#6 - Together We Will Live Forever, for twilightthief
Title: Together We Will Live Forever
Recipient: twilightthief
Author: the_azure_blue
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Cobb/Fischer, former Cobb/Mal
Word Count: 1631
Warnings: Generally, dark themes
He is tipsy from drinking. Thoughts are swirling; the room is spinning. Robert holds him tight, hands wrapped around his waist to keep Dom steady and close. The alcohol is thick on his breath, but he does not mind, kissing deeply as they dance stumbled steps towards the bedroom. The kids are in Paris, with Miles, under Dom's request. It's too early to share the burden of Mal's death with them, too soon to tell them the truth.
Too soon to tell Robert, but he can tell while they sat over dinner.
Almost eleven months have passed since the inception. Six since the day in the park when James rolled a ball outside of Dom's sights, sending the worried father after his young son. To his horror was Robert Fischer, holding the blue sphere, and handing it as a stranger.
He was neither. “Hello, Dom,” he said in a flat tone, neither angry or content or cheery. “Or should I call you Mr. Charles?”
Five and a half since the conversations became more violent, and Robert was clawing at him, threatening to kill him to end this nightmare. “We'll wake up on the other side, won't we? Together?”
“We are already awake, Robert,” he told the former heir. “Together.”
It seemed unreal. Not because of the team, but because being here, with him, away from the planned life of Fischer Morrow was so impossible that it had to be a dream.
But it was not, and as time passed, both men became comfortable together, loving each other, and slowly forgetting the past to move forward.
On the halfway point of their first anniversary, Robert takes him out to the most exquisite restaurant in Los Angeles. They dine and drink, but Robert is holding his glass of wine until it is warm and flat while Dom has had four. It is in the car that the extractor begins to cry, cradled in the arms of the smaller man, whimpering cryptic tales of a shade that will not rest even after she died. Robert brushes the back of his fingers along Dom's cheek, tells him not to worry, that everything will okay. “I am here, love, alive and well,” his voice is soft and tender, and he begins to kiss the salty droplets, seizing each one in rich, red lips like silk. “Remember what you said? We will always be together.”
By their arrival, he is mostly sober, but Robert leads the way. They might be partners for half a year, but this is the first time Dom has been with another man. He understands, having these urges while already happily married and in love. Each movement coaxes him further softly, until his hands are wrapped around Robert's erection, grasping with the friction of his slacks and boxers between them.
In the bedroom, Robert turns so that Dom is the one leading, stepping back towards the bed. With a gentle push, they are squirming on, limbs entangled until they are lying with Robert rocking his hips inward. Leaning in, he grabs Dom's arms with one hand and pulls off his tie with another.
“What are you doing?” Dom asks as one end is threaded around a wrist and pulled, knotted, then led to connect to the other.
“Just a little foreplay,” Robert promises and kisses his forehead. “Don't want you to get all excited and spoil things.” At a pull to make sure everything is secure, he gets off, adding, “I'll be back soon enough, love. I have a surprise for you.”
Dom looks startled, “Surprise? Robert! Wait!” But the door closes without a response, and he is left there in his three-piece suit and Robert's tie holding him still. Wiggling a little, he tries to get free as any uncomfortable man would. He whines a little, realizing just how good the knots were. Trying again to no prevail, he starts to panic and cries out, “Robert! This isn't funny. Get your ass back in here.”
Still, no one answers, and he begins to wonder if this was all some elaborate plan for revenge. Strange, he considers further, unless . . .
The panic borders hysteria as he imagines Robert driving to the airport and picking up the kids in Paris. Miles knows. Ariadne knows. All it would take is a surprise. “Robert! Fuck! You son of a bitch!” The bed railing is rattling, but it only makes it tighter, his fingers starting to lose their sensitivity.
It is only he settles and breathes, tries to concentrate, that he realizes this is all irrational, that if not for Robert, he would have never stopped wondering what was real and what was not, would have never put away his totem for good, would have never let his wife rest in peace. Besides, it would take too long to fly to Paris. By then he would have torn this bed apart, right?
That is when the door slowly opens, the brightness of the hallway causing Dom to squint.
“Hello, Dom,” Robert says, his voice lower, softer, almost feminine. “Did you miss me?”
Dom's eyes go wide as he focuses his sight. The lace stockings fit the legs, forming to each line to the garter belt that clings to Robert's thin waist. He wears no underwear, nothing to cover his erection that has a set of rings in place to keep him firm. It does not surprise him, as while he had not been with men, Mal and he never kept secrets, including their desires. She had purchased a harness and seven inches of latex to fuck him with, tugging at him while her clitoris rubbed against the leather into climax.
And his chest . . . The boning must bite into the man's flesh, paining him with the tight grip that Mal was always certain when she wore the damn thing. Hours spent in the mirror, pulling it, fixing it, to be presentable to her husband. It was remarkable how well it fit the man, but his frame was small, capable of adhering to such self punishment to be extraordinary.
“Mal . . .” Dom cannot help but whisper as Robert approaches him, a gloved hand brushing against the arm so delicately that he shivers. “Fuck,” he hisses, bucking between the rips of his shirt to expose his flesh to kisses painted red. He can smell her perfume.
