Red - Inception - Cobb/Eames
Title: Red
Pairing: Cobb/Eames
Word Count: 1500
Rating: R
Warnings: BDSM, safe words
A/N: Written for a prompt at inception_kink for cobb_eames's prompt filling Friday.
Summary: Half-way through a scene, Cobb has to use their safe word.
Eames's hands skim over the tray of tools sitting on their dresser, while a nervous buzz settles in his stomach. He can feel Cobb watching him from where he is lying on his front on the hotel bed, underwear the only clothing left to protect his tanned skin. Eames doesn't turn around until his hand has alighted on the belt, waiting for him like a curled snake. The leather is thick and it was holding up his trousers only a few days earlier. Functional. After this, he doubts he will be able to wear it again without being hard the entire time.
Walking towards the bed, he stares at Cobb's back as if it is a bare canvass waiting to be painted. There is so much skin on display - unmarked, unscarred, untarnished. Cobb's skin is clean and firm beneath his hand when he reaches out to smooth his palm along the curve of his spine; there is nothing there, not a single lick of ink or blotch of scar tissue. The belt remains in his hand, waiting like a silent promise.
"Are you sure about this?" he asks.
Cobb nods his head - Eames hadn't exactly expected anything less. If he hadn't been sure, Cobb would never have brought it up at all.
"I'll go easy on you," he promises. It's the first time for both of them. His palms feel damp.
"Don't you dare," Cobb says.
They smile in the silence together, and Eames feels the tension in the air tingling as he breathes in. He lets it build; holds it in his lungs for a moment longer, allows his fingers to twitch, makes Cobb squirm and glance over his shoulder at him - and then his arm moves, the belt whistles through the air with a snap and a slap as it makes impact with Cobb's back. The sound is sharp enough to be wet, and Cobb sucks in air through his clenched teeth.
Eames pulls the belt back and holds it in both hands as he waits. The skin turns red like an accusation, but he sees Cobb nod. "Again," Cobb insists. "I can take it."
Eames pauses for a moment all the same, and readjusts his grip on the strap. Cobb keeps his arms up and out of the way, hands flat against his pillow, and when Eames swings the belt once more he grunts but doesn't complain, hands forming fists as he tries to hold on. He strikes again - and again - clutching onto the head of the belt so hard that it makes his palm ache.
When Cobb's back and shoulders are red, with blood beading over the worst of the wounds, Eames throws the belt down to the ground and swings himself onto the bed. He hitches a leg over Cobb's hips and rests upon his ass, sitting back to admire his handiwork. The sight of it makes him bite back a moan and he wishes that he wasn't so hard - it makes him feel rather more perverted than is strictly necessary.
"I can't believe you want this," Eames muses aloud, skimming the pads of his fingers over the painful lines left on Cobb's back. The barest touch is enough to make Cobb stiffen and bite his bottom lip, eyes screwed shut. "I always thought you were a whore, but this takes it far beyond what I imagined." He pauses to make sure that he hasn't gone too far, that throwing around words like that isn't enough to turn Cobb off. Instead he feels the shift of Cobb's hips as he pushes himself back against Eames, grinding his ass against his erection in a way that is nearly enough to make Eames come on the spot.
He pulls his hand back and slaps Cobb's back, hard enough to make his palm sting. "Do not move unless I tell you to," he snaps, but Cobb doesn't seem to hear him, too busy stifling his pain from newly abused wounds. He gasps like a bleeding animal. "Cobb?" Cobb doesn't answer, so he prods again: "Cobb. Do you want me to stop?"
Cobb bites down on his bottom lip, so hard that it hurts to see the indent of his teeth, but he nods. "Red," he gasps, and instantly the world crumbles. "God, red. Stop."
Eames scrambles off of Cobb, crawling up to the head of the bed instead. "Are you alright?" he checks. "Was that too much?"
Must have been. Should've known. Eames has always been bad with limits and stop signs - to ask him for this at all, Cobb must have had a death wish. Now Cobb sinks against the pillow, shifting his head against it like a cat rubbing its scent. "It hurt more than I was expecting," he says.
Eames looks up at Cobb's back, flared with red and drops of blood. "Can I clean you up?" he asks. "'least I can do, honestly."
Always clean up your own mess, his mum had taught him that. He's sure she never had anything quite like this in mind.
Cobb hums to agree with him, so Eames moves back to the tray, with the implements they never got around to using. He ignores paddles and clamps to pick up their first-aid kit instead, and comes back to the bed. Cobb is quiet as Eames gets to work, sitting cross-legged at Cobb's side as he washes away the blood and pain. He has to block out the sound of wincing air, because he can't leave these out in the open, unclean and waiting. There isn't much that he can do to help, but there is this alone, and he hopes that it's enough.
"You feel guilty," Cobb states. He doesn't open his eyes and his voice is slurred, half-asleep. Eames isn't sure how long they've been sitting like this, cleaning up. His shoulders hurt from hunching over the wounds. "You shouldn't. I had fun."
