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Aimes was mine first.
Mine. The word echoes in Aimes’ mind like a promise. Like a threat. Like he wants Dante’s tongue in his mouth, hands around his throat; like he could crawl inside his skin and still not be close enough. Like the scent of money, of gasoline, of smoke—hard to wash away, harder to forget. Ten years of history between them (plotting, planning, growing closer with each line they crossed, each lie they told), until they were tangled up in a web they’d woven like a noose around their throats, one that they’d willingly pulled tighter with each step they took—toward each other, down their shared road to hell.
1. London. 2013.
It’s been too long since Dante’s been behind the wheel—like this, anyway, where the name of the game is stealth, keeping themselves under the radar (for the time being, at least). Not exactly Dante’s forte. This is also the first time Dante has seen Dom in the flesh since Rio—a fact Aimes is acutely aware of, attuned to Dante’s every move, to the slightest shift that could indicate that the man in the driver’s seat is about to snap.
What he doesn’t expect is for Dante to see Dominic Toretto and to smile—like the cat who’s caught the canary, like their game has only just begun. It’s a smile Aimes knows too well—the same one Dante had shot at him as they’d stood in the wreckage of the police station in Rio the day they met, staring after a pair of Chargers and a vault containing the Reyes family fortune, Aimes musing aloud that their partnership was off to a fantastic start. Dante had turned to him, the look in his eyes wild, the grin splitting his face near-feral—and Aimes had felt something in his chest splinter and spark, like in that moment he understood himself better than he ever had before.
He wonders, sometimes, when this became more about Dante than about power for him, when what Dante wants began to take precedence over everything else—but the truth is, it’s been this way from the start. From that first wicked smile, the glint in Dante’s eye as he’d dashed away to commandeer a car, to go after his father, to play the hero and exact his revenge (messy, ill-timed, poorly planned)—it makes no goddamn sense, but nothing about Dante ever does.
Aimes had been fucked from the start: from the moment he’d stepped within the devil’s reach, convinced he could hold his own, unaware of just how much he had left to learn. There’s a beauty in the cruelty that Aimes had never appreciated before Dante; a sense of logic in the chaos that would be incomprehensible to most, that Aimes has learned to recognize at a glance. Dante wouldn’t have made it even this far if all he had were a vague desire for revenge and a taste for the art of suffering, after all; only Aimes knows just how much further he intends to go. This, here, now, is only the beginning—Dante’s fingers tightening on the steering wheel as he watches Dominic Toretto race his ex through the streets of London, practically vibrating out of his skin with frustration, with anticipation. “You don’t even know—you have no idea what kind of storm is coming, Dominic.” He spits Dom’s name with such venom; Aimes wonders if Dante will ever speak his name with half the feeling he does Dom’s.
They return to the garage (their UK base of operations—they’ve got quite a few around the world, now) later that night, the 2005 Pagani Zonda F purring to a stop under Dante’s touch. He’s gone silent, which is unsettling in and of itself; even once they’ve come to a stop, he doesn’t take his hands from the wheel, doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. His body betrays nothing, gazing forward, hardly even blinking, but Aimes can tell: he’s barely holding himself together. He doesn’t push it, doesn’t say a word, letting Dante sit in silence until his breathing starts to grow shallow, unsteady. Only then does Aimes make his move, stepping out of the car and circling around to Dante’s door, pulling it open. He still doesn’t speak, doesn’t reach out to touch, just leans back against the car with his arms crossed and waits.
It doesn’t take long. Dante emerges, looking worse for wear as he slams the door shut, and Aimes lets his arms fall to his sides. He’s about to take a step forward, to lead them out of the garage and into the house, when suddenly all he can see is Dante: filling his field of vision, blocking his path, crowding him back against the car. Aimes could probably push past if he tried, but he tilts his face up to Dante’s instead, a question hovering on his lips—
—and as Dante kisses the words from the tip of his tongue, all Aimes can think is it’s about damn time.
Aimes kisses him back with everything he has, one hand on the small of Dante’s back, one curled around the back of his neck, pulling him in. Dante’s as relentless in this as he is in everything else, chasing after him each time they part, barely allowing either of them a moment to catch their breath. He slots a thigh between Aimes’ and Aimes has to resist the urge to rut against him like a teenager, so desperate to come he’ll chase whatever friction he can find. He works a hand between them to unzip Dante’s pants and get a hand inside, fingers wrapping around his length, mouth watering at the weight of Dante's cock in his grip. Next time, he catches himself thinking, his strokes maybe a little too fast, just this side of frantic. Dante follows his lead—and that might be a first, Aimes thinks distantly, before he stops thinking altogether—unzipping and tugging Aimes’ pants down just enough to free his cock, to return the favor. They’re still kissing, open-mouthed and hungry, as they race to get one another off, and this might be another first, each of them trying to get the other to cross the finish line first. There’s nothing graceful about it, but Aimes never expected there to be—and he would be lying if he said he hadn’t been expecting this, from Dante’s very first wild grin down to the slightest tremble of his fingers on the steering wheel tonight.
