Mint Royale: "Notes from the Underground" 4 & 5
Title: Notes from the Underground 4 & 5
Pairing: Mr. Smith/The Driver, Mr. Smith/OFC
Summary: As the heist approaches, Mr. Smith suffers some aggravation.
Word Count: 1,842
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Het, dubious consent, strong language
Disclaimer: No ownership is implied, no profit made, and no offense intended.
Author’s Notes: This is part of a series: Part 1, Parts 2 & 3. More to come, I hope. Thanks to easilyled for encouragement--does this count as cranking it up a notch?
4
For something nobody’s supposed to know about, news of our job sure does travel fast. A mate of mine throws a party a few days before we’re scheduled to do it; O’Flaherty’s here, and so is Frost, and recognition goes through the crowd like a ripple. Everybody knows, only nobody will dare breathe a word about it. You can see it in their eyes, though, the way they look at us. We’re fucking celebrities tonight.
I sort of expect to see him here. This is his kind of crowd-or, at least, it’s where my crowd and his crowd intersect. A lot of people in the business, a lot of blow doing the rounds, a lot of gorgeous girls, too. I can’t really imagine he’s the type to pass up on the opportunity to milk his unspoken notoriety for all it’s worth. But I don’t see him anywhere. Which is a relief, in a way. I don’t need him breathing down my fucking neck all night, do I?
He turns up around midnight. I say ‘turns up,’ but what I mean is he materializes out of the crowd and suddenly he’s coming towards me with his eyes fixed just on me. He gets closer and closer and then there he is, so close I can smell him, cigarettes and sweat. It makes me want to push his head back and take a long taste of his throat. He stands real still, looking at me.
“My head still fucking hurts, you berk,” he says finally.
“You’ll live.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Get us a drink?”
I look him over. He’s wearing a ridiculous rabbit fur coat that looks like it’s two sizes too small, but beneath the shadow of the high collar, I can just barely make out the bruises I left on him the other day. It turns me on no end, and so I agree.
I get him a beer, and when I get back, he’s taken off his coat and is sitting on the couch, his legs crossed. When he sees me, he uncrosses his legs and spreads them, so that I can see the shape of his cock clearly through his jeans. He looks at me like he isn’t doing a damn thing, and he doesn’t even touch me as he takes the bottle from my hand.
I don’t sit down. I just stand there, watching him drink his beer. He takes his time about it. He’s in no rush. When he’s finished, he leans forward, real slow, and puts the empty bottle down the coffee table. He’s wearing a sleeveless shirt, and I notice that he’s got tiny little bruises on his upper arms. I wonder who it was that did that to him. Then he looks up at me through his dark eyelashes, and all I can think about is what I’m going to do to him tonight.
I’ll let him suck me off, that’ll be a good start-my hand in his hair, moving his head, the feel of his throat constricting around my dick. But I won’t stop there. No, I’ll shove him down on the bed and fuck him. Maybe I’ll keep a hand on his shoulders to keep his head down, his face pressed against the pillow. I’ll keep going until he can’t take it any more, until his shoulders are convulsing with need, and then I’ll pull out and come on his back. Maybe he’ll cry a little, when it’s over, just from relief.
He’s watching me still, and I can’t help smiling, because he doesn’t have any idea what I’ve got in store for him.
He finally looks away from me, and crosses his legs again, which is a shame. “One more round?” he asks.
I like the implication of that. “All right,” I say.
He grins. “Cheers.”
When I get back, he’s gone. I turn around, searching the crowd, but I can’t see him at all. His coat is gone from the arm of the sofa. Then I catch a glimpse of him-of his coat, the tawny rabbit fur unmistakable, disappearing out the door, followed closely by a meaty, dark-haired bloke. It takes me a second to recognize the guy, but I know him. He’s some two-bit enforcer, purely hired muscle. He’s got nothing to recommend him, but apparently the kid doesn’t ask for references.
Something in me twists up. The beer bottle is sweating in my hand and my fingers have gone numb. I want to throw his fucking bottle of beer against the wall. I want to go down there and ask the kid just what, exactly, he thinks he’s playing at. But I don’t. I’ve got better self-control than that.
I wind up taking some girl home. I figure it’ll be a good chance to blow off some steam. She’s got nice tits, but I can’t bear the sight of her face, so I turn her around and think about something else while I fuck her. I get bored pretty fast, though, it’s like she’s fucking sleepwalking. I pull out and for a minute she seems confused, the cow, and looks at me over her shoulder, her mouth half-open. She gets the picture, though, when I push into her arse. That livens her up a little.
