to create distance between them. He shoots a glare at Cuddy, who simply shrugs at him. That satisfied expression has shifted into one of a smug grin, before she’s mouthing her inevitable departure. Cuddy, the bastard, turns on her heel and walks away. Seemingly ready to bother another team member of his. “Reconciling with those around you is good for the soul, y’know?” House scoffs. He’s going to kill Cuddy, Wilson, and then himself.
“Yeah, is that what you said to the judges last time? And the times before that? Convinced them that, I don’t know, letting you take my obvious fucking win would heal their inner child?” The familiar clicking of a lighter makes its presence known, followed by an obnoxiously long inhale. “Or, better yet, you slept with them before the race started? Pretty boy and all, I wouldn’t be surprised.” Wilson coughs. He probably choked on the smoke upon hearing House’s proposition, and that sends a sick sense of joy coursing through his veins.
The younger man coughs into his elbow once more before clearing his throat. House only hums, satisfied.
“No,” he says simply, like that answers everything. Which, technically, it does. But House is pissed off and wants Wilson to admit to something deeper than that. “No, I would never do that.” Wilson laughs hoarsely, shaking his head. “It’s good to know you think I’m attractive, though. Thank you.” House is going to punch the guy’s teeth in, because no. He does not find Wilson attractive at all.
A snarky remark lies heavy on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill at any moment, but House bites his tongue. Instead, he reaches over and swipes the cigarette out of Wilson’s hand. There, he takes a long, fulfilling drag and limps closer. He braces himself, holding onto the roof of his car, and meets Wilson’s wide-eyed expression. His glasses hang low, giving House an easy view of how those horribly perfect brown eyes dart from his eyes, down to his lips, then to the cigar between his index and middle fingers.
The distance between them is small; one step closer and they’d be on the verge of kissing.
House smiles at him, a glint in his eyes.
Wilson stares right at his lips, wetting his own.
House blows the smoke in his face.
DAYTONA INT. SPEEDWAY — HALF-HOUR UNTIL THE RACE
House had, of course, zoned out halfway through the team’s strategy planning. None of it concerned him, nor did it pique his interest, anyway. All they really did was babble mindlessly about when and how they’d time their pit stops to maximize fuel efficiency, minimize— yeah, House doesn’t care.
Instead, his attention is entirely devoted to Wilson. The man had begun to scowl at him whenever their eyes met, a look of pure annoyance plastered on that puppy-like face of his. It’s a sharp contrast, one that House has never seen directed at himself, yet he’s growing increasingly attached to that look of hatred. In some strange way, it looks flattering on him. Especially the way his nose scrunches up ever-so-slightly, the hint of a furrowed brow, and the oh-so elegant way Wilson rolls his eyes.
It’s fascinating, really.
Fascinating, how Wilson is so terribly pissed off just because House blew a bit of smoke in his face, called him a couple of mean names— really, House had begun to tick him off in more ways than that. He jabbed his index finger into the younger man’s chest, practically growling about how Wilson had fucked his way into the play-offs. —How sensitive could the man be? Nevertheless, the reaction is sending dopamine straight to his brain.
It takes him a moment to realize that his eyes are wandering. His gaze travels from Wilson’s face, down to his crossed arms, which, mind you, accentuate the muscles in his forearms extremely well— who the fuck said that? House did not say that. No, that was… Flat. That was Jeremiah Flat. Not—-
“House,” Cuddy snaps him out of his thoughts, causing him to whip his head around at a shocking speed. “What— never mind. Are you even paying attention to the group?”
“Huh?” He emphasizes the “uh,” watching as her expression contorts to one of annoyance. House grins.
“Okay, if you don’t plan on contributing anything meaningful to the team plan, feel free to leave.” She gestures to the open space behind him. And who is he to reject such a kind offering? Turning on his heel, House initiates his three-step gait: left, right, cane, and repeat. From behind, Cuddy is shouting all kinds of protest, something along the lines of how she was simply joking, and for House to return right this instant. He couldn’t care less.
Rather, House continues his venture, limping into the garage of none other than Joe Gibbs Racing. He makes a small note of the mechanics in the area— how many of them have dispersed, now caring for other matters rather than the cars. House grins, looking behind his shoulder to ensure that Wilson is still with his team, standing in the middle of the patch of grass. Slowly, House makes his way toward the younger man’s Pontiac.
He drags his palm along the car’s surface, watching as faint streaks appear. House grins, stopping next to one of the vehicle’s wheels. If he really wanted to, he could go the basic route and slash all of Wilson’s tires. Including the backups, but that’d be too suspicious, wouldn’t it? And easy. The challenge sounds much more appealing, especially if he gets to see the absolutely and utterly distraught expression that Wilson will give him.
