Mint Royale ficlet: "Notes from the Underground"
Title: Notes from the Underground
Pairing or Characters: The Driver/Mr. Smith
Summary: Set pre-bank job, Mr. Smith runs into a seductive little confidence trickster.
Word Count: 1,025
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None? Swearing, I guess.
Disclaimer: No ownership is implied, no profit made, and no offence intended. Despite stealing his title, this work is in no way associated with the novella by Dostoevsky, who is probably turning over in his grave at the mere thought.
Author’s Notes: If all goes well, there will be more “Notes” to come. This is just the first of several I’ve been working on. Thanks to easilyled for a nudge in the right direction. All credit should probably go to easilyled and thieving-gypsy for their amazing Mint Royale yarns.
I hate amateurs. There’s nothing that burns me up quite like it. It’s the day-trippers, the weekend warriors, who make the rest of us look bad. Some hopped-up scammer shoots a couple of Japanese tourists and the rest of us have to live with the consequences.
Such are the pitfalls of being a career criminal. For some, it’s the commute, others, the hours. For me, it’s the weedy little pretenders to the throne. They all idealize it, too, talk themselves up as if they’re important, but they’re not. None of us are.
This is a job, not a sacred calling or a James Bond film. I may not work nine-to-five, but I’m just as much a businessman as the next bloke in a suit. I don’t enjoy knocking over banks or breaking people’s kneecaps. Don’t get me wrong-I love my job. I do. But I love it in the way that, say, an investment banker loves his job. I don’t take pleasure in it the way some people do.
Unlike all these green kids who think they can dick about in organized crime, I’m a fucking professional. The amateurs inevitably get in over their heads, and find themselves belly-up in the Thames. Half the time it’s me who has to put them there. It’s about separating the wheat from the chaff. If you let that kind of rubbish hang around, it’ll only gum up the works, and nobody needs that.
Take this little fucker, for instance. He’s a tourist if I’ve ever seen one. He’s a real delicate flower, all skinny hips and floppy hair, but he swaggers towards me like he owns the whole city. “All right?” He flashes me an ingratiating smile, his eyes flicking up and down in appraisal. “I saw you standing over here, all by yourself. Thought maybe you could use a bit of cheering up.”
I look at him over the top of my glasses. I’m not going to fall into this sort of petty trap. I can see what sort he is just by looking at him, a confidence trickster of the lowest order, the kind of attractive boy who gets along on looks alone, scamming one sad loser after another. Probably the only reason he’s giving me the time of day is because he thinks I’ve got drugs, which I haven’t. I don’t waste my time on that kind of shit, I’ve got better things to do. And if I did, I certainly wouldn’t be sharing with the likes of him. “I’m fine, thanks,” I say, hoping he’ll take the hint.
He doesn’t. He just steps closer. I can smell his cherry lip gloss as he leans in and says, “Sure you ain’t lonely?”
I grab his wrist. He’s nothing but skin and bone, and he draws in a quick breath, in shock or pain, it’s hard to tell. “Fuck off, yeah?” I say, and let him go.
He brings his hand up to his chest, massaging his wrist. He doesn’t look intimidated, though. “Get you another drink?” He’s smiling wider than ever.
Something about his gaze just makes my stomach flip and all my blood rush down to my dick. At first, I can’t figure out what, but then I realize: He got off on that, on being shoved around. I can see it in his pale blue eyes. It makes me want to wipe that fearless smile right off his face. That’s a prospect I think we’d both enjoy.
“Fine,” I say.
He grins. “Pint of lager?” he guesses. I nod, and he heads for the bar. I watch him walk away, and it’s not a bad view at all. He’s wearing some of the tightest jeans I’ve ever seen on a man, but it’s not as if he can’t pull it off. And that low-slung belt-that’ll be the first thing to come off, definitely.
We have our drink, and then another, and then he’s leaning in close to me again and saying, “Why don’t you take me back to yours,” and I don’t see much point in delaying any longer, so I say yes.
I barely get the front door shut behind me before he’s on his knees and tearing open the fly on my trousers. I fuck him right there in the front hall, and when it’s over, he looks over his shoulder at me and says, “Got anything to eat? I’m starving.”
I show him into the kitchen. I have another beer while he makes himself a sandwich and proceeds to demolish it. He eats the same way he fucks, with total abandon and absolute relish. It’s like he’s all raw desire and nothing else. He licks grease from his fingers with a wholly vulgar attention to detail. He smiles when he catches me watching, and finally he states the obvious: “Fancy another go?”
This time we make it back to the bedroom. He gets on top of me and I just lie back and let him do what he wants. He huffs and moans as he rides me, giving it his all, tossing his hair and arching his back like he thinks I want him to. He’s not entirely wrong.
When I wake up, I’m alone, which is a relief. I don’t think I could’ve endured an actual conversation with the little twit. I probably would’ve strangled him, which, actually, would’ve been doing him a favor. But as it is, I got exactly what I wanted out of him.
It’s a little later, after I’ve had a shower and a cup of tea that I realize he got exactly what he wanted out of me, too. There’s an empty spot on the shelf where my stereo should be. I’m not well pleased, that thing was state-of-the-art, and make a definite plant to inflict bodily harm if I ever see him again. But part of me can’t help being amused. I wouldn’t have credited him with the imagination necessary to do anything more than lift my wallet, let alone the upper body strength. I don’t mind admitting defeat, really. He conned me fair and square, and to the victor go the spoils.
