OT fic: Thieves Like Us
Title: Thieves Like Us (OT?: Mint Royale)
Pairing or Characters: um . . . The Driver/Mr. Smith?
Summary: The thing about being a bank robber is, you take what you want, and that includes saucy get-away drivers . . .
Word Count: 896
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None?
Challenge: I was going to post this as my kink for the anonymous kink meme, but wound up just writing it myself. Secret’s out now, I guess.
Disclaimer: No ownership is implied, and no offense intended.
Author’s Notes: Um, this is fanfiction for the Mint Royale music video ‘Blue,’ in which Noel and Julian appear. I never thought I would be writing music video porn. But, oh, well, there’s one more line I’ve crossed. Out of curiosity, has anyone else ever written this? Cause if they have, I’d love to read it. Also, first fic in this, er, fandom, if it is in this fandom . . . So, feedback is greatly appreciated.
You realized long ago that it is incredibly easy, in this world, to get what you want. Take this blag, for instance. In and out in under three minutes, and look at the results. Three briefcases chock full of cash, and not a scratch on any of you. That is what you call excellent output for minimum input.
And the thrill is incredible. That feeling when you’re rushing out, the alarm sounding in your ears. It’s electric. Sure, you do it for the paycheck, but there’s always the thrill in the back of your mind, luring you back in.
It’s not all glamour and endorphins, of course. At the moment, for instance, it’s three in the morning, and you’re lying low in a cramped little bedsit in Hackney with a leaky faucet. That’s the way it goes, five minutes of action, two days of mind-numbing waiting. The other two have gone out in search of something to eat, leaving you alone with him.
He’s sprawled out on his stomach on the bed, looking at a magazine. It’s the kind with lots of glossy pictures and not very many words, which he probably appreciates. He’s got his feet in the air like a little girl, kicking them in time to some rhythm only he can hear. He looks a bloody fool, but it affords you a top-quality view of his backside, and so you really can’t complain.
He’s a complete idiot, but he’s reliable, not unlike a Labrador retriever. Lots of charisma, though, peerless in his ability to charm his way out of any fix. And, of course, he’s fit, a fact he seems to be wholly innocent of. Either that, or he just takes it for granted. Whatever the case, he’s everything you’d look for in a man, if you were looking, which you aren’t.
He turns his head and looks at your over his shoulder. “What?”
“What?”
“You’re lookin’ at me.”
“I wasn’t,” you say, and glance out the window. It’s begun to rain.
“Yeah,” he says, his lips quirking in a smile. “You were.”
“I was just thinking, what’re you gonna do with your cut?” you ask, keen to change the subject.
He shrugs, flips a page of his magazine. “I dunno, what I usually do, I guess. Get slaughtered and dance my tits off till someone takes me home. Just have a good time, you know.”
You snort, despite your best efforts. “You call that a good time?”
“Yeah,” he says, giving a breathy little laugh. “Don’t you?”
“I shouldn’t think so.”
“Oh, yeah, so what do you do for fun? Talk about quadrangles with the other geometry teachers?”
“Fuck off,” you say, indignant.
“No,” he says, all petulant child now. He pushes himself into an upright position, settling on the bed with a little bounce. “I wanna know what you do for fun.”
“Nothing,” you say, petulant, yourself, aware he’s mocking you. “What d’you care, anyway?”
“Come on. I’m curious now.”
“You’re not.”
“I think you’ll find I am,” he drawls, coaxing. He gets off the bed and walks over to you. Maybe your mouth goes a little dry. If it does, you can’t really be blamed, lesser men have fallen to his swagger. “You’re wound tight, you are. I reckon it’d be a sight to see, you letting loose. Am I wrong?” He leans back on the table in front of you, his narrow hips jutting forwards, on offer.
The thing about being a bank robber is, you take what you want, however you have to, and, as a rule, you aren’t ashamed about it. Unless you’re a twat. That whole brooding evil-doer thing is thoroughly played out. No, it’s no good to be a guilty bank robber. You don’t scrabble your way to the top of the criminal underworld in order to feel bad about it. You do what it takes to get what you want, and that’s that.
In that spirit, you reach forward and grab his hips. He’s grinning wide as you pull him onto your lap, and then he’s all over you, his wet mouth on your neck, hands sliding up under your shirt.
This is everything you could have hoped for, exactly what you wanted, his knees digging into your sides, his hair brushing your face, that tight arse pressing against your thighs. You don’t waste any time, popping open the buttons on his skintight trousers and shoving your hand into his pants. He moans, low in his throat, and arches against you. He reaches down to return the favor, his fingers long and hot and expert.
It’s like music, washing over you, and he moves against you in his own way, completely liquid, uninhibited, perfect. You think about laying him out on the bed and sucking him off, or better yet, spreading him out on top of all that money and fucking him blind. The thought of him sweating on top of all those crisp, pastel notes send you over the edge and you come, groaning into his neck. You keep working him, hard, until his thighs are clenching above your own and he lets his head fall back.
“Oh, fuck,” he gasps, and comes all over your shirt. “Oh, fuck yeah.” Breathing hard, he leans forward, resting his forehead against yours, his whole body lax.
