(FIC) Ebb (Inception, Cobb/Ariadne, NC-17)
Title: Ebb, Chapter 1
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Dominic Cobb/Ariadne
Rating: NC-17
Words:~ 6,600
Beta: leanannsidhe
Warnings: Rape & Non-Con and Violence
Warnings apply only to first chapter - and are necessary for the plot. Story will develop with a happy ending, because that's how I roll, I'm afraid :)
Ebb
Chapter 1 - A Lucid Nightmare
“Dom!”
The voice swam up into focus for a brief moment, before being lost again, before he could even make a stab at identifying it. His brain sputtered and heaved, and made another attempt at consciousness. Slowly, other sensory data began to filter in, like the fuzzy feeling around the edges of his thoughts, and the way his head pounded with the beginnings of the mother of all headaches, each throb in time to the beating of his heart.
“Dom!”
That voice again. Still no name was forthcoming, but he was beginning to feel that maybe, the voice wasn’t quite right.
He was sitting on some kind of hard surface, cold, and uncomfortable, and for a moment he felt relief at the thought that he must have drunk too much with Eames, or Arthur, and passed out on his floor. He was unsure as to why this scenario, one that he hadn’t indulged in since well before Phillipa was born, should make him feel relieved. He was fairly certain he must have hit his head on his way down here, because he could feel the large knot where the sick pounding was originating, just over his right ear.
Something still felt wrong about that interpretation, though God knew his mouth felt dry enough for that to be the case.
He could smell something … metallic, like a downtown construction site after they welded the steel girders for some new skyscraper. The smell was faintly acrid in his nose, but tasted worse.
“Oh, God. Dom!”
The voice was low and urgent and hoarse, like the throat supplying it was reluctant to do so. Dom could distinguish that now, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. Ariadne, the name finally surfaced, and he knew why the voice had sounded wrong.
She sounded terrified.
He finally managed to open his eyes.
-..-
A man was about six feet away, crouched down on one knee. He was smiling almost solicitously over at Dom where he lay flat out on the cement floor. Even only halfway conscious, Dom noted the guy was well out of arm’s reach. He was broad but lean, and dressed in loose sweats and a t-shirt, all in black down to his lace-up, military-style boots. Short, sandy-blond hair was styled back from his face, where cold grey eyes stared back at them. He was smiling, his skin crinkling back from his thin lips in true amusement.
Somehow, Dom was reminded of a shark, with blood in the pool. He had seen this man before, reflected in the dreams and subconscious of his captor’s victims.
“Navarre,” he tried to get out, but his brain was still trying vainly to find the various parts of his body in the fog, and he was fairly certain the sound he finally managed was unintelligible and mushy.
“Wakey wakey, Sunshine,” Navarre crowed mockingly, sharp eyes not leaving Dom’s face, and suddenly he was gripped by the need to get up off the floor, to in no way be any more vulnerable than absolutely necessary under this man’s flat stare. Struggling up, onto his knees caused muscles Dom wasn’t even sure he had names for to groan and pop in protest, but he made it into something resembling a crouch, clumsily mirroring the other man’s posture. His captor just watched without a flicker of change in his relaxed expression.
Ariadne was strangely quiet.
Dom tried to take in his surroundings from the periphery of his vision, not wanting to actually take his eyes off of Navarre for a second. Apprehension made his skin feel tight.
Where’s Ariadne?
The room they were in seemed to be about twenty feet or so across, and roughly square. The floor he was crouched on was cement, and a couple of bare bulbs hung from the ceiling, but they couldn’t have been more than twenty-five watt, because they didn’t so much illuminate as cast shadows. The area of the room behind Navarre was portentously unlit.
What he could see in the shadows was that there was what looked like three exam tables pushed together, and if the lingering smell was any indication, Dom would guess they had been welded together recently. The resulting platform stretched almost six feet square. He could also see a dark, irregular shape sprawled across the top of the table; Ariadne.
No detail overlooked in his sick fantasy, the bastard.
“Ah, ah,” he warned, when he saw Dom tense as if to charge, and displayed the knife he was holding in the hand that had been casually resting on his bent knee. Simultaneously, he brought the hand resting down by his thigh into view. In his grip was a coil of thin, nylon rope, trailing back towards the table. Dom was still somewhat muzzy, and his confusion over the significance of this device must have shown on his face. With deliberate slowness, Navarre closed his fingers around the coil and began to pull, a slow and steady increase in pressure that Dom found terrible to watch.
From somewhere up on the table, Ariadne whimpered, grudgingly. It was a sound that came from between gritted teeth, cut off like she didn’t have enough air for more, and Dom had the sinking feeling he was coming to understand the situation. Navarre let the line go slack again.
“Ariadne?” he called, not taking his eyes off their captor for a second.
“Oh, she’s not talking much,” Navarre told him, conversationally. “Perhaps you should come and see for yourself, Mr. Cobb,” he said, beckoning Dom to follow him over to the makeshift platform. “I would hate for you to do something you’ll regret just because you’re not fully aware of the situation.”
Christ, what has he done? Cautiously, and with a very, very bad feeling about what he was going to find, Dom pushed himself off the floor and followed.
Navarre flipped a switch on the wall behind him, and white light flooded the tables, almost blinding in comparison to the dim incandescent glow of before and illuminating what Dom was secretly sure was going to end as a scene of horror.
Ariadne lay spread-eagle across the gleaming metal platform, wrists and ankles bound securely at each corner with wide leather cuffs. From the tension in her slight frame, Dom was sure her limbs were bound to make sure she had absolutely no give or even enough slack to wiggle. One of her lips was puffy, she had what looked suspiciously what looked like the beginnings of a black eye, and her expression was absolutely furious. Relief, and a little confusion, rushed though him to find her still fully clothed, if lacking shoes or socks. Apparently, Navarre wanted her to feel the cool leather of her restraints against her skin. Her head was held in a padded cradle, preventing her from twisting or turning it, and effectively depriving her of seeing anything other than the ceiling or her immediate peripheral vision - or in this case, Navarre standing at the head of the table, filling her line of sight. Navarre was all about control, they had found.
But none of this was the part that made Dom’s stomach clench so tightly he could feel it down into his balls.
Around her neck, so wickedly fine they would be almost invisible if it weren’t for the paleness of her skin, were twin razor-wires, encircling her neck like a collar. There must be a pass-through cut through the table, allowing him to tighten them, Dom noted, brain continuing to catalogue and analyze despite his horrified fascination. Even as he watched, a thin line of blood continued to well up from where the modified garrotte had sliced her skin moments before in Navarre’s demonstration of power. It wasn’t the only one marring the smooth surfaces of her throat and neck, and Dom had a sickening vision of her calling to him moments earlier, each attempt adding new criss-crossing slices to their captor’s sick masterpiece.
Navarre was standing behind the head of the table, idly stroking Ariadne’s cheek with the hand still wielding the knife. “You see? Oh, I admit, it’s a trifle old school of me, but,” he shrugged, as if to explain his motives where words had failed him. Ariadne had that same sort of shrug, Dom noticed irrationally, and wondered if it was perhaps something they taught in French schools. “True, it is not as effective as being able to exert counter-force on her for leverage, but I do not think that removing her head completely is needed to get the job done. One movement I do not like and the delicious Miss Gries will find that all the blood that was formerly residing in her neck is on the floor.” Ariadne squeaked, though she obviously was working very hard not to show any fear, to stay strong. The look she was trying to give to Dom clearly said, I’m fine, don’t worry about me. She tried to smile a little, and though it looked a little anaemic, he felt a rush of admiration for just how brave she was for trying.
Navarre held up the knife, twisting the blade to catch the light on its honed edge. “Now that you understand, I really won’t be needing this, now will I?” Without warning, he flipped it. Dom plucked it out of the air automatically, and then started in confusion at having just been armed. Looking over at Ariadne, he realized it didn’t help him any. Navarre would have her throat sliced wide open faster than he could even cock his arm back to throw the knife, let alone close with him to attack. Bastard’s just playing with me.
“Thanks,” he raised the knife in a mock salute, and tried not to react when Navarre’s hand went back to stroking Ariadne’s cheek.