When I’m done, she squirms out of my grip and starts pulling her clothes up off the floor. Her makeup’s all smeared, her eyes like big black pits from her running mascara, and her lips are curled in a disgusting shape. “Fuck you,” she says.
I can’t see what she’s got to complain about, but I’m not the least bit sorry to see her go. Once she’s slammed the door behind her, I get up and take a shower. I stand there under the hot water. I still smell like her, but I’m thinking of him, and I’m hard all over again, my cock practically raw with sensation. I wonder what he’s doing right now, fucking that lowlife piece of shit, probably. It burns me up to think of it, but I can’t stop. He’d make a big production out of it, throwing his head back, panting, fucking like he needs it, and, probably, he does. When I come, it’s like someone’s punched me right in the gut, and for a minute I can’t breathe at all. I have to lean on the wall cause I can hardly stand up. The water gets in my mouth, in my eyes, up my nose. But then, gradually, my breath comes back to me, and I’m fine.
5
We wait for him on the curb around the corner from a Ladbrokes. When he finally pulls up, it’s in a pale blue farce of a car, which I doubt can do much over 30. He grins at me from the window. “All right, lads?”
Frost must notice the way I’m scowling, because once we’re all in the car, he leans over and says, “Oi.”
I raise my eyebrows at him.
“You don’t like him much, do you?” Frost asks, his voice low, as if the kid can’t hear him anyway.
I snort. “That’s very perceptive.”
“Well, yeah, but, why not?”
“You weren’t exactly singing his praises when O’Flaherty brought him in, as I recall.”
Frost shrugs. “He’s not so bad. He’s a laugh.”
“That’d be a swell recommendation, Frost, if I wanted a fucking comedian.”
“You don't even know him.”
“Neither do you,” I point out.
Frost rolls his eyes. “All I’m saying is, you ain’t gotta be so hard on him.”
“Why don’t you just keep your fat fucking mouth shut?”
Frost doesn’t seem capable of taking good advice when he hears it, because he leans over and taps on the driver’s seat. “You, ah, you ever had any professional experience?” Frost asks. I grit my teeth.
For a second, nobody answers, then the kid flicks up his sunglasses and looks at us in the mirror. “You talking to me?”
“Yeah,” Frost says.
“Sure I got experience.” He grins, smug. “I got experience you wouldn’t even believe.”
“Oh, yeah?” Frost says, smiling at me like we’re all in on some kind of fucking joke.
“Ever driven a car, blindfolded, at a hundred and fifty miles an hour?”
Frost laughs. “Shit off!”
“I cannot tell a lie.”
That makes me laugh.
“Like that one?” He catches my eye in the rearview mirror. “That’s one of mine.”
“Would you lot care to shut the hell up?” O’Flaherty chimes in.
“All right, all right,” says Frost, and slumps back in the seat.
The kid just shakes his head, and slips his shades back down over his eyes.
I’ve never much liked taking the back seat, but having him behind the wheel is the worst. I don’t trust him, not even as far as I could throw him, and the thought of him guiding us through the city is enough to put me off travel permanently. It’s like he knows something I don’t, our destination, and I’ve never liked knowing less than the other guy. It’s not a position I enjoy.
He knows it, too. I can hear it in his voice, see it in his posture. I’ll just have to put him in his place, that’s all. Later, I tell myself. Later.
We get there faster than I’d expected, and suddenly he’s pulling to a stop and turning off the engine. Everything in me goes still, and a buzzing starts in my ears, like it always does right before the action starts.
“How long?” he asks, and I give him an answer as I pull on my gloves. “Could you be a bit more specific?” he asks, trying to get a rise out of me, but I’m not taking the bait. They debate, but I’m not worried about how long it’s going to take. No, once you get started, time slips away, there’s nothing but the present moment, just your pulse throbbing relentlessly in your throat.
I hear Frost say, “Ain’t you got a watch?” and the kid says, “I don’t read too good.” Frost looks at me like he expects me to get angry, but he’s got the wrong picture. I’m way beyond all this shit now. I couldn’t care less about the kid right now. Everything else has shrunk down to nothing, a speck on the horizon. All that that matters now is the job.
We get out of the car, and I can feel myself shaking with anticipation. My stomach’s clenching, my mouth’s dry. It’s like standing at the edge of a tall cliff the second before you jump. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed this until right now. It’s incredible.
I take one last glance back at him as I go through the door, and he’s watching through the side mirror. And then all thought of him disappears from my mind, and it’s masks on, guns in the air, O’Flaherty’s voice screaming, “Everybody down, this is a fucking robbery!” Then there’s nothing, just the sweet song of blood rushing through my ears.