With the end of his cane, he pokes at the car’s exterior, humming an old tune to himself. He prods at the wheels, slowly making his way farther up to one of the wing mirrors, and frankly, he’s tempted to smash it. Twirling his cane around, he uses the head as a way of gently tapping the glass. As long as he doesn’t get caught, it’s still okay.
Unfortunately, that reassurance doesn’t last long.
A firm hand is on his shoulder, offering him a strong squeeze. House’s body immediately goes stiff, the gentle movement of his cane coming to a stop. He can feel their breath ghost down his spine, and frankly, this is getting strangely intimate.
“...If you want a quickie, my rate per hour is $100. I work wonders with my mouth. And dick, if you want—”
“What the hell are you trying to do here, Greg?” Wilson growled, wholeheartedly growled at him. House swallows, craning his neck to see the look on his face. “Because it sure looks like you’re trying to cause some property damage with that cane of yours.”
“Are you seriously accusing the disabled guy of doing some kind of heinous crime? Low blow, Jimmy. Never took you for the ableist kind.” He wears a grin on his face, watching how Wilson’s expression contorts into a dissatisfied grimace. “Wonder how Annette would react to these kinds of accusations. Surely, that modelling agency you’re part of wouldn’t be satisfied trying to find a cover-up for you.”
“Annette— are you talking about Amber? God, is it that hard to remember a name as simple as that?” Wilson’s annoyed, House can hear it in his voice. “You’re seriously just… just that ignorant? This fucking— Jesus Christ, Greg!” He throws his hands into the air, then digs his palms into his eyes, groaning.
“What? You expect me to remember the name of every manager here? I'm not God.” House pauses. “God doesn't limp, anyway.”
“You're impossible. Why did I even think that…” he trails off, ultimately deciding not to finish his sentence. “Just get out of my garage.”
“Wow, you're kicking me out? Over some stupid accusation you made up on the spot? That's bullshit!”
“Greg. Get out.”
“No, I'm not going to—”
Wilson grabs him by the face, dragging the scruffy-faced racer closer to him. Their lips are mere inches apart, and House can see that glint of something dark brewing in Wilson's eyes.
“Get the fuck out of my garage. Now.”
House stares at his lips for a moment, quickly wetting his own before scoffing. He shoves the younger man back, sneering at him.
“Fine. Whatever.”
DAYTONA INT. SPEEDWAY — 3 HOURS INTO THE RACE
House is pissed.
He, completely unexaggerated, has smoke coming out of his ears. It's roughly half an hour before the race ends, and Wilson is ahead of him. As ludicrous as it sounds, at some point, Wilson had fucking surpassed him. Hell, he even looked at House when he did! The bastard turned his head and stared him dead in the eyes, a smug grin plastered on his face.
And House has never wanted to punch someone more than he does James Wilson.
His grip on the steering wheel is white-knuckled tight, foot pressing hard against the gas pedal as he shouts over the radio. He's making all kinds of rash decisions, demanding they peek over at Wilson's crew, just to see if they've begun preparations for his next pit stop. In return, he receives a few short quips from his fellows. All of whom instruct him to turn into the pit stop within the next minute or two.
Taking into account their respective point counts, they were, for lack of better words, neck to neck. House, of course, had triumphed in the first stage, earning an easy 40 points to his name. Roles, however, were quickly switched when Wilson managed to beat him in the second round, which led to where they are now. Both tied with a solid 75 points and were left to test their luck.
House would make sure the odds worked in his favour.
“Can’t one of you run over and— I don’t know, seduce the two-timer! Do something!” He’s yelling, trailing close behind the younger man's bright green Pontiac. There’s crackling, confused chatter from the trio before a high, distinctly girly voice chimes in. “Are you talking about the short guy or the girl?” House scoffs.
“God, Cameron. Either one! Just— do something! Kill off the competition so I get a lead or whatever.” A bit more static-y bickering before, now, a very masculine voice starts talking. “Cameron’s sneaking in to distract the… number girl,” Foreman quips before quickly whispering, though loud enough for House to hear somehow, “What was her nickname? Thirteen?”
“Yeah, Hadley. Isn’t she the jackman?” Chase has a questioning undertone to his voice, and Foreman snorts. “Oh, they’re screwed. She’s always carrying that thing, isn’t she? Never puts it down—”
“I'm about to be screwed, get your asses ready and quit fucking around!” He’s rapping his knuckles against the dashboard, watching as his pit stop slowly comes into view. “Tires— for fucks sake! Get the damn jack out!” are some of the last things he shouts before pulling in, coming to an abrupt stop as his crew switches the tires out. Chase shoots him a quick thumbs up, and off he goes.