Navarre smirked at him, as if pleased by his bravado. “Let me make this plain for you, Dom - do you mind if I call you Dom? We are, after all, going to be very close, you and I.”
“What do you want, you sick fuck?”
“You really should be careful what names you go throwing around, Dom. Sick, am I? Well, by the end of the night, you’ll be able to keep me company in my depravity; we’ll both be sick fucks.”
Dom wasn’t liking the manic gleam in his eyes, or the way this was heading. Navarre wasn’t stupid, or lacking in cunning. This whole scenario didn’t make any sense - Navarre was impotent. A condition they had discovered in the memories of Tara, his brutalized last victim.
Dreaming hadn’t been easy to give up, and when Arthur had approached him with the possibility a legal way in, he hadn’t been able to resist. Knowing he’d be working with Ariadne again, far from being awkward, actually was reassuring; he’d come to respect the young woman tremendously during the Fischer job, despite her less than graceful break-in into his own deepest dreams. He’d learned her instincts were excellent, and her intuition deadly accurate.
The FBI was one of the leading contractors for freelance Extraction teams, usually for help with serial crimes. The imagery from these cases was enough to make him question coming back some days, but he found his own catharsis in knowing that he was part of a solution. Uncovering hidden facts from victims, things they may have repressed, or even small, seeming-inconsequential details catalogued by the brain, and then promptly forgotten by the conscious mind; these were the rewards of dozens of patient extractions. Things like Navarre’s impotence, discovered in the memories of the last of his eight victims.
For over three months, they’d been working on the New Orleans rapist case, and in all that time, he’d never engaged in violence beyond what was needed to subdue his victims; never, until Tara, that was, and they’d known something had happened to re-write the script for this guy. When they’d gone in, Tara’s memories had been a mess, all details overshadowed by the overriding reality of her attack. It’d taken time, but they’d finally found the catalyst for her beating. Enraged when he’d been unable to victimize Tara in his usual way, he’d reacted violently. Nor had she been fortunate enough to completely escape his sexual assault. In a fit of sadism, Navarre had used the barrel of his gun to complete the act he himself hadn’t been able to.
It was actually the sudden appearance of this condition that had allowed them to put a name to the rapist that had spent the last eighteen months hunting the trendy clubs in New Orleans’ famous French Quarter. Something had obviously changed between victim seven, and eight. Arthur, frustrated and furious after months of nothing, and finally presented with something that fell within his specialty, spent thirty-six hours straight researching and asking carefully worded questions of experts and contacts. By the time Arthur shut his laptop, closed his phone and fell into his bed, they had a list of men who had all had surgeries for prostate cancer in the six weeks between the last victim, and Tara. Cross reference that for age, and whatever else the hell Arthur did, and they were left with their rapist, Navarre Lefebvre, karmic victim of accidental injury during his time on the table.
But all the research they had done after Tara’s FBI-requested extraction showed that he should be incapable of making Ariadne victim number nine.
Navarre was smiling at him again, absently running his fingers through Ariadne’s soft curls. Dom saw her visibly try not to squirm under his touch and risk cutting herself any further on the wires. “Bastard,” she whispered hoarsely.
He ignored her as thoroughly as if she wasn’t there, a deliberate marginalization that left Dom cold. “When a man finds himself betrayed of body, he takes up a tool to complete his purpose. A crutch, a sling, a prosthetic… men have become very creative in our use of tools, haven’t we?”
“Body’s been betraying you, hasn’t it?” Ariadne mocked. The front of her throat was now raw-looking from rubbing against the wires, but she wasn’t about to back down, even when she should. Dom admired her, even as she exasperated him, because now was definitely one of those times. The muscle in Navarre’s cheek twitched making his smile look strained, and Dom had it as even money he was going to lose his grip on whatever part Ariadne had to play in the larger plan in a moment, and tighten the noose permanently.
“What does that feel like? That loss of control?” he broke in, and allowed his voice to gloat just a little, trying to take Navarre’s attention off of Ariadne’s impudence.
Navarre’s face twitched again, his smile disappearing, but he had it under control again in a flash. “Yes, well, in the best tradition of the species, I’m going to have to take up a tool. You.”
For five blissful seconds, Dom had no idea what the asshole was talking about. Five wonderfully ignorant seconds while his brain simply refused to connect the dots. He looked down at Ariadne, spread out helpless before him, staring up at him with horrified eyes, and he dropped the knife from suddenly nerveless fingers.
By the end of the night, we’ll both be sick fucks.
He glared, eyes narrowed and burning with revulsion. “Not happening,” Dom said, flatly,
“I rather think it is, Dom. You see, Miss Gries’ life means very little to me. But to you - ah, to you I think it means very much. So you must ask yourself, which is the act you can live with?” he trailed his fingers from her hair, down her cheek to trace her lips with one long finger. She made a sudden move for his finger as he drew close to her teeth. Without even seeming to be watching, lightning fast, Navarre had the garrotte biting into her flesh, and a fresh weal was beading blood. The whole thing was nonchalant, as if correcting a dog, but done with precise control. He relaxed the noose, and his finger continued its path, lingering deliberately along her mouth, taunting her. Never once had he bothered to look down.
“Do you become my tool - my prosthetic, if you will,” his finger left her lips, to trail down and skim the rise of her breasts, “or do you let her die?”
“Why would I, knowing you’re just going to kill us anyway?” Keep him talking; think goddamnit, there must be a way out of this.
“What good would it do me to kill her? You’ve already uncovered my identity and shared it with the FBI - killing her won’t change that. I haven’t killed any of my victims, Dom, you should know that better than most.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I won’t, though, if you force me.”
“Why do this, then? You’re wasting time - you know they have to be closing in on you. Why this elaborate charade?” There was a door on the wall opposite him. Ten feet away, tops; it probably wasn’t even locked; Navarre knew that Dom would never leave Ariadne behind.
“The authorities knowing my name is an inconvenience, true, but not anything that should prevent me from continuing my activities. It will force a re-location, and the help of some less-than-lawful associates that can be found; if you pay the right price.” His expression hardened, “Though, you do not have time to waste. Pick up the knife, and remove her clothing. Any move to do anything other than that, any indication that you might be entertaining ideas of your own, and we’ll have to look for a new plaything, because Miss Gries will no longer be with us.”
His fingers were slippery on the knife handle, and it took him three tries to pick it up. The thought of I’m going to violate Ariadne was becoming a deafening chant inside his head, but the image of her lifeless eyes and pale skin, stained dark with blood, kept his fingers working enough to finally grasp the knife on his fourth try.
“Start with her jeans, if you please.” Navarre’s voice startled him so that he almost dropped the knife again. Get it together, goddamn you. You can’t help either of you like this.
Taking a deep breath, he reached out to grasp Ariadne’s left ankle. The skin was soft and clammy within his hand. He gave it a gentle squeeze, trying to give what reassurance he could, and brought the knife up to begin slicing the leg open. Inappropriately, he wondered if she was ticklish. From the way her foot twitched ever so slightly, he rather thought she was.
Denim was tough fabric, but the knife was wickedly sharp, and it took far less time than Dom would have liked to cut her jeans from her body in two long slices. Despite her diminutive stature, her legs looked like they went on forever, lean and pale against the gleaming steal table. Dom swallowed, and tried to meet her eyes in silent communication. We’re going to be okay. I’ll get us out of this. Her eyes seemed to answer back, I know.
“Now her shirt,” Navarre commanded, and there was an edge of excitement in his voice that wasn’t there before.
Slowly, Dom shuffled around the table. He was eying the hand that held the noose-end, furiously trying to calculate just how fast he could get the knife edge under the wires. It would be close, but the biggest jugular was off to the right, so it wouldn’t be damaged immediately in the largely frontal assault of the garrotte...
“I know what you are thinking;” Navarre’s voice was soft, almost friendly and confiding as he broke into Dom’s thoughts. “Have you ever actually heard someone suffocate? Now, I don’t mean simple strangulation, I mean the useless empty sucking, the struggle for breath that comes when you completely sever their fucking windpipe and they drown in their own blood.” His expression became hard, almost daring him to defy him. “No more bullshit. Her shirt, if you please.”
