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My Own Adrenaline Needs

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Dom is elbows deep in a Jetta with a fucked alternator when he hears the familiar growl of Brian's car at the front of the garage. It's the deep-throated roar of American muscle, which still surprises him a little whenever he hears it. Brian's always been drawn to sleek lines and flash, but when he saw the hulk of the Challenger rotting in a junkyard outside Mexicali he'd grinned and said something about Miami and good times.

Dom waits five minutes for Brian to appear, but the door between the front and the garage proper stays firmly shut, even though Dom can see the blurry outline of Brian's body leaning against the crooked counter. He thinks about yelling for Brian to quit doing whatever he's doing and come inside, but the garage is warm and quiet and he doesn't really want to fuck with that feeling. And besides, Dom doesn't mind a break now and then, especially when it's just the two of them.

He wipes the worst of the grease off his hands on a filthy rag hanging from his back pocket and takes his time crossing the garage. They've got a trio of cars; an old Ford truck with a steering problem that's running on faith and the determination of the tough old lady who owns it, the Jetta, and the Charger off to the side beneath a car cover. It was a nightmare getting the busted remains across the border. Dom just hasn't gotten around to fixing it yet.

The door to the front office squeaks as Dom pushes through. Brian grins at him, weirdly shy around the corners, and settles with his elbows on the counter. The couple months they've been in Baja have turned his skin a deep tan that Dom knows goes a little bit lighter on his chest and much lighter below the waistband of his pants. He's let his hair grow out and it's gone a little wild with the added length and turned from a dusty blond to an almost gold color.

"Is something wrong?" Dom asks.

Brian shakes his head. "I think my car needs a tune-up," he says. "It's making this weird grinding sound and I don't know what the problem is."

Dom snorts. "Really? A weird grinding sound?"

"Yeah." Brian nods and shifts a little on the balls of his feet. "They told me you could fix it. That you were the best mechanic in town. I don't know shit about cars, man."

The urge to full out fucking laugh at the idea of Brian being shit around cars bubbles up in Dom's chest, but it's undercut by the way Brian's shifting around. It's like he's actually nervous that there's something wrong with his car that Dom won't be able to fix. He chews at the corner of his mouth and taps out a rhythm with his thumb against the splintered counter. Something warm spikes down in the pit Dom's belly and he decides, yeah. Yeah, he can play it this way.

"Is that what they say?" Dom holds out his hand. "Give me your keys and I'll bring her in. See if we can figure out what's wrong."

There's a split second of hesitation where Brian's knuckles tighten instinctively around his keys. He rebuilt the Challenger from dilapidated rust, just like he did the Supra. (Dom had to change the paint job and do a hell of a fix on it when he left LA, but it's still his car. Not his fault Brian's Eclipse went up.) Brian's protective of the Challenger and Dom gets that, but he doesn't give a shit, because he never lets customers drive their cars into the garage. He wouldn't start with a skinny white boy if he walked in off the street.

"Yeah, sure," Brian says, blinking away the moment and offering up a grin. He drops his keys into Dom's palm. "Be careful, would you? She's my baby."

Dom smiles. "You got it."

They push through the front door together, close enough so that their shoulders brush. Dom doesn't shiver, but he does bite back a little growled noise at Brian's nearness. He can smell the soap and cologne coming off Brian's skin, and the sweat underneath that. Outside, it's hot and dry and the sun beats down without mercy. Brian squints and shields his eyes against the glare with one hand while Dom walks to the parked Challenger. The silver paint and chrome fucking shine in the afternoon light and Dom takes a moment to appreciate the beauty of that.

He slides into the driver's seat and turns over the ignition, idly wondering whether Brian got the idea for this thing from a genuine need for a tune-up or just because he's got a thing a mile wide for cars, Dom, and cars and Dom together. The engine roars to life just like it should and settles into a low rumble that's always going to be one of the most bone-deep sexual sounds Dom knows.

She rolls into the garage like she's fresh off the assembly line, while Dom watches Brian in the rear view mirror. Dom's always glad to have cars to work on, but he's happy to know this isn't just about Brian's voyeuristic kink for watching Dom work on cars, especially his car. (Brian can't explain it without going red-faced; apparently it's like watching his boy fuck his best friend and it works for him.)

Dom cuts the engine and eases out, pocketing Brian's keys because he's always been good at planning ahead and he's got a couple ideas of things Brian can do to get them back. Brian positions himself on the passenger side, arms folded on the roof as he looks at Dom.

"Close the garage doors," Dom says, jerking his chin toward the panel of buttons on the wall.

Brian pushes off the Challenger with studied insouciance that doesn't match up with the flare of red beginning to crawl up his neck. Brian's a brilliant liar, Dom knows that way fucking better than he'd ever wanted to, but he's not perfect. He's got tells and they get more obvious when it comes to Dom, which is sometimes an apology for the way the two of them began and sometimes just a convenience when they're alone.