Aimes comes first, but he doesn’t falter; keeps his strokes quick until Dante follows suit, painting Aimes’ knuckles with white in turn. He’s shuddering, breathing hard, finally breaking their kiss to let his forehead fall against Aimes’ shoulder, his weight pinning him back against the car. Aimes doesn’t protest, still catching his own breath, his clean hand coming up to cradle the back of Dante’s head. The silence this time is lightyears away from Dante’s barely-controlled rage, before; it no longer feels like the calm before the storm, but the lull in its wake instead. It’s unsettling in its own way, and it’s only once Aimes feels his shoulder start to grow damp that he realizes Dante is—crying?
His hand in Dante’s hair tightens, a clumsy attempt to tug his head back just enough to see his face, to confirm that the moisture seeping through his shirt is indeed tears, but Dante pulls away faster than Aimes can react. Aimes catches only the briefest glimpse of his face—eyes red, streaks shining down each flushed cheek—as Dante storms away, across the garage, throwing the door open with a bang as he crosses the threshold and doesn't look back.
Aimes doesn't follow. He stares at the empty doorway, stares at his spent cock, stares at the mess in his hand, and marvels at the fact that he's still breathing, after what he just witnessed. It’s not that Dante is afraid to show weakness, but his hair-trigger temper makes him a hard man to read, harder to predict; still, he’s always set Aimes apart from the others, always let him get away with more. This feels like the pinnacle of that: not the sex, but the vulnerability of Dante’s tears, of his choice to linger long enough to risk Aimes seeing more than he should. (Then again, “should” has never meant a thing, as far as either of them are concerned.)
Aimes pushes himself off the Pagani Zonda F and traces Dante’s steps, lingering in the doorway and breathing in deep (the scent of gasoline, of sweat and sex and Dante) before following him over the threshold.
2. Los Angeles. 2014.
“Did’ja miss me?”
Aimes doesn’t want to answer, doesn’t want to be this honest: isn’t even sure he remembers how, his mask growing stronger by the day as he sinks further into his role at the Agency. He doesn’t want to say it, but: “You fucking know I did.”
He’s got Dante’s wrists pinned to the hotel bed, straddling him; they’d barely made it across the threshold before Aimes had Dante pressed down on the bed, kissing him like he needed it to remember how to breathe. It makes Dante’s question even more absurd, as though the desperation in Aimes’ kiss, his grip on every part of Dante that he can reach, aren’t answer enough. Still: “Show me how much,” Dante breathes, his eyes and teeth gleaming in the dark of the hotel room, his words a challenge—one that Aimes is more than ready to rise to.
He holds Dante down (or, more accurately, Dante lets him—Aimes may be plenty strong, but he’s under no illusions about his strength compared to Dante’s), fucking him into the mattress, pouring every moment of frustration and rage from the past months into each thrust, each bruise he leaves on Dante’s hips, each bite along the curve of his neck. He fucks him until they’re both spent, groaning, panting, until Aimes is rolling over to retrieve something from his luggage while Dante watches him out of the corner of his eye, curious but too worn out to move. He grins when he sees the item in his hand: a plug with a flared base, the implication clear.
Aimes turns the plug so that Dante can see the jewel embedded in its base: a deep, glittering purple. “Figured you’d like this one,” Aimes comments as he gets to work, and Dante’s grin only grows wider, lifting his hips to accommodate him, fluttering his eyelashes. “You picked it out just for me? Aw, baby, you shouldn’t have.”
Some of Aimes’ come has already spilled out, but the plug serves its purpose nonetheless: a reminder of Aimes’ presence, leaving Dante filled in more ways than one. As usual, Dante sees right through him: he sits up, shifting experimentally, adjusting to the feeling of the plug inside of him, and shoots Aimes a wicked grin. He doesn’t say a word; he doesn’t need to.
They get cleaned up, set themselves to rights, and emerge from the hotel room to make their way down to the parking garage. Dante leads Aimes to the car and Aimes sighs, long-suffering, as he catches sight of the vivid yellow Lamborghini Gallardo Superleggera. “For a stakeout, Dante, really?”
“We’re staking out the Torettos’,” Dante reminds him. “You know the kind of cars that show up on their block on a regular Tuesday afternoon. No one’s even gonna bat an eye.” Aimes has to admit he has a point.
Subtlety aside, the car is sleek, gorgeous—and carefully customized to suit Dante’s tastes. “Why the hell’d you have a backseat put in?” Aimes asks as he slides behind the wheel, and Dante just raises an eyebrow, his eyes falling to Aimes’ lips, tongue darting out to wet his own. “Aimes, why d’you ask questions you already know the answer to?”
Aimes rolls his eyes, but feels his face go hot in spite of himself; he notes the tinted windows, the spacious interior, and says nothing.