Briefly, House drives past Wilson’s pit, grinning when he notices they’ve only just begun changing his tires, with someone carelessly fiddling around with the fuel nozzle. And, from the looks of it, Cameron had done an excellent job at distracting Thirteen. He speeds past the area, grinning wickedly as he reclaims his righteous first place.
Like it was always meant to be.
“That’s incredible, only an 8.45 for a pit stop by Greg House— can you believe that, Jeremy? This may be our fastest pit crew this season, folks.” The announcers continue to spew various announcements, none of which seem especially interesting.
Although one thing in particular catches his attention.
“James Wilson, catching up to House in a matter of seconds! This is going to be an interesting home stretch, Hank.”
DAYTONA INT. SPEEDWAY — HALF-HOUR AFTER THE RACE
If House had to describe his feelings with one word, and one word only, he’d say fuck you and explain it with several instead.
It was an inexplicable type of satisfaction, the weight of a gold medal resting easily on his body. Back where it belonged, like it always should’ve been. He, with an ego-boosting first place, and Wilson, lying with the scraps of a poor second place.
House threads his fingers through his mussed, curly hair, grinning wildly as he scans the crowds. Before him stood waves of fans in the bleachers, cheering loudly as they flailed shitty, homemade signs in the air. Some more noticeable posters presented themselves as Wilson’s die-hard fangirls, which always sent a disgusted chill down his spine. Many signs serve as a public announcement of their undying and soul-bonded love for one another, a declaration of being “soulmates.”
Of course, those fangirls consisted largely of teenagers and young adults, all of whom attended his competitions like crazed girlfriends. The only reason they ever cheered for him will always be because he was just some pretty boy who managed to get a job as a NASCAR racer. And really, that’s what pisses House off the most. If he’s so attractive, why wasn’t he scouted by some stupid fucking modelling company instead? Why’d he have to compete in racing? And why does he have to be good at it? Why does he have to be—
Man, fuck him. Stupid fucking Wilson. Now his mood’s ruined.
He’s annoyed, unbelievably so. In turn, his eyes dart to the one man who’s been killing his buzz the entire day. Wilson, because he’s always been so undeniably majestic by societal standards, stands grinning brightly. Pearly whites out on display as he waves to the crowd, sweat-slicked skin making all the women swoon on the spot. Long, shaggy brown hair sticks to the back of his neck, and his eyes twinkle in the sunlight. His glasses are balanced haphazardly on the bridge of his nose, threatening to fall off at any moment. The bastard, finding that the women have begun to argue amongst themselves over God knows what, brings his hand toward his face and drags it down. It’s an exaggerated motion, taking its sweet, sweet time to graze past his light stubble.
House can feel the prick against his palms and instinctively clenches his fist. He stares because, really, what’s the appeal with this guy that has every girl dropping their panties for him? Like, yeah, he has that boy-ish wonder to him, the charming grin that has everyone fawning and sinking to their knees to kiss and lick his mud-covered shoes. But the man looks exhausted almost every day, with prominent eye bags darker than the burnt toast that House tosses back every morning. Wilson looks like he’s one blink away from passing out, and women are all over that. Maybe next competition, he can spike his drink with melatonin. That doesn’t sound too bad—
When had Wilson turned to look at him?
His eyes narrow, and he’s staring at House like he’s ready to tear into him. He’s pissed, that’s undeniable. It shouldn’t surprise him, really; he should’ve expected Wilson to be mad at him, infuriated about the stunt he’d pulled with Thirteen and Cameron. But this, oh, this is new. His pupils have straightened into slits, all of his “sweetheart” characteristics seemingly sucked out of him. Wilson is breathing heavy now, and if House were to say he didn’t feel the slightest bit threatened, he’d be lying. His eyes dart between the audience before them, back to Wilson, who’s now taken it upon himself to scan House from top to bottom. It's almost like he’s plotting his next move, trying to figure out where the best point of attack would be.
He glances around him, hoping that a member from his team, or a random competitor he never learnt the name of, will spark up a conversation. Drag him out of this situation where Wilson looks like he’s fantasizing about beating him into a bloody pulp. And yet, no one seems to spare him this mercy. Those surrounding him are deep in discussion with their companions, chattering away as they laugh at some stupid joke the other had said. No one makes a move to involve House in their chats.
Or Wilson. Surely, this can’t end well.