The garage doors clank and grumble as they inch toward the floor. It's dimmer and warmer in the garage once they've closed and Dom's awareness of the heat coming off Brian's body spikes now that they're alone. There have always been girls, and occasionally guys, who would hang around the old garage in Echo Park because they liked watching Dom work. But none of them looked at him the way Brian does, with a gut-deep mix of mindless lust and genuine appreciation.

"Let's take a look," Dom says, popping the hood.

The guts of the Challenger arrayed before him are genuinely beautiful, tuned to within an inch of perfection by hours of Brian's meticulous work. And he did it all by himself; he only asked for Dom's advice and for an extra hand when he really needed it to avoid to breaking his fingers. Dom sighs in the back of his throat, because Brian's gotten fucking good at it, just like everything other damn thing.

"What do you think?" Brian asks, suddenly hovering inches away from Dom's shoulder. He's so close Dom can feel the warmth of Brian's breath against the bare skin of his arms. "Can you fix it?"

Dom glances to the Jetta he'd been working on and shrugs, biting back a grin. "I'd guess the alternator, so it's a replacement, not a fix. It's pretty easy. Shouldn't take too long."

Brian starts up that fucking chewing on his bottom lip and Dom has a moment where he thinks fuck the whole set up shit, he wants Brian in his hands without the wait. Patience is a virtue only inasmuch as it has to be and Dom's palms are itching. He's half hard in pants and sweat's starting to trickle down his spine that's only half because of the oppressive afternoon heat.

"You're really good at this," Brian says, voice low as he ducks his head. "It's impressive."

One of these days, he's going to kill Dom before Dom ever does something to get himself killed first.

"That's why they call me the best." Dom lowers the hood of the Challenger with a soft bang, because he's getting to the point where he doesn't want to wait. Dom can't say that he's ever gotten come in the engine of a car, but it's not something he wants to risk; and, to be fair, he and Brian have done weirder shit when they're going at it.

Brian pushes his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. He's always been skinny, but Dom thinks he's gotten leaner as they've gone along. His pants just barely seem to hold up over the jut of his hip bones. Half the time he doesn't bother popping the fly when he's getting undressed, and the elastic waistband of his boxers always hang out an inch or two.

He looks at Dom with his head cocked to the side and says, "How much is that gonna run me?"

Dom leans against the hood of the Challenger, folding his arms over his chest. There are two answers to that. The real price and the double down price that they pull out for customers who are just a little too full of themselves and the superiority of their cars. It's for dudes who only talk to Brian because they assume Dom doesn't speak English or frat boys down in Baja looking for trouble that won't follow them back to the Ivy Leagues.

"Five hundred American," Dom says, and there's another moment of flickering outrage in Brian's eyes that he has to blink away.

"Fuck," Brian exhales. He really does sound like some down on his luck sob story getting bad news. Dom would feel bad, except he's got his own ideas about where this thing Brian started is going to end up. "I don't have that much."

Dom shrugs, pointedly unmoved. "Then I can't do shit for you. Don't work for free."

He sees the moment when Brian gets it; the way the red flush slowly creeping up his neck suddenly flares over his cheeks and his tongue flicks out to lick his lips. It's getting hotter and hotter in the garage with the doors shut tight and the air between them feels heavy against Dom's skin. He shifts, spreading his legs just a little bit further apart. Brian's eyes widen a little at the gesture, playing shocked at the suggestion.

Brian takes an uncertain step forward that Dom almost, almost buys, except for the part where he knows Brian too well and he can see the tension thrumming along the tendons in his arm and neck. There's three steps worth of distance between them and it feels like it takes Brian five minutes to cover them. "Can we work something out?" Brian asks, drawing out something to encompass a whole range of ideas. Tentatively, he touches the tip of his finger to Dom's knee.

Dom swallows hard, because if Brian can keep this up, he can keep it up. "Yeah, we could do that."

"What do you want?" Brian asks, shifting back and forth on the balls of his feet. His fingers are burning a fucking hole through Dom's pants and he keeps licking his lips, making them shine with spit.

"Three guesses." Dom can hear, distantly, his own voice pitch into a lower octave. Brian shivers a little and takes an unconscious half-step forward into the bracket of Dom's legs.

Brian huffs out a long breath and drops his head down. It looks a lot like reluctance, maybe even tinged with a little embarrassment, except that Dom can see the effort it's taking him to control his breath. His hand slowly inches up Dom's thigh. He smears the fresh streaks of grease and dirt into new patterns with the pads of his fingers. Brian pauses when he gets to Dom's dick just long enough for Dom's breath to hitch slightly in his chest. It's never that easy between them.

"Don't fuck with me," Dom growls. Brian's whole body jerks, fingers digging into Dom's thigh.

Sex is straightforward for Dom. It's him and someone else, sweaty skin and teeth and bruises that last for a couple of days under his clothes as a reminder. Brian brought all this shit to it, the little games and the give and take that riles Dom up in a kind of want that skirts the fine line between frustration and anger and lust. Dom can't sketch out the parameters of Brian's vast array of desires and that makes him nervous sometimes, and it always keeps him feeling a little lost. Without a guide to how far he can go Dom doesn't know whether he can push it all.