“Close your eyes,” he murmurs.
“Fuck you. Do you think this is some kind of joke?”
Robert clicks his tongue against his mouth, backing off to replace his tongue and lips with hands that smooth against the chest, rising up to wrap around the neck. Breathing halts at this pressure, surprise and anticipation muffling any survival instinct. He smiles at that, rising up to cup his chin and cheeks for a kiss. Their lips meet, and he forces his tongue passed the teeth, brushing up against Dom before letting him go. “No joke,” he replies. “I want you to remember.”
Beside them, amongst the pile of clothes, he picks out a shirt and pulls it over the eyes, bringing shadows into play. Kissing again, he adds, “Now be quiet.”
Silence was not in the extractor, especially in this position, with such madness Robert possessed, but he could not help losing himself to the scent, the touch, the sound of his moans as he imagined Mal brushing her fingers against him. As his nipple erected to the swirl and light nips, pulling his hips upward into the warmth around him. His bare skin brushed against boning and satin, sending his mind further back.
His hands fell down soon after, let go of their bonds to comb through curled locks of the brunette whose parted lips were pulling the heat into his throbbing cock, delicately bringing him toward climax. He groans, not caring of the slick that circles around his opening, or the fingers that pry their way in.
It is only when they rub against his prostate that his hips rise, Robert taking in each inch until his nose is buried in hair and the smell of sweat. He moans with delight at the reaction, pushing his fingers in deeper and hooking them again for another, then another, repeating the motion until Dom is coming into his mouth. The warmth hits the back of his throat, and he swallows, puckering his cheeks to for a longer time until the body has settled to the bed.
Warmth rises upward, hands brushing against him, a voice so hauntingly Mal's that he shivered to the words, “Turn around,” against his ear. Dom did so, his head burying into the pillow. A moan poured through him, tangling with groans upon the first thrust. Hands clenched around the sheets until knuckles were as white as the held cloth.
“Mal . . .” threaded in once the rhythm was set, unable to hold back, his mind twisted and turning, desire overwhelming the single impulse to open the drawer for his totem.
Such questions, confusion, rose further with the, “Yes, Dom. I'm here, love. With you. Always.” Each word is cut off with a push, plummeting deeper into crushing heat. Dom did not need to come again, his body slack, an instrument to be used beneath such power. But there, he is lost to the pain, the carnal movement, and the blur of the dead and alive. He no longer knew if this was Robert's idea of a joke, revenge for keeping secrets between them, or something far worse, rising up from the depths of limbo. Either way, he did not care. For that brief moment, he felt whole.
Recipient: twilightthief
Author: the_azure_blue
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Cobb/Fischer, former Cobb/Mal
Word Count: 1631
Warnings: Generally, dark themes
He is tipsy from drinking. Thoughts are swirling; the room is spinning. Robert holds him tight, hands wrapped around his waist to keep Dom steady and close. The alcohol is thick on his breath, but he does not mind, kissing deeply as they dance stumbled steps towards the bedroom. The kids are in Paris, with Miles, under Dom's request. It's too early to share the burden of Mal's death with them, too soon to tell them the truth.
Too soon to tell Robert, but he can tell while they sat over dinner.
Almost eleven months have passed since the inception. Six since the day in the park when James rolled a ball outside of Dom's sights, sending the worried father after his young son. To his horror was Robert Fischer, holding the blue sphere, and handing it as a stranger.
He was neither. “Hello, Dom,” he said in a flat tone, neither angry or content or cheery. “Or should I call you Mr. Charles?”
Five and a half since the conversations became more violent, and Robert was clawing at him, threatening to kill him to end this nightmare. “We'll wake up on the other side, won't we? Together?”
“We are already awake, Robert,” he told the former heir. “Together.”
It seemed unreal. Not because of the team, but because being here, with him, away from the planned life of Fischer Morrow was so impossible that it had to be a dream.
But it was not, and as time passed, both men became comfortable together, loving each other, and slowly forgetting the past to move forward.
On the halfway point of their first anniversary, Robert takes him out to the most exquisite restaurant in Los Angeles. They dine and drink, but Robert is holding his glass of wine until it is warm and flat while Dom has had four. It is in the car that the extractor begins to cry, cradled in the arms of the smaller man, whimpering cryptic tales of a shade that will not rest even after she died. Robert brushes the back of his fingers along Dom's cheek, tells him not to worry, that everything will okay. “I am here, love, alive and well,” his voice is soft and tender, and he begins to kiss the salty droplets, seizing each one in rich, red lips like silk. “Remember what you said? We will always be together.”
By their arrival, he is mostly sober, but Robert leads the way. They might be partners for half a year, but this is the first time Dom has been with another man. He understands, having these urges while already happily married and in love. Each movement coaxes him further softly, until his hands are wrapped around Robert's erection, grasping with the friction of his slacks and boxers between them.
In the bedroom, Robert turns so that Dom is the one leading, stepping back towards the bed. With a gentle push, they are squirming on, limbs entangled until they are lying with Robert rocking his hips inward. Leaning in, he grabs Dom's arms with one hand and pulls off his tie with another.