Just as soon as it had clicked in House’s mind that no one was there to save him, it seemed to hit Wilson harder. Someone, who he can only assume is the younger man, yanks at his arm, pulling House off the podium and stumbling to the ground. His cane pokes at the grass, an attempt to find stability, before grazing the back of Wilson’s shoe. House receives a glare from the brunet, who continues to drag him off and away from the crowd. It’s a shame that no one points out how the top two contenders had scurried elsewhere, especially with each other.
A snarky response lies heavy on the tip of House’s tongue, ready to spill before realization dawns on him. Wilson had dragged him back to the Hendrick Motorsports garage, which now stood deafeningly empty. House opens his mouth, preparing a crude insult, before Wilson throws him to the ground. In an instant, the younger man is on top of him, throwing a harsh punch to the side of his face. The collision has House gasping, aching as he lands on the hard ground, cheek numb from where Wilson had hit.
His cane, which had slipped out of his grip, clattered elsewhere. Too far for House to reach. Swallowing the pained groan that threatened to slip, he swings back with a right hook. Wilson falters, eyes wide as his glasses fly off. House shoves him off, scrambling to straddle the younger man as he throws another punch. He grabs a handful of Wilson’s jacket, pulling him up and quickly shoving him back down, listening to the choked-out grunt he lets out. He’s ready to do it again, ignoring the throbbing pain in his right leg from the position he’s in, just to hurt him.
And Wilson’s quick, fuck, is he quick— he’s grabbing House by the shoulders, flipping them over before he’s able to recompose himself and knock the wind out of Wilson again. The younger man is on top of him again, a brutal blow to the other side of House’s face, before he wraps his fingers around the scruffy racer’s throat. Wilson squeezes hard enough for his vision to go black around the edges, wheezing for air, and he swears the capillaries in his neck are gonna burst. But before he can black out, he’s suddenly inhaling heaps of air, coughing and sputtering on the floor.
Wilson has his hand in his hair, pulling House’s head toward him so he’s forced to look at the younger man through bleary eyes. He’s shuddering, taking in uneven breaths when Wilson slaps him, a hard crack against his reddening cheeks. “You are an insufferable prick,” he spits, and House can feel it land on him. Wilson slaps him again. “You sabotaged my pit crew, didn’t you?” Wilson leans in close, digging his nails into the older man’s scalp. House groans, loud, as he thrashes about. “Sent one of your kids my way, got her to mess with Remy— shit, she was even distracted! Remy. Distracted.” His breath is hot against House’s ear, and he pushes at Wilson’s chest. The younger man doesn’t relent. “What the fuck is your problem? You just can’t get enough of seeing me pissed, can you?”
House grinds his teeth together, continuing to make feeble attempts to shove Wilson off. He shifts uncomfortably, a sudden weight between his legs making itself prominent and— Jesus Christ, he’s hard.
“I didn’t do shit, Jimmy.” His voice isn’t as steady as he hoped it’d be. “Cameron wandered off on her own.” Wilson scoffs at that, clearly not buying whatever bullshit he’s spewing. “Couldn’t keep it in her pants any longer. She just loves the taste of—”
He’s shoved against the ground again, knocking a choked-out groan from him while Wilson wraps a hand around his throat again. He doesn’t apply pressure, at least not yet. It’s a present weight, a threat to cut off his oxygen supply again. His eyes meet Wilson’s, brown eyes filled with something much deeper than simple hatred. And that’s what has House’s mind blanking out, because he can’t quite put his finger on what emotion Wilson’s trying to express through those damn eyes of his.
“Is that the only thing you’re good at? Deflecting?” Wilson’s breathing heavy, eyes wide with mania. He grins, just bordering on being creepy, and House shivers. “You’re pathetic, Greg. You know that, right?” Of all the effects those words could have on him, they send sparks to his dick like a goddamn hot wire. House licks his lips, the taste of iron strong on his tongue. Wilson likely split his lip when he was throwing punches like a lunatic. “You just couldn’t handle that I was ahead of you. I’ve competed against you enough to know that— God, I just thought you were doing shit for— for the fun of it!” He stutters, and his grip is tightening around House’s throat again.
His brain immediately blanks, eyes wide as he lets out a wheezing gasp for air. Wilson’s still talking, and really, he’d try to put more effort into listening if he wasn’t distracted.
The younger man pauses, eyebrows furrowed when he realizes that House, truly, isn’t listening to a word he says. He loosens his grip, just slightly, and listens to House’s desperate gasps for air, which are accompanied by the incredibly pitiful whines he lets out. When he comes to his senses, he’s painfully aware of the way Wilson stares down at him, the gears in his head clearly turning at light speed. And then he’s grinning, terribly wide, and House is all the more regretting his life choices.
