#367 - [FIC] Cinders of Affection (Cobb/Nash)
Title: Cinders of Affection
Word Count: 1,281
Pairing: Cobb/Nash
Rating: R
Summary: Nash is just a warm body; one more way for Cobb to curl up with his hate.
Warnings: dub-con, violence and bloodshed, drug use
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be! Title swiped from a Walter Raleigh quote.
Author's Note: Happy Birthday, forgerness! I also want to give my thanks to koushi, _beetle_, soda_and_capes, and weatherfront, whose fics were incredibly helpful in the characterization of Nash.
“Are you using again?” Cobb grabs him by the shoulders with an almighty scowl. “Tell me, you miserable piece of shit. Are you using?”
When he doesn’t answer, Cobb shakes him so hard Nash thinks his eyeballs might turn up cherries or lucky number sevens like you’d see on a slot machine. The thought makes him laugh and even when Cobb’s fist comes slamming into his cheek he can’t stop, it’s all so damn funny.
Cobb doesn’t quit. “You owe me an explanation.”
“I don’t owe you shit,” Nash tells him. He licks the blood off his teeth. “And I ain’t telling you shit, either.”
He spits at Cobb for good measure, just to prove a point, and grins when he goes rigid. Nash likes the spatter of blood and saliva on his cheek, like one of those inkblots or something. What’s it telling you, Cobb, ya fuckin’ psycho? How’s it feel? Come on, how’s-
The second blow sends him reeling. Nash is flat on his ass before he can tell which way’s up. There’s pain, but it’s distant, someone else’s with the sweet rush of coke in his veins. Only a little in the time he could steal between waking up and jumping ship in Kyoto, keeping as much distance between him and Cobb as he dared.
Blood slicks his lips and chin. His nose is bleeding, maybe broken. It wouldn’t be the first time. Cobb kicks him while he’s down. There’s a crack that might be one of his ribs and then Cobb is hauling him to his feet like he’s nothing, murder in his eyes, frothing at the mouth. Cobb could kill him and no one would give a shit. Not a soul.
Not even Nash, and he’ll be damned if that isn’t the funniest thing he’s heard all day.
“Go ahead,” he wheezes. Every word flecks Cobb’s face with more blood. “Kill me, why don’t you? Come on, man, do it,” he goads. Nash is laughing so hard the words barely come out and for the first time Cobb seems to hesitate. Nash crushes his mouth against Cobb’s just to see what he’ll do.
His kiss leaves Cobb’s mouth and chin smeared with red that looks faker than anything he’s ever seen. It might be ketchup, paint, lipstick, anything but blood. But there it is, real. The metallic taste runs down the back of his throat. Nash scrubs at his face with his sleeve, trying to wipe away the worst of it.
Cobb slams him up against the wall and Nash is steeling himself for another blow. But instead of a fist, it’s the man’s mouth that comes down, swift and awkward. Their teeth clack together and Nash’s busted nose digs into a stubbled cheek with a sickening creak of cartilage that he barely feels. It’s the sound that makes his stomach churn.
Cobb sears little blood kisses into his skin, all teeth and claws like some dumb animal let loose by mistake, drawn in by the scent of carnage. All Nash can taste is his own blood and he wonders if it’s possible to get a secondhand high like this. Can you taste it, Cobb? You like it, don’t you?
He can’t breathe through the blood drying in his nose and there’s this wild thought in his head that he’ll asphyxiate with this dickhead’s mouth on his. It rouses enough panic, adrenaline spiking as his high begins to top out, that Nash manages to push him away. He gulps oxygen into his lungs in hungry, greedy mouthfuls.
“Who owes who an explanation, huh, Cobb?” Nash asks when his breath has finally caught up with him. He shoves Cobb again, this time with enough force to make him stagger back a few steps. “Do I look like your fucking girlfriend? That it?”
He doesn’t even react. Nash has gotten as much a rise out of him as he’s going to today. Without a word, Cobb dives right back in and Nash finds he can’t even struggle with the man’s body pressed along his at every point. Cobb’s tongue coaxes his mouth open and Nash knows he’s nothing, never has been. He’s not a person to Cobb; he’s an insect-a butterfly with a straight pin through its thorax, beating its wings against the corkboard mount until it exsanguinates.
It turns out there’s one more rise to be had out of Cobb after all and it’s digging into Nash’s hip. Somehow, it’s not as funny as the rest of it has been. Nash is teetering on the edge of his high, growing more unsteady by the second and ready to fall down until he can’t anymore. He isn’t going to hit rock-bottom over a thimble full of blow, but he might hit close with the way Cobb is looking at him.