“What are you doing?” Dom asks as one end is threaded around a wrist and pulled, knotted, then led to connect to the other.
“Just a little foreplay,” Robert promises and kisses his forehead. “Don't want you to get all excited and spoil things.” At a pull to make sure everything is secure, he gets off, adding, “I'll be back soon enough, love. I have a surprise for you.”
Dom looks startled, “Surprise? Robert! Wait!” But the door closes without a response, and he is left there in his three-piece suit and Robert's tie holding him still. Wiggling a little, he tries to get free as any uncomfortable man would. He whines a little, realizing just how good the knots were. Trying again to no prevail, he starts to panic and cries out, “Robert! This isn't funny. Get your ass back in here.”
Still, no one answers, and he begins to wonder if this was all some elaborate plan for revenge. Strange, he considers further, unless . . .
The panic borders hysteria as he imagines Robert driving to the airport and picking up the kids in Paris. Miles knows. Ariadne knows. All it would take is a surprise. “Robert! Fuck! You son of a bitch!” The bed railing is rattling, but it only makes it tighter, his fingers starting to lose their sensitivity.
It is only he settles and breathes, tries to concentrate, that he realizes this is all irrational, that if not for Robert, he would have never stopped wondering what was real and what was not, would have never put away his totem for good, would have never let his wife rest in peace. Besides, it would take too long to fly to Paris. By then he would have torn this bed apart, right?
That is when the door slowly opens, the brightness of the hallway causing Dom to squint.
“Hello, Dom,” Robert says, his voice lower, softer, almost feminine. “Did you miss me?”
Dom's eyes go wide as he focuses his sight. The lace stockings fit the legs, forming to each line to the garter belt that clings to Robert's thin waist. He wears no underwear, nothing to cover his erection that has a set of rings in place to keep him firm. It does not surprise him, as while he had not been with men, Mal and he never kept secrets, including their desires. She had purchased a harness and seven inches of latex to fuck him with, tugging at him while her clitoris rubbed against the leather into climax.
And his chest . . . The boning must bite into the man's flesh, paining him with the tight grip that Mal was always certain when she wore the damn thing. Hours spent in the mirror, pulling it, fixing it, to be presentable to her husband. It was remarkable how well it fit the man, but his frame was small, capable of adhering to such self punishment to be extraordinary.
“Mal . . .” Dom cannot help but whisper as Robert approaches him, a gloved hand brushing against the arm so delicately that he shivers. “Fuck,” he hisses, bucking between the rips of his shirt to expose his flesh to kisses painted red. He can smell her perfume.
“Close your eyes,” he murmurs.
“Fuck you. Do you think this is some kind of joke?”
Robert clicks his tongue against his mouth, backing off to replace his tongue and lips with hands that smooth against the chest, rising up to wrap around the neck. Breathing halts at this pressure, surprise and anticipation muffling any survival instinct. He smiles at that, rising up to cup his chin and cheeks for a kiss. Their lips meet, and he forces his tongue passed the teeth, brushing up against Dom before letting him go. “No joke,” he replies. “I want you to remember.”
Beside them, amongst the pile of clothes, he picks out a shirt and pulls it over the eyes, bringing shadows into play. Kissing again, he adds, “Now be quiet.”
Silence was not in the extractor, especially in this position, with such madness Robert possessed, but he could not help losing himself to the scent, the touch, the sound of his moans as he imagined Mal brushing her fingers against him. As his nipple erected to the swirl and light nips, pulling his hips upward into the warmth around him. His bare skin brushed against boning and satin, sending his mind further back.
His hands fell down soon after, let go of their bonds to comb through curled locks of the brunette whose parted lips were pulling the heat into his throbbing cock, delicately bringing him toward climax. He groans, not caring of the slick that circles around his opening, or the fingers that pry their way in.
It is only when they rub against his prostate that his hips rise, Robert taking in each inch until his nose is buried in hair and the smell of sweat. He moans with delight at the reaction, pushing his fingers in deeper and hooking them again for another, then another, repeating the motion until Dom is coming into his mouth. The warmth hits the back of his throat, and he swallows, puckering his cheeks to for a longer time until the body has settled to the bed.
Warmth rises upward, hands brushing against him, a voice so hauntingly Mal's that he shivered to the words, “Turn around,” against his ear. Dom did so, his head burying into the pillow. A moan poured through him, tangling with groans upon the first thrust. Hands clenched around the sheets until knuckles were as white as the held cloth.
“Mal . . .” threaded in once the rhythm was set, unable to hold back, his mind twisted and turning, desire overwhelming the single impulse to open the drawer for his totem.
Such questions, confusion, rose further with the, “Yes, Dom. I'm here, love. With you. Always.” Each word is cut off with a push, plummeting deeper into crushing heat. Dom did not need to come again, his body slack, an instrument to be used beneath such power. But there, he is lost to the pain, the carnal movement, and the blur of the dead and alive. He no longer knew if this was Robert's idea of a joke, revenge for keeping secrets between them, or something far worse, rising up from the depths of limbo. Either way, he did not care. For that brief moment, he felt whole.