“A whore with a God complex, huh?” Wilson suddenly grabs him by the face, squeezing his cheeks in a harsh grip. The tremble in his lip would’ve been imperceptible if Wilson weren’t so dangerously close, the tips of their noses brushing. “No wonder you were trying to piss me off. Wanted me to fuck you stupid, didn’t you?” He’s pressing his tongue flat against House’s split lip, and as desperate as he is to deny, shout that Wilson’s fucking delusional— the quiet whimper he lets out is all the younger man needs. “‘M gonna have so much fun with this,” he mumbles, sucking House’s bottom lip into his mouth, teasing it between his teeth.
Before long, he’s shoving his tongue in the scruffy racer’s mouth, claiming it like European colonizers did to North America. And it’s rough, the younger man is holding both of House’s wrists in one firm grip, whereas his other hand is set on groping him through his clothes that are growing increasingly uncomfortable. The exchange of hot iron in their mouths, the violent clash of teeth on teeth, all should’ve been a major turn-off for normal people.
Fortunately, neither of them is even remotely normal.
Wilson’s fingers graze the outline of House’s growing erection, and the older’s hips stutter, moaning into the rough kiss. It’s open-mouthed and sloppy, but Wilson greedily swallows the noise and presses a firm hand against him.
House is a mess when Wilson pulls away, a line of saliva connecting their mouths to one another’s. His breathing is uneven and shaky; he watches as the younger man rises to his feet. It surprises him when Wilson grabs him by the jacket collar, drags him across the ground, and throws him against the car. He arches his back, gasping in pain as he shoots a glare at the man above him. Wilson pays minimal attention to the action, instead hooking his thumbs in the waistband of his pants and tugging. In one swift motion, his pants, along with his boxers, pool around his ankles.
And shit, okay, maybe Wilson’s a bit big. Bigger than average. House swallows, and he thinks there may be a bit of a sparkle in his eyes with how the younger man chuckles. Again, he shoves his hand in House’s mussed hair, pulling his head closer. Wilson’s dick is pressed against his cheek; House shouldn’t be staring as hard as he is, seriously. He meets brown eyes, staring at him through his lashes, and starts mouthing at the length. His tongue teases a vein, tracing it from the bottom to the top— his lips ghost the head of Wilson’s cock. He presses his tongue flat against the head, and Wilson curses under his breath. House pulls away, but not before kissing the tip.
Once more, he starts from the base, pressing soft, feather-like kisses along his dick. The scrape of his stubble, House can only assume, isn’t pleasurable. But the way Wilson is gritting his teeth, grip in his hair tightening impossibly so, House might take that assumption back. His lips rest at the head of his cock once more, licking the slit, and really, he’s about to take Wilson into his mouth when—
“Fuck it.”
Both hands are in his hair now as Wilson pulls his hips back and thrusts into his mouth. House gags, eyes wide as he attempts to meet Wilson’s— but his are closed. The pace that the younger man sets is ruthless, fucking into the hot expanse of House’s mouth with youthful want. He’s cursing, muttering absolute filth as the older man moans pathetically. He almost wants to complain about the ache in his jaw. Almost.
Instead, he presses his palm against his own bulge, grinding against it as Wilson uses him. Tears well up in those impossibly blue eyes of his, spilling as his esophagus spasms around the abuse. Wilson, as if right on cue, opens his eyes to watch the first tears fall. Immediately, he shifts without missing a single beat and continues to fuck into the hot expanse. House’s nose is roughly jammed against the younger man’s pubic bone, eyes rolling to the back of his head as he moans. Now that sends vibrations that’ll surely seal the deal, because Wilson’s grip on his hair is tighter now. His thrusts are beginning to slow, and House is so fucking ready to swallow—
He pulls out.
THE FUCKER PULLED OUT.
The start of a snarky remark rests heavily on the tip of his tongue, that is, until a few harsh coughs roughly overtake it. He covers his mouth, hacking into his elbow before easing up. House leans back against the cold metal of his car, glancing at Wilson, who grins at him with a shit-eating grin and a beautifully flushed face. His palm is extended, expectant.
“Keys.” House blinks, takes a moment to register the request, and digs through his pockets. Upon doing so, he retrieves his car keys, dangling from a pair of breasts. Childish, really. Because what grown man owns a keychain that has humongous tits on it?
House, apparently.
“Wow.” Wilson punctuates the “ow,” eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “Okay.” The car beeps behind him, and a door is swung open, which House can only assume is one of the doors to the backseats.