For a long moment, he stood there, knife halfway to completing his original purpose, his eyes locked with the rapist’s cold grey gaze
“Nail him with it, Dom.” Ariadne’s voice was husky and raw, but didn’t falter once. Dom’s eyes didn’t leave Navarre’s, but his resolve was wavering.
“You’re not fast enough, Dom; Superman isn’t fucking fast enough to pull this off,” he chided. Seconds passed, and Navarre watched him with eyes bright and challenging. “But, if you really need me to make an example out of Miss Gries here,” he gave another one of those French shrugs. “There are plenty of others who will serve our needs, and really, I’m lazy at heart. You will be much less bother once you’ve been shown just how many of the goddamn cards you don’t actually hold.” Navarre watched until he saw the tiny tell, the minute sagging of Dom’s shoulders that signalled his reluctant acquiescence, and he grinned, gloating when the knife withdrew.
“Asshole,” Ariadne whispered, glaring upwards. Despite that, Dom wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t directed, at least a little bit, towards himself as well.
The dark pink cotton tank top didn’t stand a chance, and Dom had it off her in under a minute, despite trying to go as slow as he thought he could get away with. Ariadne lay, completely exposed to the gaze of both men in nothing more than a navy blue bra and panty set. There was a small seashell set in-between the cups of her bra, Dom noted absently. She began to shake; small tremors that began in her knees and traveled up until her shoulders heaved. Ariadne closed her eyes tight, and he could hear her breathing grow unsteady, a precursor to tears, he didn’t doubt. He reached out to try and offer some kind of comfort, “Ariad-” but before he could even lift his hand more than an inch or two, her breathing changed to a pained hiss as the garrotte tightened imperceptibly.
“Your eyes will remain on me, do you understand?” There was real anger in the rapist’s voice. Dom’s free hand clenched into a fist, but he held his tongue, promising himself all kinds of retribution when the opportunity arose. Ariadne opened her eyes to glare back at her tormentor, and the cinch loosened again. Good. Better angry than scared, Dom thought grimly.
“Finish the job, Mr. Cobb, and then put the knife on the ground, and kick it over here.” Navarre sounded impatient now and not nearly as controlled.
With as much detachment as he could manage, Dom did as instructed, as carefully and gently as he could. He kept Ariadne’s gaze as much as possible, trying to insert his presence in the situation, instead of her tormentor’s. When he was done, he sent the knife skittering across the floor.
It came to rest by his right boot, but Navarre didn’t even bother sparing it a glance. “Good. Now strip. I realize you’re new to being a sick fuck, but it’s generally done without your clothes.”
His shoes were kicked off first, and then he stepped out of his socks onto the rough concrete floor. Dom’s mind was working furiously as he unbuttoned his shirt, one carefully slow button at a time; trying to find any way of approaching the bastard without his first having enough time to kill Ariadne. There was none. The knife was now on the floor at the other end of the table, even if he’d been able to somehow use it. No other weapon was in the room, leaving Dom with his bare hands, which he honestly felt more than capable of killing him with, if he could only figure out how to neutralize the garrotte, first. He had shimmied out of his slacks and boxers without coming up with anything even resembling a plan, and he knew he was out of fucking time.
“Up on the table; nice and slowly.” The commands were clipped and to the point now, and Navarre watched him clamber onto the table with feverish eyes. He wanted to rebel, wanted to tell the other man to pound salt, but he held both the carrot and the whip; the carrot being Ariadne’s life if he complied, versus her horrible death by garrotte if he refused. Already her neck was a mass of shallow hatched lines, results of their combined defiance.
Crouched awkwardly between Ariadne’s spread and clammy thighs, Dom realized a few things: one, he was actually going to have to go through with this; two, the metal was really fucking cold; and coming in belatedly as a distant three, he’d better figure out a way to get his equipment working, despite his lack of anything even resembling arousal, or Navarre might kill her out of frustration when it looked like Dom wouldn’t be able to help him with is fantasy.
This close, he could smell the blood, a faint sticky-sweet tang in the air that even cut the acrid burnt-metal smell.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, and he knew he meant it on more levels than he hoped Ariadne would ever understand.
“I know.” It was barely even a whisper, hardly audible at all.
Reluctantly he lowered himself over her and braced himself with hands planted on the table under her outstretched arms. He tried not to shudder back from Navarre, whose body was now suddenly within inches of his own face. He could smell the other man’s excitement and sweat. Slowly, he lifted one hand, and trailed his fingers, then his palm along the soft skin of Ariadne’s arms, along the inside of her elbow to the underside of her wrist. Her eyes flicked to try and track the movement, but other than that, she held completely still. He thought a tiny fraction of the tension may have left her body, though it was probably just wishful thinking on his part. He took a deep breath, and forced himself to focus on the smoothness of her skin under his ghosting touch, the sweet pucker of her nipples, and just how goddamned gorgeous he had always secretly found her. He gave himself permission to notice things about his ten-years-younger associate he would never normally allow himself to. He did anything and everything that he could to block out the presence of the other man from his awareness; tried to force him out with a hazy, half-formed fantasy of how the slick heat of her would feel wrapped around him, how her velvet sheath would spasm around him- This sharp, unexpectedly vivid image finally caused the needed response in his hitherto flaccid dick. He tasted bile, and his arms shook.
Dom closed his eyes, and forced himself to breathe in through his nose and hold it; trying to find some kind of calm, to find the strength he knew he was going to need. When he released it, he hoped he’d gained even a thin veneer of the control he was reaching for. He desperately tried not to think about anything other than right now, because thoughts of just how bad the fallout from all this was going to be were threatening to derail him, and Ariadne’s life depended on his keeping his shit together. When he finally opened his eyes, her frantic gaze starred back at him, with something very much like trust.
He was going to Hell, he really, really was.
Her panicked whimper startled him out of his reverie. Dom’s eyes shot open to see fresh blood seeping up from around where the wire had dug in deep. Ariadne’s next breath squeaked, threatening to break as she fought to get herself under control as the constriction relaxed. Two tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes.
“Your pretty young friend doesn’t have all day for you to admire the décor, Mr. Cobb,” Navarre commented, though the impatient twitching of his fingers and the shifting of his feet belied the idleness of his comment. Dom tried really, really hard not to notice how low the man’s sweat pants were sitting on his hips, exposing a wide swath gleaming skin that certainly hadn’t been visible a moment before; tried furiously to not think about what this man might be doing under the edge of the table while Dom and Ariadne were forced to play out his dark imaginings.
The initial thrust was the hardest; getting up the will to actually commit the act was just about more than he could handle. The friction of her dry cunt was a rough rasp against his cock that had him gritting his teeth, more because he couldn’t stop himself from imagining the likely sensations Ariadne was feeling. He drove himself in again anyway; the only sounds were Ariadne’s shallow breathing and the quite slither of flesh against flesh that Dom was really trying not to notice. He also tried to ignore the way Ariadne was wincing by the third thrust, but then natural reactions seemed to take over to smooth his way as her body at last responded to his intrusion and her arid passage became the slick glove he’d been fantasizing about what seemed in some bizarre duality of time like both seconds and decades ago. He wondered how many more ways there would be to feel guilty before this was all over, though he could only be thankful that in this tiny way, at least, she was being spared further discomfort.
He could feel his body responding to Ariadne’s and as much as he hated it, he didn’t fight it, but let it come in a haze of sensory stimulation and rage.
Navarre watched Ariadne closely, carefully cataloguing every wince, savouring every hiss and shudder, but he looked up to catch Dom’s eyes with disturbing frequency. Dom could see his long fingers working his flaccid flesh steadily, with an uncomfortable sort of grace, and Navarre was breathing through his mouth now, jaw hanging ever so slightly slack and breath hissing softly between his teeth. His eyes were narrowed, though still entirely too sharp, wringing every nuance out of the moment, hanging on every shudder, every betraying roll of Ariadne’s eyes or whimper as Dom inadvertently moved the wrong way to make fresh hatch-marks on her throat as the wires dug in again and again, and a desperate plan began to percolate in the back of Dom’s thoughts.