Dante lets out a surprised noise when the car starts to move; the Lambo could hardly drive any smoother, but even it can’t fully muffle the vibrations of the road, each tremor heightened by the plug inside of him. Aimes glances at him sidelong. “How is it?”
“S’good,” Dante murmurs. “You left me so full…” He trails off on a moan as they hit a bump in the road, and Aimes has to remind himself to keep his gaze focused ahead, his hands on the wheel, his dick in his pants. Later.
Despite the distraction of the plug, the closer they get to the Torettos’, the darker Dante’s mood grows. Aimes knows full well why: things have been going well for Dominic Toretto lately. Too well. His family has been granted a pardon (by Luke Hobbs, no less—the man who pulled the trigger, whose hands are stained with Hernan Reyes’ blood as much as Dom himself), they’ve returned to Los Angeles, and Dom has been reunited with the person who means the most to him (while Dante’s father is dead, still dead—lost, taken, stolen from him—dead). Hernan Reyes is dead, and Dominic Toretto’s family is having barbecues and beers like his life had never meant a thing; Aimes’ fingers tighten on the steering wheel, and he realizes Dante isn’t the only one barely keeping his rage in check.
They settle in outside of 1327 East Kensington Road: just down the block, far enough to obscure their intent but close enough to keep an eye out. Tonight’s stakeout is nothing more than an intelligence gathering mission: collecting all the information they can about Dom and those around him, learning everything there is to know in order to crush him, to destroy everything he holds dear. While they watch, Dante fills Aimes in on everything he doesn’t yet know: what Dom has been up to, what each member of his precious family plans to do, now that they’re free. His voice remains steady, level, nearly monotonous as he speaks, betraying nothing, but Aimes can hear the tension humming beneath every word.
Dante’s growing more agitated, too agitated, as more people arrive. His hands are clenched into fists, his breathing unsteady, and as an Aero 3S pulls in and Ramsey and Tej emerge, his fingers twitch toward the door handle—out of reflex or actual intent, Aimes doesn’t have time to assess. He reaches out to grip Dante’s thigh, jolting him just enough that he shifts in his seat, the plug inside him shifting as well. He lets out a quiet hiss and shoots Aimes a look, his eyes dark with something lurking between violence and lust, his desires as inextricably twisted, tangled up as they’ve always been. The immediate danger has passed, at least, Dante’s attention directed elsewhere as he shifts again, intentionally this time, muttering, “Can’t wait for you to take this thing out and fill me up again tonight.”
—and in that moment, Aimes makes a decision. “Who said anything about waiting for tonight?”
He feels a thrill in his chest when Dante cocks his head, raises his eyebrows, realizing he’s actually managed to take him off guard. This is reckless, he knows—would be dumb as hell if they got arrested here, for this, but if this is how he can keep Dante distracted, keep him in the car—well. He’s done worse. Much, much worse.
“I told you,” Aimes continues, “I fucking missed you.” It’s getting easier to say it, the longer they’re together. He knows Dante needs to hear it right now, too, whether or not he realizes it—with Dom’s family in such close proximity, with things going so well for him, Dante needs the reminder that he’s got someone on his side, too. “This is how much,” Aimes tells Dante, grabbing his wrist and dragging his hand to his lap, where his cock is straining in his slacks—just from the knowledge that Dante is sitting beside him filled with his come, from the prospect of fucking him senseless once again. Dante gropes him shamelessly, the smirk starting across his lips finally starting to meet his eyes, a glint behind his gaze that Aimes recognizes well. “Guess it’s time to christen the backseat,” and Aimes will never admit to the thrill those words leave him with, the knowledge that Dante hasn’t done this with anyone else yet—at least, not in this car. He has no right to jealousy, no reason to expect any sort of exclusivity, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want.
Dante pulls his arm from Aimes’ grip to climb out of his seat and over the center console as Aimes gapes at him. He knows better than to ask why Dante didn’t just get out of the car instead of squeezing himself between the seats, knows better than to question any decisions Dante makes; just shakes his head and opens his door to join him in the backseat.
Dante’s sprawled out on the backseat, shirt open, reaching for Aimes the moment the door shuts behind him. He pulls him down into a heated kiss and Aimes can feel even through too many layers that Dante is as hard as he is, courtesy of the plug inside him and the tension simmering between them. Aimes helps Dante get his pants off and makes quick work of his own as Dante reaches behind himself, working the plug out and dropping it unceremoniously to the floor. Aimes’ come spills sluggishly out where Dante’s stretched open and for a moment all Aimes can do is stare—until Dante’s ankle hooks around the back of his thigh, urging him forward. “C’mon, man, get inside me already.” They’re making a mess of the backseat, but neither of them can bring themselves to care when Aimes is sinking into that heat once again, hitching Dante’s leg up as best he can in their limited space and fucking into him, breath hitching at how easy, how smooth the slide is.