He knows the vague contours of Brian's buttons; fast cars and people who are good with them (which explains at least three fourths of his attraction to Dom), being shoved around a little, being a fucking brat sometimes to get a rise.

"Don't fuck with me," Dom repeats, lower and slower. He reaches out and pushes his hand through the curled mess of Brian's hair, finding a good grasp at the base of his skull and pulling tight. Brian makes a soft, shocked noise in the back of his throat and his fingers reflexively curl tighter. His tongue flicks out and his eyes burn. "Do it," Dom orders and pulls Brian to his knees.

Brian fumbles at Dom's fly with shaking fingers that could conceivably be read as nervous if Dom didn't notice the unconscious rolling hitch in his hips as he looks for friction any way it can get it. He pops the button and eases down Dom's fly with a jerked snick of metal. Dom bites the inside of his cheek to keep from grunting at the rough pressure of fabric against his dick. "Fuck," Brian exhales, looking up at Dom through the sweep of his pretty eyelashes.

"Change your mind?" Dom asks.

"No," Brian says, eyes narrowing fractionally, because no matter what role he's playing, he's never been able to resist a challenge.

He hooks his fingers on Dom's belt and yanks his grease-stained pants and boxers down in a clumsy jerk that has Dom hunching inward from the hard combination of pleasure and discomfort as elastic catches on his dick. Brian only manages to shove the fabric partway down Dom's thigh, but that's as far as he needs to get for this particular exercise. He braces one hand on the hood of the Challenger, because Brian's appreciation of cars approaches a kind of sensual level even Dom doesn't play at.

Brian circles his other hand around the base of Dom's dick. The calluses on his palm are familiar and beautiful and Dom drops his head back at the first slow stroke up his dick. Brian has a much more extensive history with being on the giving end of sucking cock, which Dom only accidentally found out during one of their particularly drunken nights. But he still approaches it with a kind of meticulous intensity that Dom associates with first time desperation to make it good.

Dom's fingers stay curled so tight in Brian's hair he can't honestly tell where it stops being about Brian sucking him off and starts being about Dom fucking his face, but that doesn't matter. The only sounds are the dirty, wet suck of Brian's mouth and the rough rub of Brian's hand on his own dick through his jeans.

Dom squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth hard, to keep from making noises that'll go through to the street outside or from telling Brian that he's a bullshit fucking narc and Dom will probably die if he ever lost him. He can smell the garage; grease and oil and metal, which will always be half of what home should smell like to Dom. Beneath that is the sweat and soap burning off Brian's overheated skin, and the heavy stink of sex that sets something possessive in Dom's chest pacing and growling.

Heat coils up low in the pit of his belly and twists hard. Dom has just enough time in the face of mindless want to jerk Brian away. He makes another one of those helpless, needy noises as his mouth slides off Dom's dick, but he keeps palming at his own dick. Dom comes with a grunt that tears out of his chest, striping Brian's face across his nose mouth.

In the bleached white moment before his mind comes back around to remembering who he is, Dom looks at Brian's sticky face and wants to shove him back on the stained floor and make him beg and beg and beg. He wants to throw Brian down on the hood of his precious car and fuck him there with the garage doors open so that anyone could see how much Brian likes this and still understand that Dom doesn't share, and he doesn't have to.

It takes maybe another fifteen second for Brian to come. He hunches in, temple pressed to Dom's knee, while his body contracts with it. The stain spreads out over the front of his pants, which is the kind of finishing touch Dom is never, ever going to let him forget but is also going directly into his catalog of jerk-off material. Brian's mouth falls open afterwards and he stays perfectly still for a good half minute, just breathing with Dom's come drying on his face and his palm pressed to his thigh.

"Jesus Christ," Dom exhales to the quiet garage, swallowing hard.

Brian laughs a little. "Yeah. Gimme your rag."

Dom pulls the filthy rag from his back pocket and passes it to Brian as he pushes himself up on unsteady legs and half-collapses on the hood of the Challenger next to Dom. He swipes the rag over his face, catching most of the come in the first pass, then deferring to Dom's instructions for the spots he missed. With a long, carefully controlled breath he lobs the wadded up fabric vaguely in the direction of the door that leads to their living quarters on top of the garage.

"How long have you wanted to do that?" Dom asks.

Brian looks at him with an innocent, quizzical, bullshit expression. "Suck you off? I don't know, since this morning."

"Fuck you," Dom says easily, elbowing him. "Trade your ass for a mechanic's services, smartass."

"Oh." Brian blushes, but only a little. "I don't know. Long time."

Dom snorts. "You're a kinky fucker, you know that?"

Brian nods and runs a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I know. And, fuck you. There's nothing wrong with my alternator."

It takes Dom fifteen second to even remember what the fuck Brian's talking about. "There's nothing wrong with your car. I thought if I said it was your break pads you wouldn't be able to keep a straight face."

"Yeah, probably." Brian grins. "Fuck. I think you should take me upstairs."

"You think you're getting another round?"

Brian pushes off the Challenger. "I want to know what I'd have to do if my engine needed replacing."

Which is just another challenge, really, and Dom follows.