He’s quickly hoisted up, thrown (Wilson really likes throwing him around, doesn’t he?) into the back of his own car, where his bum leg hangs off the car seat. He cranes his neck to peer at the younger man, who’s climbing into the vehicle at light speed, slamming the door shut. In an instant, lips are crashing against his, hands slipping under all of his layers. House arches his back, a guttural whine clawing its way through his throat when Wilson pinches a nipple. His eyes are squeezed shut, shivering when Wilson sucks on his bottom lip.
He groans, a soft noise that offers Wilson free access to explore his mouth once more. The taste of shitty energy drinks they were downing pre-race, and of Wilson in general, is shared. House can only grind upwards, moaning when he meets the solid shape of the younger man’s leg. Unfortunately, the latter doesn’t offer him much of a release as he plants a hand on House’s hip, pressing him deeper into the car seats. Their ravishing of one another’s mouths is cut short, both of their lips swollen and red, and Wilson begins to plant open-mouthed kisses along his jaw.
On the other hand, Wilson is quick to slip his fingers into House’s mouth, three digits. And House is eager to place his attention elsewhere, working his tongue around the thick fingers. The younger man smirks into pale skin, lapping his tongue against a particular area where neck meets collarbone, and sucks a mean hickey. His hand, the one previously resting on House’s hip, moves to grab at the older man’s jacket. He unzips it, one fluid motion, before hiking the shitty graphic band tee that House wears up.
Wilson’s hand takes it upon itself to engrave every inch of House’s body into his mind, tracing over each dip of bone. House swirls his tongue, sucking Wilson’s fingers impossibly deeper. The younger man pushes, feeling the tip of his fingers scrape against the back of House’s throat.
“Yeah, you were definitely made for this,” he whispers, running his thumb over House’s nipple. The older man groans, scraping his teeth against Wilson’s fingers, then runs his tongue over the area. “So much prettier when you’re not bitching all the time.” Wilson shifts, beginning to move lower as he mouths at House’s now barren chest. He presses his tongue against a perked-up bud, snickering when the scruffier racer jerks.
“Lift your legs,” and, despite the annoyed, muffled retort House makes, he’s raising his legs— his right leg is screaming at him, mind you. The pain that shot through him was, and still is, unbearable. —high enough for Wilson to pull his pants and boxers off. The clothes are discarded, thrown into the empty passenger seat, and the younger man traces a circle on his hip. House has long dropped his bum leg, letting it rest as comfortably as it can on the car seat, whereas his good leg is resting idly on Wilson’s shoulder.
Their position changes when Wilson decides to fold him in half. His left leg is bent, pressing into his chest, and the younger man’s dick is on the outside of his thigh. Slowly, he guides his fingers out of House’s mouth, running his thumb over the scruffy racer’s lips. On the other hand (literally, his other hand), Wilson pinches one of House’s nipples, offering it a tug.
The pain is good. Fuck, it’s heavenly.
“Shit, do you—” he chokes on his words, jerking when Wilson’s finger is suddenly pressing against his entrance. “You treat your fangirls like this, too?” He’s sure he looks a mess when Wilson glances up at him through long lashes, releasing House’s abused nipple from his mouth. Not before pressing down on the now spit-slicked one, grinning when House groaned.
“What? Gonna get crazy jealous if I said I do?” His finger, albeit poorly lubricated, slips into House’s hole. And he fucking growls from how the tight heat clenches around him, consuming the digit whole. “Not as tight as you, though. Holy shit, Greg.” He’s slowly thrusting his finger, listening to the heavy breaths that House takes. Wilson’s grinning.
His hands are planted firmly on the younger racer’s shoulders, face scrunched up as Wilson shifts, curling his finger ever-so-slightly.
“It’s crazy how pretty you look like this. I should’ve done this years ago; maybe that would’ve gotten you to quit messing with me during races.” House throws an arm over his eyes, grimacing from the compliment. There’s a light flush that spreads across his cheeks, dusting his chest. Wilson wants to see more.
He grabs his arm, tugging it off as he presses his second finger in. The way that House swallows and lets his head fall back, a gentle thud against the leather car seat. His jaw goes slack, quiet noises slipping out in easy streams as Wilson slowly scissors him open. It’s not slow in a gentle way, no, not at all. Wilson’s doing it to be a pain in the ass, just to see how long he can go without increasing his pace, how long it’ll take for House to eventually break. Go begging for him to plow into him with zero mercy, and—
Wilson twists his wrist, and House thinks Jesus himself has come to finger his ass. His eyes shoot open, back arching with a cry.
“Found it,” he teases, continuing to press against his prostate. And it seems it didn’t take all that long for House to snap.