He tries to keep his strokes measured, slower than he normally would; doesn’t want the Lambo to shake, for the rhythm of their movements to give them away. He loses it a little bit toward the end, Dante’s hands sneaking up under his shirt, nails leaving scratches down Aimes’ back as his thrusts grow harder, more erratic. He gets a hand around Dante’s cock in turn, grip tight, strokes quick; Dante comes first and Aimes isn’t far behind, adding to the mess he’d made of him earlier.
“I missed you, too,” Dante admits as they pant through the afterglow—Aimes still on top of him, inside of him, and as his heart trips over itself at Dante’s words, he hopes Dante can’t feel it, pressed as close as they are. He turns his head to meet Dante’s lips in a clumsy kiss; it’s not a response, not really, but it’s enough of one that Dante doesn’t question it, doesn’t ask for anything more, and when Aimes sits up, pulls out, Dante lets him go.
Aimes almost wishes he wouldn’t.
“We should probably…” Aimes gestures vaguely toward the front seat, letting Dante fill in the blanks himself: Do what we came here for? Keep an eye on the Torettos? Put our clothes back on before anyone calls the cops on us?
“Yes, Dad,” Dante sighs, reaching for his discarded pants, and Aimes freezes. It’s a joke, an offhand comment that means nothing—or it would be, coming from anyone else, but this is Dante, Dante Reyes, whose entire life has been defined by his father, his legacy and his loss. Aimes says nothing, presses no further, but the words burrow their way under his skin, taking root in his brain: just another question he isn’t sure he wants the answer to, another flag in the file marked Dante Reyes that’s begun to define, to rewrite his own life in more ways than he would ever dare to count.
3. Tokyo. 2014.
It’s not long before they meet again, circumstances aligning in a way they hadn’t anticipated, but the shift in Dante’s mood the next time Aimes sees him is—marked.
Aimes has seen more sides of Dante than he can recall. Seen him shaking with rage, trembling with delight, with blood on his hands and come on his face, seen him laughing hysterically, seen him silent and still, every step of the way between carefree and about to snap—and still, he’s never seen him quite like this, where the only word that would seem to describe him properly is giddy.
“I’m gonna send Shaw a fruit basket,” Dante declares from the driver’s seat of the Mazda RX-7, watching as Dominic Toretto and Sean Boswell peel away from the start line, neck and neck. “I mean it. He got Han? If any member of Dominic’s little ‘family’ was untouchable, I would’ve thought it’d be him.”
“Just make sure it can’t be traced back to you,” Aimes tells him mildly, but in truth, he’s equally as thrilled at this development. Han gone means one less obstacle in their path, and Dom, well. Dom is unquestionably hurting, flying halfway around the world in search of answers, mourning the loss of a family member who’s been by his side for longer than most. He’s suffering, and Dante’s ecstatic—and Aimes is more than happy to reap the rewards.
Dante’s humming to himself as he reaches into the backseat and grabs a paper bag, shoving it into Aimes’ hands and gesturing for him to take a look at its contents. Aimes does as he’s told, opening the bag and peering inside before looking back up at Dante with his eyebrows raised, tone wondering. “You sure about this?”
“When in Rome—no, wait, that’ll come later,” Dante says, and Aimes shakes his head, a smile curling at the corners of his lips in spite of himself. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
Which is how they end up here: Dante spread across the hood of the RX-7, ropes securing his wrists to the rearview mirrors, crossed in elaborate patterns across his chest, holding him in place. His legs are spread, more rope interwoven from his calves to his ankles; the ends of the rope disappear beneath the front of the car, tied off somewhere out of view.
Aimes has never done this before—at least, never anything this intricate—but his years in the military taught him his way around a knot. He puts those skills to good use now, stepping back to admire his handiwork: he’s entranced by the way the ropes look against the tattoos on Dante’s arms, straining against his muscles. Aimes is pretty sure they’ll leave bruises, and he likes the thought of that: leaving his mark behind on Dante, however temporary.
He lets his hands follow the same path as his gaze, fingers tracing each line of the rope where it meets Dante’s skin, deliberately avoiding his straining cock. Dante’s been hard since they started, growing more desperate with each knot, each length of rope wrapped around his limbs, across his chest, as Aimes took his time with it, touching him everywhere but where he wanted it most. Now, though—now he’s reached the end of his patience, testing the strength of Aimes’ knots as he strains against the ropes, nearly whining in his desperation. “C’mon, Aimes, baby, fuck me already.”
“I should’ve gagged you, too,” Aimes comments, but he’s already obliging, unbuckling his pants, circling around to retrieve the lube from the roof of the car. He doesn’t even mean it—loves when Dante runs his mouth, loves it nearly as much as when he’s too far gone to form a coherent sentence. He doesn’t want to miss this, either: the moan that falls from Dante’s lips as Aimes pushes in, unable to move, to pull him closer, to do anything but take it and beg for more. Aimes appreciates the way Dante looks like this, the way he feels—but above all else, the trust Dante is putting in him, putting himself completely in Aimes’ hands, at his mercy.