Not an insect, then. Nothing so dignified as that. He’s just a warm body; one more way for Cobb to curl up with his hate.
His skin breaks out in flop sweat. It’s easy for Cobb to turn him around. He doesn’t even need to get rough when he presses Nash’s cheek against the wall. The sourness of his breath, metallic and bitter, bounces back at him as Cobb undoes his belt and tugs it all down around his knees.
Nash hears Cobb spit into his hand before it happens. Nash grunts through clenched teeth, fingers scrabbling for purchase on what has to be the ugliest fucking wallpaper he’s ever seen, patterned in the same color of the carpet that got him into this mess. Saliva or not, it burns. The other man’s thighs press nakedly against his own as Cobb slides in as far as he can. Hot, moist breath puffs out on the back of his neck.
There’ll be ugly bruises on his hips from the way Cobb is grabbing at him as he moves, all force and no finesse and it’s obvious he doesn’t have a goddamn clue what he’s doing. He’s panting and groaning, but he still hasn’t given up shooting pissed off digs at Nash with every rough shove of his cock. It’s too dry to be that good, but it’s still not the worst fuck he’s ever been treated to-he’s hard, anyway.
“Come on, Cobb,” he says, because Nash has never been good at keeping his mouth shut and coming off the coke is giving him the shakes. “Give a guy a hand, will ya?” He shoves back a little. “Come on…”
But Cobb ignores him, mouth latched onto his neck as he sucks hard enough to break the capillaries at the surface of Nash’s skin. He’s moving faster now and Nash thinks he’ll come before too long. Cobb has too much baggage to ever be his type, even if he weren’t a complete asshole, but it’s kind of good now, even though he’s starting to feel the pain throbbing dully all over his body.
Cobb gives a final jerk of his hips, groans, and stills. His grip relaxes enough for Nash to reach for his cock. He jerks off frantically while Cobb is recovering, but he pulls out, leaving him aching before Nash can finish. Come trickles hot out of his ass down the inside of his thigh and he’s coming just like that, spilling over his own hand in desperate spurts and feeling his body clenching in the aftershocks.
By the time Nash has managed to set himself to rights, Cobb is long gone. It’s just him, the ugly wallpaper, and the paranoia that’s setting in with the crash. Whatever Cobb’s done to him, he knows Cobol can do worse.
Now he was really gonna get fucked.
Word Count: 1,281
Pairing: Cobb/Nash
Rating: R
Summary: Nash is just a warm body; one more way for Cobb to curl up with his hate.
Warnings: dub-con, violence and bloodshed, drug use
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be! Title swiped from a Walter Raleigh quote.
Author's Note: Happy Birthday, forgerness! I also want to give my thanks to koushi, _beetle_, soda_and_capes, and weatherfront, whose fics were incredibly helpful in the characterization of Nash.
“Are you using again?” Cobb grabs him by the shoulders with an almighty scowl. “Tell me, you miserable piece of shit. Are you using?”
When he doesn’t answer, Cobb shakes him so hard Nash thinks his eyeballs might turn up cherries or lucky number sevens like you’d see on a slot machine. The thought makes him laugh and even when Cobb’s fist comes slamming into his cheek he can’t stop, it’s all so damn funny.
Cobb doesn’t quit. “You owe me an explanation.”
“I don’t owe you shit,” Nash tells him. He licks the blood off his teeth. “And I ain’t telling you shit, either.”
He spits at Cobb for good measure, just to prove a point, and grins when he goes rigid. Nash likes the spatter of blood and saliva on his cheek, like one of those inkblots or something. What’s it telling you, Cobb, ya fuckin’ psycho? How’s it feel? Come on, how’s-
The second blow sends him reeling. Nash is flat on his ass before he can tell which way’s up. There’s pain, but it’s distant, someone else’s with the sweet rush of coke in his veins. Only a little in the time he could steal between waking up and jumping ship in Kyoto, keeping as much distance between him and Cobb as he dared.
Blood slicks his lips and chin. His nose is bleeding, maybe broken. It wouldn’t be the first time. Cobb kicks him while he’s down. There’s a crack that might be one of his ribs and then Cobb is hauling him to his feet like he’s nothing, murder in his eyes, frothing at the mouth. Cobb could kill him and no one would give a shit. Not a soul.
Not even Nash, and he’ll be damned if that isn’t the funniest thing he’s heard all day.
“Go ahead,” he wheezes. Every word flecks Cobb’s face with more blood. “Kill me, why don’t you? Come on, man, do it,” he goads. Nash is laughing so hard the words barely come out and for the first time Cobb seems to hesitate. Nash crushes his mouth against Cobb’s just to see what he’ll do.