"You're going to be sleeping on your front for weeks." Eames presses down the last few pieces of tape on the last bandage and leans back, looking at the patch-work of gauze and bruising on Cobb's back. It's an ugly sight. He shouldn't be proud of it.
"You should see how hard I am," Cobb says.
He probably does it just to hear the way that Eames coughs in surprise, caught utterly off guard. The smug little grin on his face suggests as much, and Eames would shove him in annoyance if he wasn't afraid of hurting him more. Instead he opts for sliding up the bed to sit with his back against the headboard, his fingers dropping to run through Cobb's hair. It is slightly damp at the front, sweaty with exersion, and once they both feel up to it Eames will push and prod Cobb towards the shower.
For now, however, there is this.
"I'm sorry," Eames says, even if it sticks in his throat; it isn't something they say to each other often, both of them clinging white-knuckled to their pride.
Cobb shifts his head, and his breath floats against Eames's thigh, light as a caress. He is up and moving after that, ignoring Eames's protests for him to be careful as he slips like water into Eames's lap. "You're going to ruin my good work patching you up," Eames accuses. "It's going to hurt like hell putting on your shirt tomorrow."
"Then I won't wear one," Cobb says. It's hard to tell whether or not he is serious. His voice is always too serious.
"I'm sure our business partners would just love that," Eames complains - while imagining Arthur's face if Cobb showed up for work with his damaged back on display. He is fairly sure that nowhere would be safe to hide.
Cobb answers with a mumbled hum, but Eames is distracted by the push of Cobb's lips against his own, questing and demanding. It is impossible to resist, and he falls open for him, a hand at the small of his back to support him where he rests against him. He remains passive, allowing Cobb to plunder his mouth without offering any resistance - he feels Cobb's fingers pulling at the hair near the nape of his neck and he gives in to it, following Cobb without objection.
He is breathless by the time Cobb pulls back and rests their foreheads together, eyelids dipped.
"I think I'm the one that should be comforting you," Eames points out, as they breathe the same air.
Cobb smiles. It is small, incredibly so, but it's a start. "This is comforting," he insists.
Eames doesn't argue with him. Cobb's mind is a maze that no architect could construct. He lets Cobb press him against the headboard and take from him all that he can; his arms form a quietly protective circle around Cobb's waist. They kiss and take their time and are careful, so careful, with Cobb's back.
And when they try to go to sleep, sated and content, Eames pretends that he doesn't replay Cobb's voice, panicked and strained.
Red. God, red.
Pairing: Cobb/Eames
Word Count: 1500
Rating: R
Warnings: BDSM, safe words
A/N: Written for a prompt at inception_kink for cobb_eames's prompt filling Friday.
Summary: Half-way through a scene, Cobb has to use their safe word.
Eames's hands skim over the tray of tools sitting on their dresser, while a nervous buzz settles in his stomach. He can feel Cobb watching him from where he is lying on his front on the hotel bed, underwear the only clothing left to protect his tanned skin. Eames doesn't turn around until his hand has alighted on the belt, waiting for him like a curled snake. The leather is thick and it was holding up his trousers only a few days earlier. Functional. After this, he doubts he will be able to wear it again without being hard the entire time.
Walking towards the bed, he stares at Cobb's back as if it is a bare canvass waiting to be painted. There is so much skin on display - unmarked, unscarred, untarnished. Cobb's skin is clean and firm beneath his hand when he reaches out to smooth his palm along the curve of his spine; there is nothing there, not a single lick of ink or blotch of scar tissue. The belt remains in his hand, waiting like a silent promise.
"Are you sure about this?" he asks.
Cobb nods his head - Eames hadn't exactly expected anything less. If he hadn't been sure, Cobb would never have brought it up at all.
"I'll go easy on you," he promises. It's the first time for both of them. His palms feel damp.
"Don't you dare," Cobb says.
They smile in the silence together, and Eames feels the tension in the air tingling as he breathes in. He lets it build; holds it in his lungs for a moment longer, allows his fingers to twitch, makes Cobb squirm and glance over his shoulder at him - and then his arm moves, the belt whistles through the air with a snap and a slap as it makes impact with Cobb's back. The sound is sharp enough to be wet, and Cobb sucks in air through his clenched teeth.
Eames pulls the belt back and holds it in both hands as he waits. The skin turns red like an accusation, but he sees Cobb nod. "Again," Cobb insists. "I can take it."
Eames pauses for a moment all the same, and readjusts his grip on the strap. Cobb keeps his arms up and out of the way, hands flat against his pillow, and when Eames swings the belt once more he grunts but doesn't complain, hands forming fists as he tries to hold on. He strikes again - and again - clutching onto the head of the belt so hard that it makes his palm ache.
When Cobb's back and shoulders are red, with blood beading over the worst of the wounds, Eames throws the belt down to the ground and swings himself onto the bed. He hitches a leg over Cobb's hips and rests upon his ass, sitting back to admire his handiwork. The sight of it makes him bite back a moan and he wishes that he wasn't so hard - it makes him feel rather more perverted than is strictly necessary.