Parts 2 & 3
Pairing or Characters: The Driver/Mr. Smith
Summary: Set pre-bank job, Mr. Smith runs into a seductive little confidence trickster.
Word Count: 1,025
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None? Swearing, I guess.
Disclaimer: No ownership is implied, no profit made, and no offence intended. Despite stealing his title, this work is in no way associated with the novella by Dostoevsky, who is probably turning over in his grave at the mere thought.
Author’s Notes: If all goes well, there will be more “Notes” to come. This is just the first of several I’ve been working on. Thanks to easilyled for a nudge in the right direction. All credit should probably go to easilyled and thieving-gypsy for their amazing Mint Royale yarns.
I hate amateurs. There’s nothing that burns me up quite like it. It’s the day-trippers, the weekend warriors, who make the rest of us look bad. Some hopped-up scammer shoots a couple of Japanese tourists and the rest of us have to live with the consequences.
Such are the pitfalls of being a career criminal. For some, it’s the commute, others, the hours. For me, it’s the weedy little pretenders to the throne. They all idealize it, too, talk themselves up as if they’re important, but they’re not. None of us are.
This is a job, not a sacred calling or a James Bond film. I may not work nine-to-five, but I’m just as much a businessman as the next bloke in a suit. I don’t enjoy knocking over banks or breaking people’s kneecaps. Don’t get me wrong-I love my job. I do. But I love it in the way that, say, an investment banker loves his job. I don’t take pleasure in it the way some people do.
Unlike all these green kids who think they can dick about in organized crime, I’m a fucking professional. The amateurs inevitably get in over their heads, and find themselves belly-up in the Thames. Half the time it’s me who has to put them there. It’s about separating the wheat from the chaff. If you let that kind of rubbish hang around, it’ll only gum up the works, and nobody needs that.
Take this little fucker, for instance. He’s a tourist if I’ve ever seen one. He’s a real delicate flower, all skinny hips and floppy hair, but he swaggers towards me like he owns the whole city. “All right?” He flashes me an ingratiating smile, his eyes flicking up and down in appraisal. “I saw you standing over here, all by yourself. Thought maybe you could use a bit of cheering up.”
I look at him over the top of my glasses. I’m not going to fall into this sort of petty trap. I can see what sort he is just by looking at him, a confidence trickster of the lowest order, the kind of attractive boy who gets along on looks alone, scamming one sad loser after another. Probably the only reason he’s giving me the time of day is because he thinks I’ve got drugs, which I haven’t. I don’t waste my time on that kind of shit, I’ve got better things to do. And if I did, I certainly wouldn’t be sharing with the likes of him. “I’m fine, thanks,” I say, hoping he’ll take the hint.
He doesn’t. He just steps closer. I can smell his cherry lip gloss as he leans in and says, “Sure you ain’t lonely?”
I grab his wrist. He’s nothing but skin and bone, and he draws in a quick breath, in shock or pain, it’s hard to tell. “Fuck off, yeah?” I say, and let him go.
He brings his hand up to his chest, massaging his wrist. He doesn’t look intimidated, though. “Get you another drink?” He’s smiling wider than ever.
Something about his gaze just makes my stomach flip and all my blood rush down to my dick. At first, I can’t figure out what, but then I realize: He got off on that, on being shoved around. I can see it in his pale blue eyes. It makes me want to wipe that fearless smile right off his face. That’s a prospect I think we’d both enjoy.
“Fine,” I say.
He grins. “Pint of lager?” he guesses. I nod, and he heads for the bar. I watch him walk away, and it’s not a bad view at all. He’s wearing some of the tightest jeans I’ve ever seen on a man, but it’s not as if he can’t pull it off. And that low-slung belt-that’ll be the first thing to come off, definitely.
We have our drink, and then another, and then he’s leaning in close to me again and saying, “Why don’t you take me back to yours,” and I don’t see much point in delaying any longer, so I say yes.
I barely get the front door shut behind me before he’s on his knees and tearing open the fly on my trousers. I fuck him right there in the front hall, and when it’s over, he looks over his shoulder at me and says, “Got anything to eat? I’m starving.”
I show him into the kitchen. I have another beer while he makes himself a sandwich and proceeds to demolish it. He eats the same way he fucks, with total abandon and absolute relish. It’s like he’s all raw desire and nothing else. He licks grease from his fingers with a wholly vulgar attention to detail. He smiles when he catches me watching, and finally he states the obvious: “Fancy another go?”
This time we make it back to the bedroom. He gets on top of me and I just lie back and let him do what he wants. He huffs and moans as he rides me, giving it his all, tossing his hair and arching his back like he thinks I want him to. He’s not entirely wrong.
When I wake up, I’m alone, which is a relief. I don’t think I could’ve endured an actual conversation with the little twit. I probably would’ve strangled him, which, actually, would’ve been doing him a favor. But as it is, I got exactly what I wanted out of him.
It’s a little later, after I’ve had a shower and a cup of tea that I realize he got exactly what he wanted out of me, too. There’s an empty spot on the shelf where my stereo should be. I’m not well pleased, that thing was state-of-the-art, and make a definite plant to inflict bodily harm if I ever see him again. But part of me can’t help being amused. I wouldn’t have credited him with the imagination necessary to do anything more than lift my wallet, let alone the upper body strength. I don’t mind admitting defeat, really. He conned me fair and square, and to the victor go the spoils.
Parts 2 & 3