Be Careful What You Wish For



December 2004


Author's note: Inspired by an icon 'gwyn_r' made for Maygra. 

"What the fuck are you waiting for? Get your ass over here."

Brian muttered the request while unbuttoning his new silk shirt, bought, if anyone was interested, with Dom in mind. It's sapphire-blue color had reminded him of the Pacific Ocean, and the image of Dom rising naked from its depth had Brian snatching the damn shirt off the rack so fast and so furious the salesperson assisting him had rushed forward to prevent the whole thing from crashing to the floor.

Leaning back against the front windshield of his newly restored car, Brian peeled open his shirt and ran his hand through the sweat that had plastered the slinky fabric to his overheated skin. His fingers lingered near his nipples, and he unobtrusively pinched each one until they were hard and aching and begging for a particular set of pearly whites to eat them right off his chest.


Brian squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the sight of Dom drenching himself with water from the hose that lay coiled on the pavement outside the garage. "Damn you, Toretto. Stop teasing the hell out of me, and get your ass over here." Brian fingered the hem of his shirt as he whispered fiercely, "Notice me, dammit. Notice this fucking shirt that, by the way, set me back 78 bucks. $78.62 to be exact."

Unable to resist sneaking a seventh peak--and who the hell was counting anyway--Brian groaned when a pair of rum-colored eyes turned in his direction and sent the afternoon's heat index shooting through the roof. Oxygen was soon in short supply, and if Brian could have convinced his trembling extremities to cooperate, he would have pried his body off the hood of his car and considered making a run for the border.

Damn, he's coming.

Brian groaned again and nearly started laughing hysterically at the pun his thought had created. Coming, hell yeah. I wish I was, wish Dom was. Coming so hard our combined release would permanently stain my new shirt, thus be a reminder of the moment I surrendered my virgin ass to the mighty Dominic Toretto.


$78.62, remember?

Who in their right mind would throw away that kind of money? Maybe he could slip on one of his old--Brian peaked through his lashes, and for the first time noticed how Dom's wife-beater clung to his chest--oh hell, what's a measly $78.62 anyway? He could always rob a bank for next month's rent.


Oh fuck. He's here. He's standing right here.

Brian scraped his nails against the hood's scorching hot metal surface and prayed his voice hadn't left for the southern border like his brain had. "Yeah, Dom?" he finally managed to croak.

"Seems your engine has thrown a rod. Want me to fix it for you?"

Confused as hell, Brian glanced down at the wrench tapping lightly on the mountain of rock that had mysteriously taken shape beneath the crotch of his jeans. He struggled to answer Dom, but since all his words had hitched a ride with his brain and were now scaling Mount Everest, he could only manage a stupefied, 'Huh?'

Dom's low-pitch, whiskey-warm laugh melted Brian's heart, and he didn't care one iota when a callused thumb covered in grease left a trail from his right nipple down to his suddenly open fly and over to the hem of his new shirt.

"Fuck! Dom! Your . . . the wrench . . . oh shit!"

A millennium later, Brian forced his eyes open and sighed like the cat who had drank his fill of warm milk. His sigh of complete satisfaction turned into a growl of impending starvation when he caught sight of Dom licking clean his semen-covered lips.

Maybe Tanner could loan him another hundred bucks. The salesperson down at the Men's Store at Macey's had shown him this emerald-colored silk shirt that would look fucking awesome on Dom, that is, of course, until Brian ripped it off him.

Maybe he'd buy two shirts. One for ripping and one for . . . .

Fuck, yeah. Definitely one for . . . .





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