His kiss leaves Cobb’s mouth and chin smeared with red that looks faker than anything he’s ever seen. It might be ketchup, paint, lipstick, anything but blood. But there it is, real. The metallic taste runs down the back of his throat. Nash scrubs at his face with his sleeve, trying to wipe away the worst of it.
Cobb slams him up against the wall and Nash is steeling himself for another blow. But instead of a fist, it’s the man’s mouth that comes down, swift and awkward. Their teeth clack together and Nash’s busted nose digs into a stubbled cheek with a sickening creak of cartilage that he barely feels. It’s the sound that makes his stomach churn.
Cobb sears little blood kisses into his skin, all teeth and claws like some dumb animal let loose by mistake, drawn in by the scent of carnage. All Nash can taste is his own blood and he wonders if it’s possible to get a secondhand high like this. Can you taste it, Cobb? You like it, don’t you?
He can’t breathe through the blood drying in his nose and there’s this wild thought in his head that he’ll asphyxiate with this dickhead’s mouth on his. It rouses enough panic, adrenaline spiking as his high begins to top out, that Nash manages to push him away. He gulps oxygen into his lungs in hungry, greedy mouthfuls.
“Who owes who an explanation, huh, Cobb?” Nash asks when his breath has finally caught up with him. He shoves Cobb again, this time with enough force to make him stagger back a few steps. “Do I look like your fucking girlfriend? That it?”
He doesn’t even react. Nash has gotten as much a rise out of him as he’s going to today. Without a word, Cobb dives right back in and Nash finds he can’t even struggle with the man’s body pressed along his at every point. Cobb’s tongue coaxes his mouth open and Nash knows he’s nothing, never has been. He’s not a person to Cobb; he’s an insect-a butterfly with a straight pin through its thorax, beating its wings against the corkboard mount until it exsanguinates.
It turns out there’s one more rise to be had out of Cobb after all and it’s digging into Nash’s hip. Somehow, it’s not as funny as the rest of it has been. Nash is teetering on the edge of his high, growing more unsteady by the second and ready to fall down until he can’t anymore. He isn’t going to hit rock-bottom over a thimble full of blow, but he might hit close with the way Cobb is looking at him.
Not an insect, then. Nothing so dignified as that. He’s just a warm body; one more way for Cobb to curl up with his hate.
His skin breaks out in flop sweat. It’s easy for Cobb to turn him around. He doesn’t even need to get rough when he presses Nash’s cheek against the wall. The sourness of his breath, metallic and bitter, bounces back at him as Cobb undoes his belt and tugs it all down around his knees.
Nash hears Cobb spit into his hand before it happens. Nash grunts through clenched teeth, fingers scrabbling for purchase on what has to be the ugliest fucking wallpaper he’s ever seen, patterned in the same color of the carpet that got him into this mess. Saliva or not, it burns. The other man’s thighs press nakedly against his own as Cobb slides in as far as he can. Hot, moist breath puffs out on the back of his neck.
There’ll be ugly bruises on his hips from the way Cobb is grabbing at him as he moves, all force and no finesse and it’s obvious he doesn’t have a goddamn clue what he’s doing. He’s panting and groaning, but he still hasn’t given up shooting pissed off digs at Nash with every rough shove of his cock. It’s too dry to be that good, but it’s still not the worst fuck he’s ever been treated to-he’s hard, anyway.
“Come on, Cobb,” he says, because Nash has never been good at keeping his mouth shut and coming off the coke is giving him the shakes. “Give a guy a hand, will ya?” He shoves back a little. “Come on…”
But Cobb ignores him, mouth latched onto his neck as he sucks hard enough to break the capillaries at the surface of Nash’s skin. He’s moving faster now and Nash thinks he’ll come before too long. Cobb has too much baggage to ever be his type, even if he weren’t a complete asshole, but it’s kind of good now, even though he’s starting to feel the pain throbbing dully all over his body.
Cobb gives a final jerk of his hips, groans, and stills. His grip relaxes enough for Nash to reach for his cock. He jerks off frantically while Cobb is recovering, but he pulls out, leaving him aching before Nash can finish. Come trickles hot out of his ass down the inside of his thigh and he’s coming just like that, spilling over his own hand in desperate spurts and feeling his body clenching in the aftershocks.
By the time Nash has managed to set himself to rights, Cobb is long gone. It’s just him, the ugly wallpaper, and the paranoia that’s setting in with the crash. Whatever Cobb’s done to him, he knows Cobol can do worse.
Now he was really gonna get fucked.