"I can't believe you want this," Eames muses aloud, skimming the pads of his fingers over the painful lines left on Cobb's back. The barest touch is enough to make Cobb stiffen and bite his bottom lip, eyes screwed shut. "I always thought you were a whore, but this takes it far beyond what I imagined." He pauses to make sure that he hasn't gone too far, that throwing around words like that isn't enough to turn Cobb off. Instead he feels the shift of Cobb's hips as he pushes himself back against Eames, grinding his ass against his erection in a way that is nearly enough to make Eames come on the spot.
He pulls his hand back and slaps Cobb's back, hard enough to make his palm sting. "Do not move unless I tell you to," he snaps, but Cobb doesn't seem to hear him, too busy stifling his pain from newly abused wounds. He gasps like a bleeding animal. "Cobb?" Cobb doesn't answer, so he prods again: "Cobb. Do you want me to stop?"
Cobb bites down on his bottom lip, so hard that it hurts to see the indent of his teeth, but he nods. "Red," he gasps, and instantly the world crumbles. "God, red. Stop."
Eames scrambles off of Cobb, crawling up to the head of the bed instead. "Are you alright?" he checks. "Was that too much?"
Must have been. Should've known. Eames has always been bad with limits and stop signs - to ask him for this at all, Cobb must have had a death wish. Now Cobb sinks against the pillow, shifting his head against it like a cat rubbing its scent. "It hurt more than I was expecting," he says.
Eames looks up at Cobb's back, flared with red and drops of blood. "Can I clean you up?" he asks. "'least I can do, honestly."
Always clean up your own mess, his mum had taught him that. He's sure she never had anything quite like this in mind.
Cobb hums to agree with him, so Eames moves back to the tray, with the implements they never got around to using. He ignores paddles and clamps to pick up their first-aid kit instead, and comes back to the bed. Cobb is quiet as Eames gets to work, sitting cross-legged at Cobb's side as he washes away the blood and pain. He has to block out the sound of wincing air, because he can't leave these out in the open, unclean and waiting. There isn't much that he can do to help, but there is this alone, and he hopes that it's enough.
"You feel guilty," Cobb states. He doesn't open his eyes and his voice is slurred, half-asleep. Eames isn't sure how long they've been sitting like this, cleaning up. His shoulders hurt from hunching over the wounds. "You shouldn't. I had fun."
"You're going to be sleeping on your front for weeks." Eames presses down the last few pieces of tape on the last bandage and leans back, looking at the patch-work of gauze and bruising on Cobb's back. It's an ugly sight. He shouldn't be proud of it.
"You should see how hard I am," Cobb says.
He probably does it just to hear the way that Eames coughs in surprise, caught utterly off guard. The smug little grin on his face suggests as much, and Eames would shove him in annoyance if he wasn't afraid of hurting him more. Instead he opts for sliding up the bed to sit with his back against the headboard, his fingers dropping to run through Cobb's hair. It is slightly damp at the front, sweaty with exersion, and once they both feel up to it Eames will push and prod Cobb towards the shower.
For now, however, there is this.
"I'm sorry," Eames says, even if it sticks in his throat; it isn't something they say to each other often, both of them clinging white-knuckled to their pride.
Cobb shifts his head, and his breath floats against Eames's thigh, light as a caress. He is up and moving after that, ignoring Eames's protests for him to be careful as he slips like water into Eames's lap. "You're going to ruin my good work patching you up," Eames accuses. "It's going to hurt like hell putting on your shirt tomorrow."
"Then I won't wear one," Cobb says. It's hard to tell whether or not he is serious. His voice is always too serious.
"I'm sure our business partners would just love that," Eames complains - while imagining Arthur's face if Cobb showed up for work with his damaged back on display. He is fairly sure that nowhere would be safe to hide.
Cobb answers with a mumbled hum, but Eames is distracted by the push of Cobb's lips against his own, questing and demanding. It is impossible to resist, and he falls open for him, a hand at the small of his back to support him where he rests against him. He remains passive, allowing Cobb to plunder his mouth without offering any resistance - he feels Cobb's fingers pulling at the hair near the nape of his neck and he gives in to it, following Cobb without objection.
He is breathless by the time Cobb pulls back and rests their foreheads together, eyelids dipped.
"I think I'm the one that should be comforting you," Eames points out, as they breathe the same air.
Cobb smiles. It is small, incredibly so, but it's a start. "This is comforting," he insists.
Eames doesn't argue with him. Cobb's mind is a maze that no architect could construct. He lets Cobb press him against the headboard and take from him all that he can; his arms form a quietly protective circle around Cobb's waist. They kiss and take their time and are careful, so careful, with Cobb's back.
And when they try to go to sleep, sated and content, Eames pretends that he doesn't replay Cobb's voice, panicked and strained.
Red. God, red.