“Ah, ah— James, ohmygod—” he’s biting his bottom lip, a feeble attempt to stifle his shuddering cries. Wilson curls his fingers, presses deeper, and watches as House arches his back. His words are slurring, mixing into one unintelligible blabber of words. “Fuckfuck, there, please, James—” House is rocking back on his digits, fucking himself onto the fingers that threaten to take him apart. Wilson smirks, leaning back to let his spit dribble onto the digits, and slides a third finger in. The way House practically crumbles, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth again, and blue eyes so impossibly big— yeah, Wilson can’t wait to see how he reacts to being fucked.
“Can’t believe I never noticed how needy you are,” he twists his wrist, watches the way the older man muffles a particularly loud sob, and groans himself. “Can you even hear yourself? Moaning like you’re in a porn film,” Wilson curls his fingers, brushing against the bundle of nerves that has House’s legs tensing around him. Yeah, he’s definitely going to memorize that spot. “You’d be so hot as a girl, God.”
The older man’s hands twitch, grinding his teeth together and—
“Pleaseletmetouchmyself,” he says in one breath, digging his nails into his palms. His eyes are half-lidded now, urging Wilson’s fingers to continue fucking into him as he clenches around the younger. Wilson can only chuckle, amused by the desperation that paints House’s features. “Need it, ah, wanna cum—” he cuts himself off with a wanton moan, Wilson pressing against his prostate in three subsequent twists of his wrist.
House, the snarky bastard, who puts in a baffling amount of effort to ensure that Wilson loses his first place, is begging for permission to touch himself. That sends signals straight to his dick, and he’s obnoxiously aware of how hard he is. He wets his lip, composing himself enough to speak again.
“You need it?” Wilson scoffs, halting the movement of his fingers. And House, God, he’s so out of it. It takes him a moment to realize Wilson’s stopped moving, his fingers a heavy weight inside of him. “Did you think this was about you? I was doing this to please your slutty desires?” His expression darkens, eyes scraping over every last inch of House’s body. And never in his life had the older man felt more exposed. Wilson pulls his fingers out, slowly, simply to hear how House cries out. “This isn’t about you.” He breathes out, voice low and husky. “Never was.”
He’s thrusting into the scruffy man beneath him, fingers fucking deeper and faster than they were before. “You wanna come so bad? You’ll come from just my fingers.” His other hand is quick to wrap around House’s throat, feel the way his Adam’s Apple bobs, and tighten his grip. Not tight enough to choke him, no. Just enough for him to feel the pressure.
Jesus Christ. The noises that House makes should be illegal in all 50 states.
“Fucking painslut,” Wilson spits, watching in all adoring amusement as House’s eyes roll to the back of his head. He’s shaking, wheezing as his oxygen supply is cut off. “Should’ve guessed that you were sabotaging me for dick. Needed someone to fuck you stupid, right?” He loosens his grip, grinning when House groans from the loss of contact. Watching him properly choke on his shaft was far more exhilarating, seeing House sob with his mouth full of Wilson. He’ll come down his throat next time, make sure House drinks every last fucking drop. “Hey, you have a mouth for a reason. Talk to me.” He curls his fingers, and the older man keens.
“Yes, yeah, ah— wanted, wanted your dick. That’s why— fuckfuckplease—” he’s babbling, hurdling closer to the edge. House is definitely going to come, solely from Wilson’s fingers, as pathetic as it sounds. “‘M close, Jimmy, ‘m so clOse—” his voice cracks, eyes squeezed shut. Pre-come dribbles from the head of his dick, making a mess on his stomach, but he genuinely couldn’t care less. The sobs that wrack through his body have him shaking, tears dripping down his face.
“Yeah? Come for me, sweetheart.” He brushes against House’s prostate again, and that’s all it takes for him to release with a scream. His vision goes bright fucking white, jaw slack as his body spasms, impossibly tight around Wilson’s retreating fingers. His head spins, heart pounding loud in his ears.
House is still breathing heavy when he snaps back to reality, gazing lazily at Wilson. In front of him, the younger man is spitting into his hand, roughly stroking himself to full mass. Brown eyes, filled with a dark sense of want, meet blue eyes, riddled with that familiar feeling of neediness. House swallows the lump in his throat, nudging his legs further apart. Wilson plants a hand next to the car’s window controls, his other used to line himself up with House, who was, surprisingly, achingly hard again—Wilson hums, amused by the sight.
God bless House and his somewhat thriving refractory periods, he supposes.