He could smell sex in the air; a salty mixture of three people’s sweat and musk. The table top was becoming slick under his hands and he had to keep shifting to maintain his balance. He tried to keep his eyes on Ariadne’s, while still watching Navarre as inconspicuously he’d ever done anything in his entire life. Ariadne seemed to sense something; in the set of his shoulders, the narrow focus of his eyes, perhaps, that told her he had something in mind. Very deliberately, she caught his eye and narrowed one of hers ever so slightly in a gutsy barely-wink, before rolling them back in her head and giving a hoarse little sob, playing into Navarre’s sick desires in the way she’d been trying not too since they woke up to this shadowy prison. Instantly, she had Navarre’s riveted focus.
And still the undeniable sensations crept into his system. He clenched his teeth when he inadvertently groaned and tried his best to ignore his own body.
He could feel the other man’s hissing breath ghosting over his hair, hot and moist on his shoulder blades. Could feel Ariadne not-entirely-calculated trembling beneath him; and was uncomfortably aware of the sweat that was collecting at the base of his spine, and especially of the fact that he could practically taste Navarre’s. Watching carefully for that moment when he knew Navarre would be unable to help being at least a little vulnerable in his euphoria and when he would have his best chance of catching him off guard, Dom tensed ever so slightly. He’d never anticipated watching another man’s orgasm so intently before, but he was conscious, as never before in his life of keeping his expression slack and defeated, his eyes dull as he waited furiously, and judged his moment.
When the first small hitch in his breathing came, the first blissful tendrils of endorphin-enhanced pleasure and the first shot of sticky hot come splashed into Ariadne’s hair, Dom tensed, waiting. Ariadne jerked at the wet contact with a small noise, like a bird shredding on a barbed wire fence maybe, and Navarre groaned, and it was a harsh sound that came from between clenched teeth and flaring nostrils. The sounds were bizarrely harmonious in Dom’s ear, and he realized that he had no mental reserves left to draw on. Focused as he was, he still managed to get his arm behind Ariadne’s head in time to catch the next spray against his forearm, shielding her as best he could, though it felt repulsive sliding down his own skin. The small part of his mind that wasn’t actively trying to time his moment was bemused to actually feel her trying to shrink into him, into the protective sort of cave he’d created with his body. Ironic that she would willingly seek his protection after what had just happened, but he pushed the thought aside, and just let himself feel relieved that he was still a better kind of monster in her eyes. Time enough later to try and process what the hell had just happened.
His arms were trying to shake again, and sweat was sticking his hair to his forehead. Ariadne’s breathing was rough and heavy against his chest and he honestly had no idea how he was even going to continue to hold himself up when Navarre gave one more rough jerk with his hand. A third spray, and a satisfied hiss. Navarre’s eyes closed fractionally, and Dom struck with all the coiled frustration and anger he’d been holding. With all the force he could manage, he smashed the crown of his head into Navarre’s nose, driving up with all the spring he could gain from the slippery leverage he had on the table, feeling a satisfying crack! and a dribble of hot fluid that could be spit, or blood or snot for all he knew. Simultaneously, he shot one hand out for Navarre’s arm, just below the elbow, and dropped his other forearm on the table beside Ariadne’s head, trying not to fall on her and crush her. Digging his thumb in mercilessly into the nerve there and doing his damnedest to grind it and the bone beneath it to dust, he felt the muscle tension suddenly leave the limb as Navarre’s whole forearm when numb and useless within his grasp and he dropped the coil that held them both hostage. He tried not to notice the feel of his dick within Ariadne’s body as he twisted; and finally overstimulation was coupled with the high of violence and adrenaline. He shuddered as his own release caught him almost unaware, hot bolts of pleasure nearly causing him to black out as the rush of surviving coupled with biological responses he was helpless to overcome made for an intense combination he would be ashamed to remember later. But for now, Navarre was roaring and spitting in pain and anger, and Dom was twisting to get off the table without bloody well killing himself in the process. His roll from the table, while extremely ungraceful, had the benefit of jerking his opponent as he landed and causing Navarre to stumble and almost fall, by simple virtue of Dom’s dogged refusal to let go of his captured arm.
Psychologically, it’s difficult for a naked man to fight, especially if he’s fighting a clothed opponent. Not that Navarre entirely qualified as clothed, with his pants pushed down to expose himself for business, but Dom didn’t even let himself consider the almost surreal situation as he tried to catch his balance after his graceless tumble. Far from passive, Navarre reacted instantly to Dom’s attack. Off-balance, and knowing his grip on Navarre’s arm was the only thing keeping Ariadne’s neck in one piece, Dom couldn’t stop his opponent from using his now useless arm to give Dom a good hard yank, cocking back at the last second, and nailing Dom in the temple when he was jerked forward.
The blow fell like a hammer, connecting with slight hollow in the skull and instantly buckling Dom’s knees out from under him. For a moment he just lay there from his new position on the floor and stared, trying to process what the hell had just happened through the haze in his head that insisted he was still standing.
Navarre watched his struggles for a moment, all sardonic amusement and well-contained rage. Satisfied, he reached down and reclaimed the nylon cord with his left hand, his right still hanging useless at his side. With deliberate slowness, he began increasing the tautness of the line, and he watched Dom, cocking his head to one side, as if verifying that his lesson was being driven home.
“No matter what you do, you’re still a limp-dicked little pissant,” Ariadne was obviously trying to thrash against her bonds, but had no leverage against the tight straps holding her down.
With a flicker of irritation, he gave a quick increase in pressure, cutting Ariadne’s air supply instantly.
“Ah, ah, Dom. You know, it’s instincts like that that get you into these kinds of messes,” Navarre said conversationally, as he casually used the scraps of Ariadne’s bra to wipe himself off, the little seashell winking almost obscenely between his fingers. He made no attempt to be discrete about it, though his hold on the garrotte rope never slacked for a second. Dom pointedly turned his gaze aside, like Navarre’s little show was nothing.
“Well, it’s been fun children; a different kind of fun than I’ve been accustomed too, but satisfactory.” He gave the knife a careless kick with one booted foot, sending it slithering across cement and even further out of Dom’s reach. “Really, I envy you right now, Dom,” he said, casually pulling up his pants. “The first one is always the biggest rush. You may not feel it now, but it will come to you at night, when you’re alone and all you’ll be able to think about it this moment.”
Dom knew he was right - he would think about this moment, probably lie awake at night consumed with it, but it wouldn’t be in pleasure. Still, all he said was “I’m not you,” because honestly, that was all he had energy for.
Navarre just gave him this fucking paternal smile, and began backing towards the door, keeping careful tension on the line with each step. “Dom, why don’t you just stay right where you are until I’ve gone; somehow, I don’t trust you wandering around at the moment. I’m not sure you’re thinking entirely clearly, and I would hate to have to do something you’ll regret.”
He tensed, hoping against hope for an opening; any kind of opening, but Navarre left him none; and honestly, if there was one, he wasn’t entirely sure he could find his feet yet. The cord was long enough to get him out the door, and then they were sealed in. Dom felt that there should have been a heavy clang as the door closed, some kind of big, booming noise to seal in a room where so much had just changed, but instead all there was, was the soft click! as the tongue of the locking plate caught in the groove of the jam, and the quiet slither of a bolt being slide home.
And then there was silence.
Author's Notes:
I have no idea where this dark angst!fest came from, but I think I'm a little bit frightened O.o I cannot promise this will get finished, though I will try, but I was rather proud of how wonderfully evil and memorable Navarre became. Writing truly good villains is difficult, and I think I may have managed to write one that draws you in with an intense desire to see him get what's coming to him :) I know, I was as shocked as anything, too!
This is actually based on a prompt from the Inception_Kink Meme : ariadne/cobb: an unplanned pregnancy.
Now, my thought process went something like this:
There are really only three ways for this pregnancy to happen:
1) They are drunk
2) They are in a relationship, and forgot a condom
Now, both 1 & 2 struck me as... not the kind of story I would want to write. The one thing they do have in common is that they're both willing participation. Which leads me to:
3) One, or both are unwilling participants.
This is sort of where I started from >.> I have a great deal of plot hashed out for this that I really want to explore, so hopefully, I will manage to get it out of my head and onto paper at some point in the near future.