Trust isn’t a word he thought he’d ever use, particularly not where Dante Reyes is concerned, but there’s no way around it, at this point. It shouldn’t surprise him, not anymore, especially when he knows full well it goes both ways, but something about the way Dante is surrendering to him steals the breath from his lungs, sets his hips snapping forward so hard he starts to wonder if the car beneath them will manage to escape unscathed.
He finds the right angle, the one that has Dante crying out, arching up with what little leverage, what little room to maneuver he has, and he’s relentless; holds out until Dante is coming, cock spurting untouched between them, trails of white across his stomach and the ropes decorating his chest. Aimes doesn’t let up, doesn’t stop, pounding into him until he’s coming as well, heat flooding Dante from the inside. His fingers grasp blindly at Dante’s wrist, his ankle, tracing the rough texture of the rope, stroking the smooth expanse of Dante’s skin beneath, and even as his cock slips out of him he wonders if he ever truly felt anything before this—before Hernan Reyes gave him a mission, before Dante Reyes gave him a purpose.
He looks at Dante for as long as Dante will let him, just looks, caught up in thoughts that move too quickly to make sense of them, until Dante starts to protest, squirming under the weight of Aimes’ gaze, the sensation of Aimes’ come leaking out onto the hood of the Mazda. Aimes gives in, moving to untie Dante, to set him free, the ropes slipping through his fingers like the last vestiges of his sanity, his last chance at absolution.
4. Havana. 2017.
“You’ve gotta cool down.”
“Me?”
“No, the other guy brooding in the driver’s seat—yes, you.” Dante isn’t looking at Aimes as he speaks, his attention focused instead on his nails as he paints them with careful strokes of coral pink. “I can feel you seething from over here. What’s the deal?”
Aimes gestures toward where Dominic Toretto has won yet another race—this time with a car that was little more than a collection of spare parts, a vehicle that literally burst into flames before he even reached the finish line. “This is getting ridiculous. Seriously, is the guy invincible?”
Dante gives him a sharp look and immediately, Aimes feels a twinge of regret. He backtracks. “Obviously he’s not—that’s why we’re here—but things are going too well for him right now.” He glances at Dante sidelong. “And you’re taking this better than I anticipated. Got some intel you wanna share?”
Dante grins, like he’d been waiting for Aimes to ask all along. He caps the nail polish and leans in, gesturing with his freshly painted nails for Aimes to do the same so that Dante can whisper in his ear. There’s no reason for it—it’s just the two of them, no one to overhear—but Aimes indulges him nonetheless, and by the time he pulls back, he’s speechless, taken entirely off guard by the bomb Dante just dropped. “And she’s got his kid?” he asks in a hushed tone, unintentionally following Dante’s lead; Dante nods, looking smug. “His kid that he doesn’t even know exists. This changes everything, Aimes. We’ve got a whole new card to play now.” He’s gazing out at the celebration across the way, his eyes fixed on Dom, the glint in his gaze predatory. “He may be happy now, but soon, he’ll be suffering more than he’s ever imagined.”
“We gonna send this Cipher a fruit basket, too?” Aimes asks, and Dante chuckles darkly. “Let’s see how she plays her hand first.” He turns to face Aimes, his tone bright. “Now, give me your feet.” He pats his lap, and Aimes stares at him blankly. “My feet?”
“Yes. I’m gonna paint your nails. I can’t do your hands, right?” He is right—painted nails would raise too many questions at the Agency, particularly for someone like Aimes—or at least, the person Aimes presents himself to be. He’s advanced far enough that he’s allowed a vacation every now and again, which is why he’s here now, but even his higher ranking is dependent on the mask he wears, the person his superiors believe him to be. “It’s a compromise,” Dante says, and Aimes relents, slipping off his shoes and shifting in his seat so he can stretch his legs into Dante’s lap. He feels a little bit humiliated, a little bit intrigued as he watches Dante get to work, tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth as he concentrates on the task at hand. Aimes likes it, the excuse to just look at him: hair hanging loose, shirt hanging open, sleeves pushed up to reveal the tattoo on his forearm, the slight furrow in his brow as he paints Aimes’ nails with steady strokes.
Dante glances up at him as he switches from his right foot to his left, smirking knowingly. “Aimes, baby, you’re gonna make me blush if you keep looking at me like that,” but Aimes is the one whose cheeks go red instead, feeling caught. He doesn’t look away, though—barely even glances at his feet until Dante is done, leaning back to admire his work, and by that point, Aimes is past caring. He holds out a hand to Dante, fingers spread, his intention clear, and it’s worth it simply for the delight in Dante’s gaze as it darts between his hand and his face. He doesn’t ask are you sure, doesn’t give him the chance to back out, just sifts through the colors in the glove box until he finds the right one and gets to work.
