i think if your account has existed on this site for a certain number of years you should be grandfathered into ad free browsing. a decade seems reasonable like if you signed up in 2012 or prior you have tenure
Living in Minnesota is weird scary times rn and also I'm sick and chronically ill so I think I deserve to treat myself to a 1000th rewatch of The Dom and Brian Show.
Dominic: You belong to me. I thought you knew that.
Brian: Sometimes it's nice to hear the words out loud.
Dominic: Alright. Brian, come with me.
Brian: Where?
Dominic: Right here.
And then Dominic pushes Brian down on the bed and ravages him, and when they're done, Dom's last words before they fall asleep are, "THIS is what I had in mind."
One of my favorite scenes of The Fast and the Furious is when the Toretto siblings keep looking back at Brian longingly as he stands, alone, in that field like some sad, blue-eyed Adonis.
Though I have repeatedly told myself I don't need to write a Brinic fic when I can't even finish my other stories, these two had different ideas.
This is what I have so far. ♥
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Officer Brian O'Conner was a damn good cop. He was calm under pressure, he only unholstered his gun when he needed to, and he knew when to be empathetic instead of an asshole.
Once, he had believed he could've been an even better detective. Truth is, running the beat was easy. Any mouth-breather with a gun could do it. Detective work was where the real challenge lay. Brian had been blessed with a good attention to detail, excellent analytical thinking skills, and an almost supernatural sense of danger. Over the years, he'd honed those instincts to a razor-sharp edge, and it had saved his life more than once while patrolling the seedy LA streets.
It wasn't a bad life, but he'd grown tired of the traffic stops, domestic calls, and low-stakes drug busts. As a detective, he could've put his skills to use saving people from truly horrible situations. All he wanted was to do good.
But he wasn't a cop anymore. And he'd squandered his chance at making detective.
Some habits die hard, though. And others haunt you for life.
Which is why, as he approached the houseboat, alarm bells clanged in his head. The changes were subtle, but to his trained eyes, they stood out like bruises. A deck chair was pushed an inch away from where he'd set it. The curtains hung at odd angles. The Atlantic Ocean lay still and quiet, but the houseboat rocked gently on its mooring nonetheless.
But more than all of that, the air around the houseboat felt different. Like someone had turned the gravity up to ten and it was pulling him in…to something. Or someone.
Brian would bet his life on it that somewhere beyond dark windows, an intruder lurked, watching him. Waiting for him.
He pawed at his waist for his gun—those old habits again—and cursed. However he approached this—cautiously or in a blaze of glory—he would have to make do with his fists.
Brian decided to split the difference. He crouched low to make himself less of a target, but the element of surprise had never failed him before, so he ran to the deck of the houseboat and burst through the door—truly, was he a good cop if he didn’t follow even the basic rule of locking up while he was gone—to confront…nothing.
A cursory glance into the small bathroom confirmed it: the houseboat was empty.
Brian stepped back into the night and collapsed into one of the deck chairs. He bent forward over his knees and breathed deep, trying to get himself under control.
But the creak of the deck boards and the faint touch on the back of his neck made his heart race faster than a hundred shot of NOS.
“So, Miami, huh? Fitting place for a buster.”
Brian's eyes closed against a flash of pain, anger, and fear. And, threaded through it all, admiration.
No matter how good Brian was, Dominic Toretto was better.
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