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Dominic Cobb/Ariadne
Rating: NC-17
Words:~ 6,600
Beta: leanannsidhe
Warnings: Rape & Non-Con and Violence
Warnings apply only to first chapter - and are necessary for the plot. Story will develop with a happy ending, because that's how I roll, I'm afraid :)
Ebb
Chapter 1 - A Lucid Nightmare
“Dom!”
The voice swam up into focus for a brief moment, before being lost again, before he could even make a stab at identifying it. His brain sputtered and heaved, and made another attempt at consciousness. Slowly, other sensory data began to filter in, like the fuzzy feeling around the edges of his thoughts, and the way his head pounded with the beginnings of the mother of all headaches, each throb in time to the beating of his heart.
“Dom!”
That voice again. Still no name was forthcoming, but he was beginning to feel that maybe, the voice wasn’t quite right.
He was sitting on some kind of hard surface, cold, and uncomfortable, and for a moment he felt relief at the thought that he must have drunk too much with Eames, or Arthur, and passed out on his floor. He was unsure as to why this scenario, one that he hadn’t indulged in since well before Phillipa was born, should make him feel relieved. He was fairly certain he must have hit his head on his way down here, because he could feel the large knot where the sick pounding was originating, just over his right ear.
Something still felt wrong about that interpretation, though God knew his mouth felt dry enough for that to be the case.
He could smell something … metallic, like a downtown construction site after they welded the steel girders for some new skyscraper. The smell was faintly acrid in his nose, but tasted worse.
“Oh, God. Dom!”
The voice was low and urgent and hoarse, like the throat supplying it was reluctant to do so. Dom could distinguish that now, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. Ariadne, the name finally surfaced, and he knew why the voice had sounded wrong.
She sounded terrified.
He finally managed to open his eyes.
-..-
A man was about six feet away, crouched down on one knee. He was smiling almost solicitously over at Dom where he lay flat out on the cement floor. Even only halfway conscious, Dom noted the guy was well out of arm’s reach. He was broad but lean, and dressed in loose sweats and a t-shirt, all in black down to his lace-up, military-style boots. Short, sandy-blond hair was styled back from his face, where cold grey eyes stared back at them. He was smiling, his skin crinkling back from his thin lips in true amusement.
Somehow, Dom was reminded of a shark, with blood in the pool. He had seen this man before, reflected in the dreams and subconscious of his captor’s victims.
“Navarre,” he tried to get out, but his brain was still trying vainly to find the various parts of his body in the fog, and he was fairly certain the sound he finally managed was unintelligible and mushy.
“Wakey wakey, Sunshine,” Navarre crowed mockingly, sharp eyes not leaving Dom’s face, and suddenly he was gripped by the need to get up off the floor, to in no way be any more vulnerable than absolutely necessary under this man’s flat stare. Struggling up, onto his knees caused muscles Dom wasn’t even sure he had names for to groan and pop in protest, but he made it into something resembling a crouch, clumsily mirroring the other man’s posture. His captor just watched without a flicker of change in his relaxed expression.
Ariadne was strangely quiet.
Dom tried to take in his surroundings from the periphery of his vision, not wanting to actually take his eyes off of Navarre for a second. Apprehension made his skin feel tight.
Where’s Ariadne?
The room they were in seemed to be about twenty feet or so across, and roughly square. The floor he was crouched on was cement, and a couple of bare bulbs hung from the ceiling, but they couldn’t have been more than twenty-five watt, because they didn’t so much illuminate as cast shadows. The area of the room behind Navarre was portentously unlit.
What he could see in the shadows was that there was what looked like three exam tables pushed together, and if the lingering smell was any indication, Dom would guess they had been welded together recently. The resulting platform stretched almost six feet square. He could also see a dark, irregular shape sprawled across the top of the table; Ariadne.
No detail overlooked in his sick fantasy, the bastard.
“Ah, ah,” he warned, when he saw Dom tense as if to charge, and displayed the knife he was holding in the hand that had been casually resting on his bent knee. Simultaneously, he brought the hand resting down by his thigh into view. In his grip was a coil of thin, nylon rope, trailing back towards the table. Dom was still somewhat muzzy, and his confusion over the significance of this device must have shown on his face. With deliberate slowness, Navarre closed his fingers around the coil and began to pull, a slow and steady increase in pressure that Dom found terrible to watch.
From somewhere up on the table, Ariadne whimpered, grudgingly. It was a sound that came from between gritted teeth, cut off like she didn’t have enough air for more, and Dom had the sinking feeling he was coming to understand the situation. Navarre let the line go slack again.
“Ariadne?” he called, not taking his eyes off their captor for a second.
“Oh, she’s not talking much,” Navarre told him, conversationally. “Perhaps you should come and see for yourself, Mr. Cobb,” he said, beckoning Dom to follow him over to the makeshift platform. “I would hate for you to do something you’ll regret just because you’re not fully aware of the situation.”
Christ, what has he done? Cautiously, and with a very, very bad feeling about what he was going to find, Dom pushed himself off the floor and followed.
Navarre flipped a switch on the wall behind him, and white light flooded the tables, almost blinding in comparison to the dim incandescent glow of before and illuminating what Dom was secretly sure was going to end as a scene of horror.
Ariadne lay spread-eagle across the gleaming metal platform, wrists and ankles bound securely at each corner with wide leather cuffs. From the tension in her slight frame, Dom was sure her limbs were bound to make sure she had absolutely no give or even enough slack to wiggle. One of her lips was puffy, she had what looked suspiciously what looked like the beginnings of a black eye, and her expression was absolutely furious. Relief, and a little confusion, rushed though him to find her still fully clothed, if lacking shoes or socks. Apparently, Navarre wanted her to feel the cool leather of her restraints against her skin. Her head was held in a padded cradle, preventing her from twisting or turning it, and effectively depriving her of seeing anything other than the ceiling or her immediate peripheral vision - or in this case, Navarre standing at the head of the table, filling her line of sight. Navarre was all about control, they had found.
But none of this was the part that made Dom’s stomach clench so tightly he could feel it down into his balls.
Around her neck, so wickedly fine they would be almost invisible if it weren’t for the paleness of her skin, were twin razor-wires, encircling her neck like a collar. There must be a pass-through cut through the table, allowing him to tighten them, Dom noted, brain continuing to catalogue and analyze despite his horrified fascination. Even as he watched, a thin line of blood continued to well up from where the modified garrotte had sliced her skin moments before in Navarre’s demonstration of power. It wasn’t the only one marring the smooth surfaces of her throat and neck, and Dom had a sickening vision of her calling to him moments earlier, each attempt adding new criss-crossing slices to their captor’s sick masterpiece.
Navarre was standing behind the head of the table, idly stroking Ariadne’s cheek with the hand still wielding the knife. “You see? Oh, I admit, it’s a trifle old school of me, but,” he shrugged, as if to explain his motives where words had failed him. Ariadne had that same sort of shrug, Dom noticed irrationally, and wondered if it was perhaps something they taught in French schools. “True, it is not as effective as being able to exert counter-force on her for leverage, but I do not think that removing her head completely is needed to get the job done. One movement I do not like and the delicious Miss Gries will find that all the blood that was formerly residing in her neck is on the floor.” Ariadne squeaked, though she obviously was working very hard not to show any fear, to stay strong. The look she was trying to give to Dom clearly said, I’m fine, don’t worry about me. She tried to smile a little, and though it looked a little anaemic, he felt a rush of admiration for just how brave she was for trying.
Navarre held up the knife, twisting the blade to catch the light on its honed edge. “Now that you understand, I really won’t be needing this, now will I?” Without warning, he flipped it. Dom plucked it out of the air automatically, and then started in confusion at having just been armed. Looking over at Ariadne, he realized it didn’t help him any. Navarre would have her throat sliced wide open faster than he could even cock his arm back to throw the knife, let alone close with him to attack. Bastard’s just playing with me.
“Thanks,” he raised the knife in a mock salute, and tried not to react when Navarre’s hand went back to stroking Ariadne’s cheek.