Aimes pulls his hands back when Dante is done, looking between his fingers and his toes as it dawns on him—“Let me guess, purple and white to match the car?”
“I’d call it more of an amethyst,” Dante amends, patting the dashboard of the 1956 Chevy Bel Air fondly. “But yes! Top marks.”
Aimes stares at his hands for a long time—hands that don’t quite look like they belong to him, and he can hardly believe what a difference something so small can make. The sight makes him feel restless, reckless, and he’s got his fingers wrapped around the steering wheel, one hand on the gearshift, before he’s even fully made up his mind. “Let’s go somewhere quieter.”
They find themselves a secluded corner, tucked away alongside an empty building. Aimes is out of the driver’s seat before they’ve even exchanged a word, circling around to slide into the backseat; Dante’s quick to follow, reminding Aimes to mind his nails, to be careful not to gouge them. “You do the work, then,” Aimes tells him, sitting back as Dante settles in his lap, knees on either side of his hips. Dante ducks his head so his lips are a breath from Aimes’, his hair falling like a curtain around them. “Yes, daddy,” he murmurs, closing the distance between them, holding Aimes’ heart hostage somewhere in the vicinity of his throat. Dante does this, sometimes—Aimes is never sure whether it’s unintentional or if Dante is testing the waters, testing him, seeing how far he can go, how far Aimes will let him.
Dante should know by now that there is no such thing as too far, that Aimes would follow him through the gates of hell. Aimes hates Dominic Toretto, hates his policies and his platitudes and the damn code he lives by—but one look at Dante, and the words ride or die start to make more sense than he’ll ever admit.
Aimes keeps his hands to himself, lets Dante deal with their clothes and resists the urge to sink his fingers into Dante’s hair, to tug his head back and line his neck with bruises and bites. He lets Dante maneuver him as he likes, stares at his violet nails and wonders, not for the first time, if he’s nothing more than Dante’s plaything. He wonders, not for the first time, if he even wants to be anything more. He’d started out hoping for power of his own, or at least, he thinks he did—he can hardly remember, now. It doesn’t seem to matter. Not like Dante does, anyway.
Dante, who’s sinking down onto his cock with a quiet moan, nowhere near prepared enough to take him but determined to do so anyway; Dante, who braces a hand on the ceiling of the Chevy as he bounces in Aimes’ lap, riding him until the whole car shakes; Dante, who tightens deliberately around Aimes’ cock and licks into his mouth until Aimes is coming, spilling inside him, hands coming up to grip his hips, nails be damned.
Aimes takes a moment, only a moment, to recover, to ride out the high, before his hand slips from Dante’s hips to his cock, admiring the way his painted fingernails look wrapped around Dante’s length. Dante’s eyes are fixated on the sight too, his hips stuttering into Aimes’ touch, a broken, “Oh, fuck,” falling from his lips as he comes into Aimes’ hand, across his fingers, pearls of a different white to offset the purple of the polish. Dante grasps Aimes’ wrist and lifts it to his mouth, tongue darting out to clean his own come from Aimes’ hand, careful to avoid the tips of his fingers, and Aimes has to shut his eyes as his spent cock, still buried inside Dante, twitches with renewed interest. He tamps down the arousal, the possessiveness, the feeling rising in his chest one he can’t—or perhaps doesn’t dare—put a name to.
When Aimes leaves Cuba a few days later, it’s with fingernails devoid of color, like it had never existed in the first place. He hates it, hates how temporary it is—needs no reminder of Dante but wants one nonetheless, evidence he can’t erase, a mark he can’t undo. It’s contrary to everything they’re seeking, everything they’ve built—but then, they’ve always been defined by their contradictions.
(Hidden away beneath layers of leather and cotton, his toenails still gleam white.)
5. New York. 2017.
Their commitment to one another is this, now: not matching rings but matching scars, the links of a chain burned into the flesh over their hearts.
Months after Havana (with Dom gone rogue, to all appearances, betraying the family he’s worked so hard to protect), Aimes manages to slip away from the Agency’s Toy Shop long enough to track down Dom himself—with Dante in tow. His passenger’s got a pocket knife in hand, idly flicking it open and shut as they trail after Dom’s 1971 Plymouth GTX. Aimes pulls in alongside the curb as the GTX turns into an alley, as the man himself steps out from behind the wheel and pops the hood; they watch as he leaves the car behind, slipping through the back door of a bar that leads into the alley. “We need to figure out who he’s meeting in there. If it’s someone he’s willing to reach out to, even in the position he’s in now, it’s someone we should know about.” The knife in Dante’s hand continues to click open and shut even as he speaks, its rhythm disconcertingly steady.
Aimes nods his agreement, making a mental note to go through the nearby traffic cameras when he returns to the Toy Shop to see what he can find. “Understood.”
They keep watching as Dom emerges from the bar, slams the hood shut and returns to the driver’s seat, clearly having accomplished whatever it is he came for.