It’s good, you think, getting what you want.
Pairing or Characters: um . . . The Driver/Mr. Smith?
Summary: The thing about being a bank robber is, you take what you want, and that includes saucy get-away drivers . . .
Word Count: 896
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None?
Challenge: I was going to post this as my kink for the anonymous kink meme, but wound up just writing it myself. Secret’s out now, I guess.
Disclaimer: No ownership is implied, and no offense intended.
Author’s Notes: Um, this is fanfiction for the Mint Royale music video ‘Blue,’ in which Noel and Julian appear. I never thought I would be writing music video porn. But, oh, well, there’s one more line I’ve crossed. Out of curiosity, has anyone else ever written this? Cause if they have, I’d love to read it. Also, first fic in this, er, fandom, if it is in this fandom . . . So, feedback is greatly appreciated.
You realized long ago that it is incredibly easy, in this world, to get what you want. Take this blag, for instance. In and out in under three minutes, and look at the results. Three briefcases chock full of cash, and not a scratch on any of you. That is what you call excellent output for minimum input.
And the thrill is incredible. That feeling when you’re rushing out, the alarm sounding in your ears. It’s electric. Sure, you do it for the paycheck, but there’s always the thrill in the back of your mind, luring you back in.
It’s not all glamour and endorphins, of course. At the moment, for instance, it’s three in the morning, and you’re lying low in a cramped little bedsit in Hackney with a leaky faucet. That’s the way it goes, five minutes of action, two days of mind-numbing waiting. The other two have gone out in search of something to eat, leaving you alone with him.
He’s sprawled out on his stomach on the bed, looking at a magazine. It’s the kind with lots of glossy pictures and not very many words, which he probably appreciates. He’s got his feet in the air like a little girl, kicking them in time to some rhythm only he can hear. He looks a bloody fool, but it affords you a top-quality view of his backside, and so you really can’t complain.
He’s a complete idiot, but he’s reliable, not unlike a Labrador retriever. Lots of charisma, though, peerless in his ability to charm his way out of any fix. And, of course, he’s fit, a fact he seems to be wholly innocent of. Either that, or he just takes it for granted. Whatever the case, he’s everything you’d look for in a man, if you were looking, which you aren’t.
He turns his head and looks at your over his shoulder. “What?”
“What?”
“You’re lookin’ at me.”
“I wasn’t,” you say, and glance out the window. It’s begun to rain.
“Yeah,” he says, his lips quirking in a smile. “You were.”
“I was just thinking, what’re you gonna do with your cut?” you ask, keen to change the subject.
He shrugs, flips a page of his magazine. “I dunno, what I usually do, I guess. Get slaughtered and dance my tits off till someone takes me home. Just have a good time, you know.”
You snort, despite your best efforts. “You call that a good time?”
“Yeah,” he says, giving a breathy little laugh. “Don’t you?”
“I shouldn’t think so.”
“Oh, yeah, so what do you do for fun? Talk about quadrangles with the other geometry teachers?”
“Fuck off,” you say, indignant.
“No,” he says, all petulant child now. He pushes himself into an upright position, settling on the bed with a little bounce. “I wanna know what you do for fun.”
“Nothing,” you say, petulant, yourself, aware he’s mocking you. “What d’you care, anyway?”
“Come on. I’m curious now.”
“You’re not.”
“I think you’ll find I am,” he drawls, coaxing. He gets off the bed and walks over to you. Maybe your mouth goes a little dry. If it does, you can’t really be blamed, lesser men have fallen to his swagger. “You’re wound tight, you are. I reckon it’d be a sight to see, you letting loose. Am I wrong?” He leans back on the table in front of you, his narrow hips jutting forwards, on offer.
The thing about being a bank robber is, you take what you want, however you have to, and, as a rule, you aren’t ashamed about it. Unless you’re a twat. That whole brooding evil-doer thing is thoroughly played out. No, it’s no good to be a guilty bank robber. You don’t scrabble your way to the top of the criminal underworld in order to feel bad about it. You do what it takes to get what you want, and that’s that.
In that spirit, you reach forward and grab his hips. He’s grinning wide as you pull him onto your lap, and then he’s all over you, his wet mouth on your neck, hands sliding up under your shirt.
This is everything you could have hoped for, exactly what you wanted, his knees digging into your sides, his hair brushing your face, that tight arse pressing against your thighs. You don’t waste any time, popping open the buttons on his skintight trousers and shoving your hand into his pants. He moans, low in his throat, and arches against you. He reaches down to return the favor, his fingers long and hot and expert.
It’s like music, washing over you, and he moves against you in his own way, completely liquid, uninhibited, perfect. You think about laying him out on the bed and sucking him off, or better yet, spreading him out on top of all that money and fucking him blind. The thought of him sweating on top of all those crisp, pastel notes send you over the edge and you come, groaning into his neck. You keep working him, hard, until his thighs are clenching above your own and he lets his head fall back.
“Oh, fuck,” he gasps, and comes all over your shirt. “Oh, fuck yeah.” Breathing hard, he leans forward, resting his forehead against yours, his whole body lax.
It’s good, you think, getting what you want.