Title: Eighty Percent Devil
Author: Jedi Buttercup
Disclaimer: The world belongs to Justin Lin, Vin Diesel, et. al. The words are mine.
Spoilers: Fast Five (2011)
Summary: The cop smirks at him, smug and self-satisfied, from mere inches away. "Told you I'd see you soon, Toretto." 1100 words.
Notes: From the meme, for the Dom/Hobbs prompt "Dom on top, being restrained". Warning for canon-typical violence and handcuffs.
He's waiting when Dom gets back from seeing Neves home.
It had been a stupid risk, the visits. He'd known he'd have to let Elena go soon. And not just because she's an honest cop- Brian had been one, once upon a time. Because she has an anchor: she won't leave the job, the favela her husband gave his life for. Not even for him.
She understands him, though; she gets him in ways Mia and Brian can't. She soothes him, wears down some of those jagged edges Letty's death tore in him, but she's strong in her own right. And so he keeps coming back to her, even when it means crossing borders, even though he knows Hobbs is out there watching. It's part of the reason he keeps his own place; he doesn't want Mia and Brian and the newest Toretto caught up in his wake.
The first sign that his number might be up comes in the form of a heavy fist crashing down on the back of his neck as he walks in the door. The six pack of beer falls from his hand, shattering and spreading foam all over the floor; he gasps, dazed, scrabbling to get his hands under him again, and dark shards bite into the flesh of his palms. He pushes back up to his feet again, turning to throw a punch, and staggers again as an oversized muscled form barrels him straight back into the entryway wall.
"Hobbs," he grits out, blinking through the spots in his vision as he struggles to get his hands up between them.
The cop smirks at him, smug and self-satisfied, from mere inches away. "Told you I'd see you soon, Toretto."
There's no sign of a team with him, though. And Dom had seen no sign of that overgrown dick extension of a truck, either; he'd come incognito. "You sure you want to do this?" he asks, biceps straining with the effort to break free.
Hobbs' smirk widens, exposing a flash of white, even teeth. "Sure you won't just make this easier on both of us?" he asks.
"I seem to remember throwing the first punch the last time. And the last," Dom reminds him, panting as the swimming in his head abates a little. Then he ducks his head forward sharply, forcing Hobbs to stagger back a step to avoid a cracked nose.
Hobbs replies with a solid punch to his midsection, and another that Dom barely blocks and turns to the side, burying one black fingerless glove up to the wrist in the drywall. "Only because I told my men not to interfere," he replies, harshly.
Dom chuckles darkly, remembering the near-mindless rage that had flooded him when he'd seen Mia, Vince and Brian at gunpoint- the distraction that had nearly undone him. He might not have fought so hard without it. But he wouldn't have stopped so easily, either. "Winning's winning," he says. "And you got no leverage this time." He punches back, shoving to open up some room, and reaches for the letter opener he knows is sitting on the hallway table.
Hobbs ducks to one side, snagging the cheap painting off the opposite wall as he turns, and twists, pulling the letter opener from Dom's hands as he impales the canvas on it. Then he throws the painting aside and advances again. He has no vest to rip free this time; just a black tee-shirt, tight over rippling muscle, and olive green cargo pants covering his massive thighs, but the menacing effect is much the same. Dom can't say he's ever fought bigger. He has fought dirtier, though; and he's ready when Hobbs lays hands on him in an attempt to grapple.
"You know, my orders do say to take you as a team," Hobbs pants, braced against him, tendons standing out at neck and elbow as he struggles to push Dom into the next room. "Where are the others?"
"Not here," Dom snarls back, straining equally hard; then he turns sharply, using Hobbs' momentum to throw him to the ground, sweeping the coffee table with a grasping hand as he leaps on top of him.
All he comes up with is a television remote. He throws it away- then recognizes the feel of something more useful under his left knee, flush against Hobbs' thigh. He gives, rolling with it as Hobbs strains against him again, tumbling them across the floor in an attempt to pin him in turn.
As they roll, he grabs viciously at the left front pocket of Hobbs' pants, and comes away with a fistful of cloth wrapped around a pair of police-issue handcuffs. Hobbs flinches in surprise, instinctively looking to check- and Dom takes the opportunity to tumble them back in the other direction, punching him hard twice to draw his hands up in blocking position.
It's almost too easy after that. He snaps one cuff in place, quick as a rattler strike, then snaps the other around the solid, flared, heavily footed leg of the coffee table. The table's oversized, dense actual wood construction like they don't make back home anymore; Hobbs'll be able to move it if he puts the effort in, but he won't be freeing himself from it in a hurry.
Unless, of course, he has the keys. Dom scrabbles a hurried hand over Hobbs' pockets, looking for them- and stills, abruptly, as his hand brushes over something else the lawman had been concealing.
Hobbs stills, too, his only movement the heaving of his chest and the sweat pouring off his skull. His dark gaze is fixed, intent, on Dom's face- until Dom moves his hand again, deliberately stroking the cloth-covered length, and Hobbs' head tilts back, lids closing as his eyes glaze over.
"You're enjoying this," he muses aloud. How many other people in Hobbs' life can dominate him like this, he wonders? The adrenaline from the fight starts bleeding into something else in Dom's blood at the thought.
This: this he'd been missing. Elena's twenty percent angel, sure. But the eighty percent devil currently in his life isn't her; it's the one pinned right under him.
A guttural groan escapes from the restrained cop; then he blinks his eyes open again, expression even fiercer than before. "Get the fuck off me, Toretto," he snarls.
"No, no, I don't think so," he replies, a slow, satisfied smile curving his mouth. Then he reaches for Hobbs' zipper with bloody fingers, wondering just how far he'll let him go.
Somehow, he doesn't think he'll have to worry about arrest any more tonight.