So, it seems, have Dante and Aimes. “Should I follow him?” Aimes asks, but Dante shakes his head. “I have a feeling things are about to get messy. Besides,” he says, his gaze turning from Dom to Aimes, the knife gleaming in his hand, “We’ve got something of our own to discuss.”
By now, Aimes is an expert in giving nothing away: meets Dante’s gaze, keeping his heart rate steady, his breathing even. “I’m listening.”
“What I wanna know is,” Dante murmurs, leaning in, the tip of the knife catching on the first button of Aimes’ shirt, “Where I should mark you next.” The button goes flying, the threads holding it in place severed. Aimes holds himself still, knowing better than to protest the destruction of a perfectly good shirt. The shirt doesn’t matter. All that does is sitting here beside him, eyes gleaming as sharp as the knife in his grip.
The next button pops off, and the next, and Dante uses the knife to drag the edge of the shirt aside, revealing the bandage over Aimes’ heart. He traces its outline with the tip of the knife—not pressing down hard enough to tear the bandage, to break skin, just enough to hint at the damage he could cause—before he pulls the blade away and surges forward to press a hand over Aimes’ heart instead, bearing down none too gently. Aimes doesn’t even flinch, and Dante grins, digging his nails into the surrounding skin before he pulls his hand away, settling back in his seat, knife clicking shut, eyes drifting between Aimes’ chest and his face as he asks, “How’s it feel?”
“Like you,” Aimes tells him, and it’s maybe the most honest he’s ever been. That their mark of allegiance would be one of agony seems only fitting; that he’d trust Dante’s ability to hold back despite all evidence to the contrary surprises him even less.
The word trust had seemed impossible, before. Now, it feels too small.
“How’s yours?” he asks Dante in turn, watching as Dante’s hand rises to his own chest. “Still hurts like a motherfucker,” Dante tells him, poetic as ever, his fingers with their aquamarine nails tracing the exact pattern of the brand across his skin, hidden away beneath his shirt and a bandage to match Aimes’ own. The chain that binds them together, their inextricable connection like the sign for infinity, like the path they've chosen, always leading them back to the start.
Recent as it was, the night itself is still a blur in Aimes’ memory: what he remembers above all else is the smell, the iron tang of blood and the stench of burning flesh searing its way into the back of his throat, deep into his lungs. The smell, and the gentle contrast of Dante’s hands on his skin, after. Then again, perhaps any touch would have felt gentle, after the anguish of the brand.
“You never did say where you’d mark me next,” Aimes notes, and Dante reaches for the knife once more, a grin slicing its way across his face. “You got any suggestions?”
“I’ve got a better idea. For now, anyway,” Aimes tells him, hand coming up to cup Dante’s jaw, thumb dragging deliberately across his lower lip. He hopes the distraction, the promise of later is enough.
“Road head?” Dante asks, catching on unsurprisingly quickly, sounding delighted. “It’s been a while.” He leaves the knife be, settles on unzipping Aimes’ slacks instead, before he hesitates. “S’not as much fun if we’re not moving, though,” he comments, turning his gaze up to Aimes’, the curve of his mouth dangerously close to a pout.
“I know,” Aimes tells him, and he does, he gets it, “But if we do it here, I’ll do you after.” Any remaining complaints die on the tip of Dante’s tongue, and he swallows Aimes down without a moment’s hesitation. It’s spectacularly stupid, doing this on a city block where anyone could see them, even if it’s a surprisingly quiet block for New York City—but they’ve had plenty of practice being discreet, even if few would believe it upon meeting Dante Reyes.
“God, I’ve missed your mouth,” Aimes tells him, sinking a hand into his hair. Dante’s almost too good at this: he knows just what Aimes likes, knows just how to use it against him. This time, too, he’s got another card to play, an opportunity he won’t let slip away. He waits until he’s got Aimes on the edge—hips arching up, trying to get his cock deeper—before he reaches up to press his fingers to the bandage on Aimes’ chest, seeking the wound underneath. The pain that sears through Aimes goes straight to his cock, and he’s coming before he’s even had a chance to warn Dante, to realize where the wires got crossed along the way. Aimes may be skilled at controlling, suppressing his physical reactions, but even he has his limits.
“Playing dirty, huh,” Aimes pants as Dante sits up, wiping his mouth, looking satisfied. “Just reminding you how much you love me, sweetheart.”
At that, Aimes freezes. For all they’ve done (to, with, for) each other, that’s not a word they tend to use. Like trust, it feels too small—and at the same time insurmountably large, like admitting to something they can’t take back, can no longer even pretend to deny.
Aimes doesn’t often consider himself a coward—but this time, he runs away. Doesn’t respond with words, doesn’t even bother tucking his spent cock away, just presses Dante back against the passenger seat and sinks his teeth into his chest, above his heart. With the fabric of Dante’s shirt muffling the bite, the pain is dulled, but it’s enough to leave Dante hissing, grabbing at his hair; Aimes works his pants open and dips his head lower, taking the head of Dante’s cock between his lips, sinking down as far as he can go.