Part 6
Pairing: Mr. Smith/The Driver, Mr. Smith/OFC
Summary: As the heist approaches, Mr. Smith suffers some aggravation.
Word Count: 1,842
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Het, dubious consent, strong language
Disclaimer: No ownership is implied, no profit made, and no offense intended.
Author’s Notes: This is part of a series: Part 1, Parts 2 & 3. More to come, I hope. Thanks to easilyled for encouragement--does this count as cranking it up a notch?
4
For something nobody’s supposed to know about, news of our job sure does travel fast. A mate of mine throws a party a few days before we’re scheduled to do it; O’Flaherty’s here, and so is Frost, and recognition goes through the crowd like a ripple. Everybody knows, only nobody will dare breathe a word about it. You can see it in their eyes, though, the way they look at us. We’re fucking celebrities tonight.
I sort of expect to see him here. This is his kind of crowd-or, at least, it’s where my crowd and his crowd intersect. A lot of people in the business, a lot of blow doing the rounds, a lot of gorgeous girls, too. I can’t really imagine he’s the type to pass up on the opportunity to milk his unspoken notoriety for all it’s worth. But I don’t see him anywhere. Which is a relief, in a way. I don’t need him breathing down my fucking neck all night, do I?
He turns up around midnight. I say ‘turns up,’ but what I mean is he materializes out of the crowd and suddenly he’s coming towards me with his eyes fixed just on me. He gets closer and closer and then there he is, so close I can smell him, cigarettes and sweat. It makes me want to push his head back and take a long taste of his throat. He stands real still, looking at me.
“My head still fucking hurts, you berk,” he says finally.
“You’ll live.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Get us a drink?”
I look him over. He’s wearing a ridiculous rabbit fur coat that looks like it’s two sizes too small, but beneath the shadow of the high collar, I can just barely make out the bruises I left on him the other day. It turns me on no end, and so I agree.
I get him a beer, and when I get back, he’s taken off his coat and is sitting on the couch, his legs crossed. When he sees me, he uncrosses his legs and spreads them, so that I can see the shape of his cock clearly through his jeans. He looks at me like he isn’t doing a damn thing, and he doesn’t even touch me as he takes the bottle from my hand.
I don’t sit down. I just stand there, watching him drink his beer. He takes his time about it. He’s in no rush. When he’s finished, he leans forward, real slow, and puts the empty bottle down the coffee table. He’s wearing a sleeveless shirt, and I notice that he’s got tiny little bruises on his upper arms. I wonder who it was that did that to him. Then he looks up at me through his dark eyelashes, and all I can think about is what I’m going to do to him tonight.
I’ll let him suck me off, that’ll be a good start-my hand in his hair, moving his head, the feel of his throat constricting around my dick. But I won’t stop there. No, I’ll shove him down on the bed and fuck him. Maybe I’ll keep a hand on his shoulders to keep his head down, his face pressed against the pillow. I’ll keep going until he can’t take it any more, until his shoulders are convulsing with need, and then I’ll pull out and come on his back. Maybe he’ll cry a little, when it’s over, just from relief.
He’s watching me still, and I can’t help smiling, because he doesn’t have any idea what I’ve got in store for him.
He finally looks away from me, and crosses his legs again, which is a shame. “One more round?” he asks.
I like the implication of that. “All right,” I say.
He grins. “Cheers.”
When I get back, he’s gone. I turn around, searching the crowd, but I can’t see him at all. His coat is gone from the arm of the sofa. Then I catch a glimpse of him-of his coat, the tawny rabbit fur unmistakable, disappearing out the door, followed closely by a meaty, dark-haired bloke. It takes me a second to recognize the guy, but I know him. He’s some two-bit enforcer, purely hired muscle. He’s got nothing to recommend him, but apparently the kid doesn’t ask for references.
Something in me twists up. The beer bottle is sweating in my hand and my fingers have gone numb. I want to throw his fucking bottle of beer against the wall. I want to go down there and ask the kid just what, exactly, he thinks he’s playing at. But I don’t. I’ve got better self-control than that.
I wind up taking some girl home. I figure it’ll be a good chance to blow off some steam. She’s got nice tits, but I can’t bear the sight of her face, so I turn her around and think about something else while I fuck her. I get bored pretty fast, though, it’s like she’s fucking sleepwalking. I pull out and for a minute she seems confused, the cow, and looks at me over her shoulder, her mouth half-open. She gets the picture, though, when I push into her arse. That livens her up a little.