Navarre smirked at him, as if pleased by his bravado. “Let me make this plain for you, Dom - do you mind if I call you Dom? We are, after all, going to be very close, you and I.”
“What do you want, you sick fuck?”
“You really should be careful what names you go throwing around, Dom. Sick, am I? Well, by the end of the night, you’ll be able to keep me company in my depravity; we’ll both be sick fucks.”
Dom wasn’t liking the manic gleam in his eyes, or the way this was heading. Navarre wasn’t stupid, or lacking in cunning. This whole scenario didn’t make any sense - Navarre was impotent. A condition they had discovered in the memories of Tara, his brutalized last victim.
Dreaming hadn’t been easy to give up, and when Arthur had approached him with the possibility a legal way in, he hadn’t been able to resist. Knowing he’d be working with Ariadne again, far from being awkward, actually was reassuring; he’d come to respect the young woman tremendously during the Fischer job, despite her less than graceful break-in into his own deepest dreams. He’d learned her instincts were excellent, and her intuition deadly accurate.
The FBI was one of the leading contractors for freelance Extraction teams, usually for help with serial crimes. The imagery from these cases was enough to make him question coming back some days, but he found his own catharsis in knowing that he was part of a solution. Uncovering hidden facts from victims, things they may have repressed, or even small, seeming-inconsequential details catalogued by the brain, and then promptly forgotten by the conscious mind; these were the rewards of dozens of patient extractions. Things like Navarre’s impotence, discovered in the memories of the last of his eight victims.
For over three months, they’d been working on the New Orleans rapist case, and in all that time, he’d never engaged in violence beyond what was needed to subdue his victims; never, until Tara, that was, and they’d known something had happened to re-write the script for this guy. When they’d gone in, Tara’s memories had been a mess, all details overshadowed by the overriding reality of her attack. It’d taken time, but they’d finally found the catalyst for her beating. Enraged when he’d been unable to victimize Tara in his usual way, he’d reacted violently. Nor had she been fortunate enough to completely escape his sexual assault. In a fit of sadism, Navarre had used the barrel of his gun to complete the act he himself hadn’t been able to.
It was actually the sudden appearance of this condition that had allowed them to put a name to the rapist that had spent the last eighteen months hunting the trendy clubs in New Orleans’ famous French Quarter. Something had obviously changed between victim seven, and eight. Arthur, frustrated and furious after months of nothing, and finally presented with something that fell within his specialty, spent thirty-six hours straight researching and asking carefully worded questions of experts and contacts. By the time Arthur shut his laptop, closed his phone and fell into his bed, they had a list of men who had all had surgeries for prostate cancer in the six weeks between the last victim, and Tara. Cross reference that for age, and whatever else the hell Arthur did, and they were left with their rapist, Navarre Lefebvre, karmic victim of accidental injury during his time on the table.
But all the research they had done after Tara’s FBI-requested extraction showed that he should be incapable of making Ariadne victim number nine.
Navarre was smiling at him again, absently running his fingers through Ariadne’s soft curls. Dom saw her visibly try not to squirm under his touch and risk cutting herself any further on the wires. “Bastard,” she whispered hoarsely.
He ignored her as thoroughly as if she wasn’t there, a deliberate marginalization that left Dom cold. “When a man finds himself betrayed of body, he takes up a tool to complete his purpose. A crutch, a sling, a prosthetic… men have become very creative in our use of tools, haven’t we?”
“Body’s been betraying you, hasn’t it?” Ariadne mocked. The front of her throat was now raw-looking from rubbing against the wires, but she wasn’t about to back down, even when she should. Dom admired her, even as she exasperated him, because now was definitely one of those times. The muscle in Navarre’s cheek twitched making his smile look strained, and Dom had it as even money he was going to lose his grip on whatever part Ariadne had to play in the larger plan in a moment, and tighten the noose permanently.
“What does that feel like? That loss of control?” he broke in, and allowed his voice to gloat just a little, trying to take Navarre’s attention off of Ariadne’s impudence.
Navarre’s face twitched again, his smile disappearing, but he had it under control again in a flash. “Yes, well, in the best tradition of the species, I’m going to have to take up a tool. You.”
For five blissful seconds, Dom had no idea what the asshole was talking about. Five wonderfully ignorant seconds while his brain simply refused to connect the dots. He looked down at Ariadne, spread out helpless before him, staring up at him with horrified eyes, and he dropped the knife from suddenly nerveless fingers.
By the end of the night, we’ll both be sick fucks.
He glared, eyes narrowed and burning with revulsion. “Not happening,” Dom said, flatly,
“I rather think it is, Dom. You see, Miss Gries’ life means very little to me. But to you - ah, to you I think it means very much. So you must ask yourself, which is the act you can live with?” he trailed his fingers from her hair, down her cheek to trace her lips with one long finger. She made a sudden move for his finger as he drew close to her teeth. Without even seeming to be watching, lightning fast, Navarre had the garrotte biting into her flesh, and a fresh weal was beading blood. The whole thing was nonchalant, as if correcting a dog, but done with precise control. He relaxed the noose, and his finger continued its path, lingering deliberately along her mouth, taunting her. Never once had he bothered to look down.
“Do you become my tool - my prosthetic, if you will,” his finger left her lips, to trail down and skim the rise of her breasts, “or do you let her die?”
“Why would I, knowing you’re just going to kill us anyway?” Keep him talking; think goddamnit, there must be a way out of this.
“What good would it do me to kill her? You’ve already uncovered my identity and shared it with the FBI - killing her won’t change that. I haven’t killed any of my victims, Dom, you should know that better than most.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I won’t, though, if you force me.”
“Why do this, then? You’re wasting time - you know they have to be closing in on you. Why this elaborate charade?” There was a door on the wall opposite him. Ten feet away, tops; it probably wasn’t even locked; Navarre knew that Dom would never leave Ariadne behind.
“The authorities knowing my name is an inconvenience, true, but not anything that should prevent me from continuing my activities. It will force a re-location, and the help of some less-than-lawful associates that can be found; if you pay the right price.” His expression hardened, “Though, you do not have time to waste. Pick up the knife, and remove her clothing. Any move to do anything other than that, any indication that you might be entertaining ideas of your own, and we’ll have to look for a new plaything, because Miss Gries will no longer be with us.”
His fingers were slippery on the knife handle, and it took him three tries to pick it up. The thought of I’m going to violate Ariadne was becoming a deafening chant inside his head, but the image of her lifeless eyes and pale skin, stained dark with blood, kept his fingers working enough to finally grasp the knife on his fourth try.
“Start with her jeans, if you please.” Navarre’s voice startled him so that he almost dropped the knife again. Get it together, goddamn you. You can’t help either of you like this.
Taking a deep breath, he reached out to grasp Ariadne’s left ankle. The skin was soft and clammy within his hand. He gave it a gentle squeeze, trying to give what reassurance he could, and brought the knife up to begin slicing the leg open. Inappropriately, he wondered if she was ticklish. From the way her foot twitched ever so slightly, he rather thought she was.
Denim was tough fabric, but the knife was wickedly sharp, and it took far less time than Dom would have liked to cut her jeans from her body in two long slices. Despite her diminutive stature, her legs looked like they went on forever, lean and pale against the gleaming steal table. Dom swallowed, and tried to meet her eyes in silent communication. We’re going to be okay. I’ll get us out of this. Her eyes seemed to answer back, I know.
“Now her shirt,” Navarre commanded, and there was an edge of excitement in his voice that wasn’t there before.
Slowly, Dom shuffled around the table. He was eying the hand that held the noose-end, furiously trying to calculate just how fast he could get the knife edge under the wires. It would be close, but the biggest jugular was off to the right, so it wouldn’t be damaged immediately in the largely frontal assault of the garrotte...
“I know what you are thinking;” Navarre’s voice was soft, almost friendly and confiding as he broke into Dom’s thoughts. “Have you ever actually heard someone suffocate? Now, I don’t mean simple strangulation, I mean the useless empty sucking, the struggle for breath that comes when you completely sever their fucking windpipe and they drown in their own blood.” His expression became hard, almost daring him to defy him. “No more bullshit. Her shirt, if you please.”