The younger man pushes in fast, barely giving House enough time to register the sudden stretch. House can feel it flood his senses, the sensation raw and overwhelming, and he grinds his teeth together. His hands are immediately on Wilson’s chest, bunching the fabric of his jacket into his fists. He tilts his head back, hearing his breath hitch when Wilson bottoms out. The feeling of being so impossibly full is a sensory overload; he’s growing painfully aware of every little thing, how the car seat dips more under Wilson’s weight, how the weight of Wilson’s dick is evermore present, how he can hear both of their breathing loud as day— oh, his brain might explode.
But Wilson’s moving, he’s moving, and God, it’s all worth it. The pace he sets is ruthless, thrusting into the enticing heat that welcomes him nonetheless. He swears the car is shaking from how hard Wilson is fucking into him, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the vehicle in a matter of seconds. It’s dirty, it’s nasty, it’s everything that House could’ve ever wanted.
His body feels like it’s on fire when Wilson leans down to bite his neck, the feeling of the younger man sucking, nibbling at his throat becomes all too much. He runs his fingers through Wilson’s hair, holding his head with one hand, and grips the seat headrest with the other. Surely, he looks a mess.
“So perfect like this,” Wilson whispers into his ear, the snap of his hips coaxing a whimper out of House. “Taking me like the bitch you are. God, you were made to be fucked.” House would think that Wilson’s just rambling, talking nonsense, if he weren’t so deep in his head. Maybe he’d even insult the man, grumble a snarky comment about how he’s the whore here, given how often he’s sleeping around with women. However, the only thing that the dark-haired brunet can muster is a short nod and a pitchy moan.
“Yours, James,” he slurs, crying out when Wilson sends a punishing blow to that bundle of nerves within him. “Ah, oh—only for you, only—” House’s mouth hangs open, a slurry of gasping sobs pouring out of him when Wilson continues to abuse his prostate. His brain fogs, simply deciding it's best to let his head loll backwards and rest against the leather seat.
“Knock you up if you were a girl,” Wilson’s talking, still. Every word he says comes in one ear and out the other, slipping House’s mind with ease. His eyes are fixated on the strands of hair that dangle in front of Wilson’s face, obscuring him ever so slightly. When did Wilson plant both hands next to his head? Doesn’t matter much when he’s kissing him again.
He thinks that Wilson really does enjoy the harsh rub of House’s beard against his face. His mouth opens with ease, and the younger man slips his tongue in again. Instinctively, House clenches his fist, surprised when hair peaks through the gaps of his fingers. A variety of noises are tumbling out of his mouth when Wilson digs his nails into House’s hips, his angle changing, and he’s fucking into the older man again.
House’s vision goes pure white, head buzzing at the sudden onslaught. He throws his head back, grinding his teeth as he claws at whatever his hands could latch onto. And Wilson, oh, Wilson is watching with such a sick smile on his face. When House regains consciousness, he’s met face-to-face with the younger man, who has seemingly returned to prehistoric times. He’s staring at the older man like he’s prey.
“You’re lucky I’m close,” he breathes out, voice rough. “Would’ve pulled a third one out of you if I could.” And with that, Wilson tightens his grip and thrusts into him at inhumane speeds. House is a shuddering, weeping mess by this point. His entire body shakes when Wilson fucks into him once, then twice more, before ceasing all movement. He’s buried to the hilt as he lets out a near-animalistic cry, bowing his head as he pulses within the scruffier racer.
Damn.
Maybe House wished he were a woman.
DAYTONA INT. SPEEDWAY — AN HOUR AFTER THE RACE
“So, same time next year?” House cranes his neck, glancing at the younger man. Wilson is fully man-spreading, palms on his knees as he stares straight ahead.
“Gregory.”
“Ooh, yikes. Big scary Jimmy is using my real name!” He adds an exaggerated squeak to the end of his sentence, hugging himself jokingly. “I’m so scared! Cuddy, hold me!” House cries out.
“Ah, yes, because Lisa will definitely hug you after someone came in your ass.” Wilson shakes his head, rubbing his temples. “God, and I expected that to knock some kind of sense into you.”
“Almost knocked me up, that’s for sure.”
“Please, stop talking.”
“What can I say? You were very convincing with your spiel about getting me pregnant if I were a chick. Ever tried being a sperm donor? You’d—”
“I’m leaving.” Wilson makes an effort to pull his pants and boxers halfway on, lifting his hips to wear them properly, before House uses his leg and forces him back down.
“Without aftercare? Oh, you’re cruel.” He pouts, feigning hurt. “And here I thought sweet, young Jimmy would do anything to please the women!”
“You’re not a woman, Greg.”
“You don’t know that.”
“We just fucked. I think I’d know if you were a woman or not.”