When I’m done, she squirms out of my grip and starts pulling her clothes up off the floor. Her makeup’s all smeared, her eyes like big black pits from her running mascara, and her lips are curled in a disgusting shape. “Fuck you,” she says.
I can’t see what she’s got to complain about, but I’m not the least bit sorry to see her go. Once she’s slammed the door behind her, I get up and take a shower. I stand there under the hot water. I still smell like her, but I’m thinking of him, and I’m hard all over again, my cock practically raw with sensation. I wonder what he’s doing right now, fucking that lowlife piece of shit, probably. It burns me up to think of it, but I can’t stop. He’d make a big production out of it, throwing his head back, panting, fucking like he needs it, and, probably, he does. When I come, it’s like someone’s punched me right in the gut, and for a minute I can’t breathe at all. I have to lean on the wall cause I can hardly stand up. The water gets in my mouth, in my eyes, up my nose. But then, gradually, my breath comes back to me, and I’m fine.
5
We wait for him on the curb around the corner from a Ladbrokes. When he finally pulls up, it’s in a pale blue farce of a car, which I doubt can do much over 30. He grins at me from the window. “All right, lads?”
Frost must notice the way I’m scowling, because once we’re all in the car, he leans over and says, “Oi.”
I raise my eyebrows at him.
“You don’t like him much, do you?” Frost asks, his voice low, as if the kid can’t hear him anyway.
I snort. “That’s very perceptive.”
“Well, yeah, but, why not?”
“You weren’t exactly singing his praises when O’Flaherty brought him in, as I recall.”
Frost shrugs. “He’s not so bad. He’s a laugh.”
“That’d be a swell recommendation, Frost, if I wanted a fucking comedian.”
“You don't even know him.”
“Neither do you,” I point out.
Frost rolls his eyes. “All I’m saying is, you ain’t gotta be so hard on him.”
“Why don’t you just keep your fat fucking mouth shut?”
Frost doesn’t seem capable of taking good advice when he hears it, because he leans over and taps on the driver’s seat. “You, ah, you ever had any professional experience?” Frost asks. I grit my teeth.
For a second, nobody answers, then the kid flicks up his sunglasses and looks at us in the mirror. “You talking to me?”
“Yeah,” Frost says.
“Sure I got experience.” He grins, smug. “I got experience you wouldn’t even believe.”
“Oh, yeah?” Frost says, smiling at me like we’re all in on some kind of fucking joke.
“Ever driven a car, blindfolded, at a hundred and fifty miles an hour?”
Frost laughs. “Shit off!”
“I cannot tell a lie.”
That makes me laugh.
“Like that one?” He catches my eye in the rearview mirror. “That’s one of mine.”
“Would you lot care to shut the hell up?” O’Flaherty chimes in.
“All right, all right,” says Frost, and slumps back in the seat.
The kid just shakes his head, and slips his shades back down over his eyes.
I’ve never much liked taking the back seat, but having him behind the wheel is the worst. I don’t trust him, not even as far as I could throw him, and the thought of him guiding us through the city is enough to put me off travel permanently. It’s like he knows something I don’t, our destination, and I’ve never liked knowing less than the other guy. It’s not a position I enjoy.
He knows it, too. I can hear it in his voice, see it in his posture. I’ll just have to put him in his place, that’s all. Later, I tell myself. Later.
We get there faster than I’d expected, and suddenly he’s pulling to a stop and turning off the engine. Everything in me goes still, and a buzzing starts in my ears, like it always does right before the action starts.
“How long?” he asks, and I give him an answer as I pull on my gloves. “Could you be a bit more specific?” he asks, trying to get a rise out of me, but I’m not taking the bait. They debate, but I’m not worried about how long it’s going to take. No, once you get started, time slips away, there’s nothing but the present moment, just your pulse throbbing relentlessly in your throat.
I hear Frost say, “Ain’t you got a watch?” and the kid says, “I don’t read too good.” Frost looks at me like he expects me to get angry, but he’s got the wrong picture. I’m way beyond all this shit now. I couldn’t care less about the kid right now. Everything else has shrunk down to nothing, a speck on the horizon. All that that matters now is the job.
We get out of the car, and I can feel myself shaking with anticipation. My stomach’s clenching, my mouth’s dry. It’s like standing at the edge of a tall cliff the second before you jump. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed this until right now. It’s incredible.
I take one last glance back at him as I go through the door, and he’s watching through the side mirror. And then all thought of him disappears from my mind, and it’s masks on, guns in the air, O’Flaherty’s voice screaming, “Everybody down, this is a fucking robbery!” Then there’s nothing, just the sweet song of blood rushing through my ears.
Part 6