For a long moment, he stood there, knife halfway to completing his original purpose, his eyes locked with the rapist’s cold grey gaze
“Nail him with it, Dom.” Ariadne’s voice was husky and raw, but didn’t falter once. Dom’s eyes didn’t leave Navarre’s, but his resolve was wavering.
“You’re not fast enough, Dom; Superman isn’t fucking fast enough to pull this off,” he chided. Seconds passed, and Navarre watched him with eyes bright and challenging. “But, if you really need me to make an example out of Miss Gries here,” he gave another one of those French shrugs. “There are plenty of others who will serve our needs, and really, I’m lazy at heart. You will be much less bother once you’ve been shown just how many of the goddamn cards you don’t actually hold.” Navarre watched until he saw the tiny tell, the minute sagging of Dom’s shoulders that signalled his reluctant acquiescence, and he grinned, gloating when the knife withdrew.
“Asshole,” Ariadne whispered, glaring upwards. Despite that, Dom wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t directed, at least a little bit, towards himself as well.
The dark pink cotton tank top didn’t stand a chance, and Dom had it off her in under a minute, despite trying to go as slow as he thought he could get away with. Ariadne lay, completely exposed to the gaze of both men in nothing more than a navy blue bra and panty set. There was a small seashell set in-between the cups of her bra, Dom noted absently. She began to shake; small tremors that began in her knees and traveled up until her shoulders heaved. Ariadne closed her eyes tight, and he could hear her breathing grow unsteady, a precursor to tears, he didn’t doubt. He reached out to try and offer some kind of comfort, “Ariad-” but before he could even lift his hand more than an inch or two, her breathing changed to a pained hiss as the garrotte tightened imperceptibly.
“Your eyes will remain on me, do you understand?” There was real anger in the rapist’s voice. Dom’s free hand clenched into a fist, but he held his tongue, promising himself all kinds of retribution when the opportunity arose. Ariadne opened her eyes to glare back at her tormentor, and the cinch loosened again. Good. Better angry than scared, Dom thought grimly.
“Finish the job, Mr. Cobb, and then put the knife on the ground, and kick it over here.” Navarre sounded impatient now and not nearly as controlled.
With as much detachment as he could manage, Dom did as instructed, as carefully and gently as he could. He kept Ariadne’s gaze as much as possible, trying to insert his presence in the situation, instead of her tormentor’s. When he was done, he sent the knife skittering across the floor.
It came to rest by his right boot, but Navarre didn’t even bother sparing it a glance. “Good. Now strip. I realize you’re new to being a sick fuck, but it’s generally done without your clothes.”
His shoes were kicked off first, and then he stepped out of his socks onto the rough concrete floor. Dom’s mind was working furiously as he unbuttoned his shirt, one carefully slow button at a time; trying to find any way of approaching the bastard without his first having enough time to kill Ariadne. There was none. The knife was now on the floor at the other end of the table, even if he’d been able to somehow use it. No other weapon was in the room, leaving Dom with his bare hands, which he honestly felt more than capable of killing him with, if he could only figure out how to neutralize the garrotte, first. He had shimmied out of his slacks and boxers without coming up with anything even resembling a plan, and he knew he was out of fucking time.
“Up on the table; nice and slowly.” The commands were clipped and to the point now, and Navarre watched him clamber onto the table with feverish eyes. He wanted to rebel, wanted to tell the other man to pound salt, but he held both the carrot and the whip; the carrot being Ariadne’s life if he complied, versus her horrible death by garrotte if he refused. Already her neck was a mass of shallow hatched lines, results of their combined defiance.
Crouched awkwardly between Ariadne’s spread and clammy thighs, Dom realized a few things: one, he was actually going to have to go through with this; two, the metal was really fucking cold; and coming in belatedly as a distant three, he’d better figure out a way to get his equipment working, despite his lack of anything even resembling arousal, or Navarre might kill her out of frustration when it looked like Dom wouldn’t be able to help him with is fantasy.
This close, he could smell the blood, a faint sticky-sweet tang in the air that even cut the acrid burnt-metal smell.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, and he knew he meant it on more levels than he hoped Ariadne would ever understand.
“I know.” It was barely even a whisper, hardly audible at all.
Reluctantly he lowered himself over her and braced himself with hands planted on the table under her outstretched arms. He tried not to shudder back from Navarre, whose body was now suddenly within inches of his own face. He could smell the other man’s excitement and sweat. Slowly, he lifted one hand, and trailed his fingers, then his palm along the soft skin of Ariadne’s arms, along the inside of her elbow to the underside of her wrist. Her eyes flicked to try and track the movement, but other than that, she held completely still. He thought a tiny fraction of the tension may have left her body, though it was probably just wishful thinking on his part. He took a deep breath, and forced himself to focus on the smoothness of her skin under his ghosting touch, the sweet pucker of her nipples, and just how goddamned gorgeous he had always secretly found her. He gave himself permission to notice things about his ten-years-younger associate he would never normally allow himself to. He did anything and everything that he could to block out the presence of the other man from his awareness; tried to force him out with a hazy, half-formed fantasy of how the slick heat of her would feel wrapped around him, how her velvet sheath would spasm around him- This sharp, unexpectedly vivid image finally caused the needed response in his hitherto flaccid dick. He tasted bile, and his arms shook.
Dom closed his eyes, and forced himself to breathe in through his nose and hold it; trying to find some kind of calm, to find the strength he knew he was going to need. When he released it, he hoped he’d gained even a thin veneer of the control he was reaching for. He desperately tried not to think about anything other than right now, because thoughts of just how bad the fallout from all this was going to be were threatening to derail him, and Ariadne’s life depended on his keeping his shit together. When he finally opened his eyes, her frantic gaze starred back at him, with something very much like trust.
He was going to Hell, he really, really was.
Her panicked whimper startled him out of his reverie. Dom’s eyes shot open to see fresh blood seeping up from around where the wire had dug in deep. Ariadne’s next breath squeaked, threatening to break as she fought to get herself under control as the constriction relaxed. Two tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes.
“Your pretty young friend doesn’t have all day for you to admire the décor, Mr. Cobb,” Navarre commented, though the impatient twitching of his fingers and the shifting of his feet belied the idleness of his comment. Dom tried really, really hard not to notice how low the man’s sweat pants were sitting on his hips, exposing a wide swath gleaming skin that certainly hadn’t been visible a moment before; tried furiously to not think about what this man might be doing under the edge of the table while Dom and Ariadne were forced to play out his dark imaginings.
The initial thrust was the hardest; getting up the will to actually commit the act was just about more than he could handle. The friction of her dry cunt was a rough rasp against his cock that had him gritting his teeth, more because he couldn’t stop himself from imagining the likely sensations Ariadne was feeling. He drove himself in again anyway; the only sounds were Ariadne’s shallow breathing and the quite slither of flesh against flesh that Dom was really trying not to notice. He also tried to ignore the way Ariadne was wincing by the third thrust, but then natural reactions seemed to take over to smooth his way as her body at last responded to his intrusion and her arid passage became the slick glove he’d been fantasizing about what seemed in some bizarre duality of time like both seconds and decades ago. He wondered how many more ways there would be to feel guilty before this was all over, though he could only be thankful that in this tiny way, at least, she was being spared further discomfort.
He could feel his body responding to Ariadne’s and as much as he hated it, he didn’t fight it, but let it come in a haze of sensory stimulation and rage.
Navarre watched Ariadne closely, carefully cataloguing every wince, savouring every hiss and shudder, but he looked up to catch Dom’s eyes with disturbing frequency. Dom could see his long fingers working his flaccid flesh steadily, with an uncomfortable sort of grace, and Navarre was breathing through his mouth now, jaw hanging ever so slightly slack and breath hissing softly between his teeth. His eyes were narrowed, though still entirely too sharp, wringing every nuance out of the moment, hanging on every shudder, every betraying roll of Ariadne’s eyes or whimper as Dom inadvertently moved the wrong way to make fresh hatch-marks on her throat as the wires dug in again and again, and a desperate plan began to percolate in the back of Dom’s thoughts.