Halfway across the city, Dominic Toretto and his team destroy block after block, thousands of cars smashed to pieces, millions of dollars of devastation in their wake, as Aimes goes down on Dante, taking him in to the back of his throat, wishing he could take him even further.
After—when they’ve put themselves back together, cleaned themselves up—Aimes looks down at himself and sighs. “We’ve just got one problem.” Dante looks at him in alarm before following his gaze down to his ruined shirt, the three buttons cupped in the palm of his hand. Dante laughs, and laughs some more, already pulling off his own shirt and holding it out to Aimes instead. “It’s got a wet spot—” the mark of Aimes’ teeth over his left breast pocket, nearly dry, hardly noticeable—“But I think you’ll be alright.” They’re close enough to the same size that they can pull it off; Dante’s body heat still lingers as Aimes slips it on, and he knows he’ll be distracted by Dante’s scent for the rest of the day.
Dante’s shirt against his skin, Dante’s mark on his chest: Aimes feels owned, and can no longer find it within himself to want it any other way.
+1. Vilar de Rei. 2021.
Dominic Toretto is within their grasp, the end of the road in sight at last—
—and when he’s stolen away at the last possible moment, rescued by the very man Dante had praised in Tokyo so many years ago, Dante’s scream of rage echoes across the dam, working its way under Aimes’ skin.
“We were so close. So fucking close,” Dante rants later, seething; tools are scattered across the ground and a man lies dead in a corner of the garage, an ally who’d made the mistake of being the first person Dante saw upon their return.
(The first person, that is, besides Aimes.)
“We’ll regroup,” Aimes tells him. “Make a new plan. We know how he operates better than anyone. Probably better than he does. We got this far once. We can do it again.” Then: “Tell me what you need.”
The answer, apparently, is this: Aimes bent over Dante’s 1966 Ford Fairlane, Dante’s cock pressed deep inside, fucking him with a brutality Aimes hasn’t felt in his touch in a very, very long time. To say he minds would be a lie—he wants to be the outlet Dante needs, wants him to take back control in whatever way will keep him from falling apart. This will solve nothing, but if after, Dante can think, can clear his head, can make a plan, then it’s worth something.
And for as often as Aimes tops—what Dante wants, Dante gets—he loves this, too. Dante’s cock splitting him open, Dante’s hands gripping his waist, Dante’s teeth sinking into his shoulder, Dante’s hips snapping forward, finally losing their rhythm as he comes, filling Aimes with heat.
When Dante pulls out, Aimes can feel his come dripping out of him, trickling down his thighs. He feels used. He feels claimed. He slumps forward against the car, panting, his forehead hot against the cool metal—and nearly misses it as Dante brushes a kiss, barely-there, against the back of his neck before stepping away, out of Aimes’ reach.
The truth—the truth he’ll never admit to, the secret Aimes will take to his grave—is that for as much as he wants Dom gone, wants him out of the way, wants a world where he no longer exists, he wonders what will become of him and Dante, without him. They have him (to blame, to thank) for their connection, nearly as much as Hernan Reyes himself; for all that they hate Dom, they’ve never faced a world without him. Aimes can’t help but wonder—with him gone, will there be anything left to hold them together?
He won’t sabotage their plan, wouldn’t dream of ruining everything they’ve worked toward—hell, he had thought even now that they had finally reached it, the end of the road, the end of Dominic Toretto. He intends to see this through, wherever it may lead, whatever lies on the other side—but if the road extends a little longer than they’d anticipated, a little further than they’d intended, so be it.
Aimes turns away from the Ford Fairlane, wincing as he sets himself to rights, one hand coming up to brush over the mark on his chest, the interlocking chain, the wound long since faded to a scar. It feels like a betrayal, and yet, one borne out of loyalty of a different sort. The contradictions are inescapable, like the hunger in Dante’s gaze as Aimes approaches: revenge, ruthlessness, lust, and a devotion neither of them knows how to reconcile with the rest.
It’s all too much, too big for words, so Aimes settles on the simplest, safest ones instead: “Let’s get to work.”
—
Aimes was mine first.
Aimes belonged to Dante first and foremost, belonged to Dante before, above anyone else—even himself.
Mine.
Like the scars on their chests, the countless ways they’ve learned to take one another apart; the scent of Dante’s hair, the way he groans Aimes’ name, his taste lingering on the tip of Aimes’ tongue.
Mine.
Painted nails, gleaming knives, expensive watches and more cars than they can count; years of coming together in fits and starts, paths never crossing as often as they’d like.
Perhaps Aimes has more in common with Dominic Toretto than he’d like to admit. Perhaps he’s been looking for a connection from the start, for—the word sticks in his brain, in his throat—for family, even if the word means something else to him entirely. Even if it had meant nothing to him, before. Before this. Before him.
Perhaps he’s found it in Dante—for better or for worse.