He could smell sex in the air; a salty mixture of three people’s sweat and musk. The table top was becoming slick under his hands and he had to keep shifting to maintain his balance. He tried to keep his eyes on Ariadne’s, while still watching Navarre as inconspicuously he’d ever done anything in his entire life. Ariadne seemed to sense something; in the set of his shoulders, the narrow focus of his eyes, perhaps, that told her he had something in mind. Very deliberately, she caught his eye and narrowed one of hers ever so slightly in a gutsy barely-wink, before rolling them back in her head and giving a hoarse little sob, playing into Navarre’s sick desires in the way she’d been trying not too since they woke up to this shadowy prison. Instantly, she had Navarre’s riveted focus.
And still the undeniable sensations crept into his system. He clenched his teeth when he inadvertently groaned and tried his best to ignore his own body.
He could feel the other man’s hissing breath ghosting over his hair, hot and moist on his shoulder blades. Could feel Ariadne not-entirely-calculated trembling beneath him; and was uncomfortably aware of the sweat that was collecting at the base of his spine, and especially of the fact that he could practically taste Navarre’s. Watching carefully for that moment when he knew Navarre would be unable to help being at least a little vulnerable in his euphoria and when he would have his best chance of catching him off guard, Dom tensed ever so slightly. He’d never anticipated watching another man’s orgasm so intently before, but he was conscious, as never before in his life of keeping his expression slack and defeated, his eyes dull as he waited furiously, and judged his moment.
When the first small hitch in his breathing came, the first blissful tendrils of endorphin-enhanced pleasure and the first shot of sticky hot come splashed into Ariadne’s hair, Dom tensed, waiting. Ariadne jerked at the wet contact with a small noise, like a bird shredding on a barbed wire fence maybe, and Navarre groaned, and it was a harsh sound that came from between clenched teeth and flaring nostrils. The sounds were bizarrely harmonious in Dom’s ear, and he realized that he had no mental reserves left to draw on. Focused as he was, he still managed to get his arm behind Ariadne’s head in time to catch the next spray against his forearm, shielding her as best he could, though it felt repulsive sliding down his own skin. The small part of his mind that wasn’t actively trying to time his moment was bemused to actually feel her trying to shrink into him, into the protective sort of cave he’d created with his body. Ironic that she would willingly seek his protection after what had just happened, but he pushed the thought aside, and just let himself feel relieved that he was still a better kind of monster in her eyes. Time enough later to try and process what the hell had just happened.
His arms were trying to shake again, and sweat was sticking his hair to his forehead. Ariadne’s breathing was rough and heavy against his chest and he honestly had no idea how he was even going to continue to hold himself up when Navarre gave one more rough jerk with his hand. A third spray, and a satisfied hiss. Navarre’s eyes closed fractionally, and Dom struck with all the coiled frustration and anger he’d been holding. With all the force he could manage, he smashed the crown of his head into Navarre’s nose, driving up with all the spring he could gain from the slippery leverage he had on the table, feeling a satisfying crack! and a dribble of hot fluid that could be spit, or blood or snot for all he knew. Simultaneously, he shot one hand out for Navarre’s arm, just below the elbow, and dropped his other forearm on the table beside Ariadne’s head, trying not to fall on her and crush her. Digging his thumb in mercilessly into the nerve there and doing his damnedest to grind it and the bone beneath it to dust, he felt the muscle tension suddenly leave the limb as Navarre’s whole forearm when numb and useless within his grasp and he dropped the coil that held them both hostage. He tried not to notice the feel of his dick within Ariadne’s body as he twisted; and finally overstimulation was coupled with the high of violence and adrenaline. He shuddered as his own release caught him almost unaware, hot bolts of pleasure nearly causing him to black out as the rush of surviving coupled with biological responses he was helpless to overcome made for an intense combination he would be ashamed to remember later. But for now, Navarre was roaring and spitting in pain and anger, and Dom was twisting to get off the table without bloody well killing himself in the process. His roll from the table, while extremely ungraceful, had the benefit of jerking his opponent as he landed and causing Navarre to stumble and almost fall, by simple virtue of Dom’s dogged refusal to let go of his captured arm.
Psychologically, it’s difficult for a naked man to fight, especially if he’s fighting a clothed opponent. Not that Navarre entirely qualified as clothed, with his pants pushed down to expose himself for business, but Dom didn’t even let himself consider the almost surreal situation as he tried to catch his balance after his graceless tumble. Far from passive, Navarre reacted instantly to Dom’s attack. Off-balance, and knowing his grip on Navarre’s arm was the only thing keeping Ariadne’s neck in one piece, Dom couldn’t stop his opponent from using his now useless arm to give Dom a good hard yank, cocking back at the last second, and nailing Dom in the temple when he was jerked forward.
The blow fell like a hammer, connecting with slight hollow in the skull and instantly buckling Dom’s knees out from under him. For a moment he just lay there from his new position on the floor and stared, trying to process what the hell had just happened through the haze in his head that insisted he was still standing.
Navarre watched his struggles for a moment, all sardonic amusement and well-contained rage. Satisfied, he reached down and reclaimed the nylon cord with his left hand, his right still hanging useless at his side. With deliberate slowness, he began increasing the tautness of the line, and he watched Dom, cocking his head to one side, as if verifying that his lesson was being driven home.
“No matter what you do, you’re still a limp-dicked little pissant,” Ariadne was obviously trying to thrash against her bonds, but had no leverage against the tight straps holding her down.
With a flicker of irritation, he gave a quick increase in pressure, cutting Ariadne’s air supply instantly.
“Ah, ah, Dom. You know, it’s instincts like that that get you into these kinds of messes,” Navarre said conversationally, as he casually used the scraps of Ariadne’s bra to wipe himself off, the little seashell winking almost obscenely between his fingers. He made no attempt to be discrete about it, though his hold on the garrotte rope never slacked for a second. Dom pointedly turned his gaze aside, like Navarre’s little show was nothing.
“Well, it’s been fun children; a different kind of fun than I’ve been accustomed too, but satisfactory.” He gave the knife a careless kick with one booted foot, sending it slithering across cement and even further out of Dom’s reach. “Really, I envy you right now, Dom,” he said, casually pulling up his pants. “The first one is always the biggest rush. You may not feel it now, but it will come to you at night, when you’re alone and all you’ll be able to think about it this moment.”
Dom knew he was right - he would think about this moment, probably lie awake at night consumed with it, but it wouldn’t be in pleasure. Still, all he said was “I’m not you,” because honestly, that was all he had energy for.
Navarre just gave him this fucking paternal smile, and began backing towards the door, keeping careful tension on the line with each step. “Dom, why don’t you just stay right where you are until I’ve gone; somehow, I don’t trust you wandering around at the moment. I’m not sure you’re thinking entirely clearly, and I would hate to have to do something you’ll regret.”
He tensed, hoping against hope for an opening; any kind of opening, but Navarre left him none; and honestly, if there was one, he wasn’t entirely sure he could find his feet yet. The cord was long enough to get him out the door, and then they were sealed in. Dom felt that there should have been a heavy clang as the door closed, some kind of big, booming noise to seal in a room where so much had just changed, but instead all there was, was the soft click! as the tongue of the locking plate caught in the groove of the jam, and the quiet slither of a bolt being slide home.
And then there was silence.
Author's Notes:
I have no idea where this dark angst!fest came from, but I think I'm a little bit frightened O.o I cannot promise this will get finished, though I will try, but I was rather proud of how wonderfully evil and memorable Navarre became. Writing truly good villains is difficult, and I think I may have managed to write one that draws you in with an intense desire to see him get what's coming to him :) I know, I was as shocked as anything, too!
This is actually based on a prompt from the Inception_Kink Meme : ariadne/cobb: an unplanned pregnancy.
Now, my thought process went something like this:
There are really only three ways for this pregnancy to happen:
1) They are drunk
2) They are in a relationship, and forgot a condom
Now, both 1 & 2 struck me as... not the kind of story I would want to write. The one thing they do have in common is that they're both willing participation. Which leads me to:
3) One, or both are unwilling participants.
This is sort of where I started from >.> I have a great deal of plot hashed out for this that I really want to explore, so hopefully, I will manage to get it out of my head and onto paper at some point in the near future.