Mint Royale: "Notes from the Underground" 7
Title: Notes from the Underground 7
Pairing: Mr. Smith/the Driver
Summary: The Driver continues to try and get a rise out of Mr. Smith.
Word Count: 1,876
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Breathplay
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, Parts 4&5, Part 6. It took me a long time, but here’s the next part at last. I think there are probably 2 or 3 more parts to come of this, but we’ll see how it goes.
7
I wake up with a start from a dream I can’t remember, and I’ve torn off the sheet, one foot on the floor, before I realize I was asleep. Then I just sit there until my heart’s slowed down and I can breathe like normal again.
It’s still dark, but my watch says it’s half ten. I feel like I’ve been swallowed up.
The hallway is marginally brighter, with a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The window at the end of the corridor has newsprint pasted over it, and a single thin shaft of light shines through a gap in the paper. Dust floats around in the air. From here, I can hear voices echoing up from downstairs, and the smell of something cooking hits me. I’m fucking starving, like I haven’t eaten in a week.
I freshen up a little before going downstairs-have a piss, splash some water on my face, scrub the crust out of my eyes. It doesn’t do me much good. In the mirror above the sink, I look wrung out. My skin itches, and I want a fucking shave, but there’s not much chance of that.
I find them in the kitchen. Frost is frying eggs while the kid sits on the counter and watches.
“. . . all kinds,” he’s saying. He must see me out of the corner of his eye, because then he turns to me and says, “Ain’t that right?”
“Eh?” Frost looks over at the kid, and turns to see what he’s looking at. “Oh, all right, mate?”
I’m not really listening to Frost. I’m more interested in the soft red mark on the kid’s neck, right where I left it.
“Frost was just telling me about some bird he knew that got off watching boxing matches. And I was saying how it takes all kinds. Don’t you think?” He grins at me, flashing his teeth.
I shoot him a warning look, and think about what his teeth would look like with his blood smeared across them while I try to keep my jaw from clenching. Luckily, though, Frost isn’t paying the least bit of attention. He’s turned back to the frying pan, and is whistling tunelessly through his teeth.
“Where the fuck is O’Flaherty?” I ask.
“Went upstairs to take a phone call,” Frost says. “Eggs?”
“There’s coffee, too,” the kid says. He doesn’t even ask if I want any, just pours me some, from an old metal job on the stove. He slides off the counter and comes over to give it to me. He hands me the cup, but doesn’t let go once I’ve got it, just stands there, looking up at me. I can smell him, over all the cooking smells, and he still smells like sex from last night. Fuck if I’m not half hard already.
The seconds tick by, but still he doesn’t move. The coffee cup is burning my fingers. Right when I’m sure Frost is going to turn around and catch us, the kid says, “There’s sugar on the counter” and lets go.
He gets some plates down from a cabinet, and I notice his feet are bare on the greying linoleum. He stands on his toes to reach the high shelf, and I have to take a gulp of my coffee to distract myself from the straining, white arch of his foot.
Just then O’Flaherty comes down, and then Frost declares breakfast to be ready, and we all sit down at the kitchen table like a little fucking family.
“So, we celebrities yet?” He’s got his mouth full, but he’s talking anyway, and then he takes a huge swallow of coffee and it makes me want to vomit.
“Made yesterday’s evening edition,” O’Flaherty says. He cuts his eggs up into tiny pieces before he eats them.
I force myself to eat. My stomach’s all caught up in knots. They talk around me, stupid pointless bullshit, nonsense, they might as well be chimps chattering for all what they’re saying fucking matters. Mostly I just hold tight onto my coffee cup. I think about what it would be like to be somewhere else. Maybe somewhere that didn’t make me want to tear my skin off.
“Oi, mate,” he says to me. I jerk a little, I can’t help it. “You gonna eat that?” He gestures to my last slice of toast.
I wasn’t planning on it, but I say, “Yes.”
He leans forward in his seat and plucks the toast right off my plate. “Get your filthy hands off my plate,” I say, and knock his hand away, but it’s too late, he’s got the toast.
He fucking smirks at me, the little cunt. “Aw, you love me really.” He tears off a big bite with his teeth. “He can’t say no to me,” he says to Frost, who chortles in his easy idiot way.
I look down and notice that my hand is chalk white, all the blood drained out of it. I can’t even feel my fingers.
He crunches down the last scrap of toast, and then gets up from the table, dusting his hands off on his jeans. “I’m gonna take a look around, if that’s all right with you gents.” He lifts his eyebrows at O’Flaherty, who nods. “Cheers,” he says, and slips out of he room.
“Aw, fuck,” Frost says suddenly. “He said he’d do the washing up.”
“Just leave it in the sink,” O’Flaherty snaps.
“I’ll do them,” I say.
Frost looks at me like I just offered to blow him. But he doesn’t get it. I want something to do to distract myself from the need I have to wrench each one of the kid’s teeth out one by one. Frost’s smart enough not to quibble with a good offer, though, so he says, “Fine by me.”
It works, at first. The burning pressure of the water on my hands has a calming effect, and I feel my shoulders relaxing. I’m not going to let the kid get to me. I’m bigger than that. He’s just some little piece of tail. He’s just the getaway driver. He’s nothing.
I guess I lose track of what I’m doing, because the next thing I know the water is pink around the dishes, and I realize I’m holding a knife around the blade. “Fuck,” I shout, more from surprise than anything else. I didn’t even fucking feel it. But there it is, a huge deep gash in my palm. “Motherfucker.” I wrap my hand in a musty tea towel and kick the cabinet beneath the sink for good measure. I leave the rest of the dishes in the pink suds, and go upstairs to try and find something to dress the wound with.
In the bathroom cabinet, there’s a half-empty bottle of hydrogen peroxide that looks like it’s been sitting there since 1982. I pop it open and unwrap the tea towel, which is already sticking to the wound.
Frost comes up and hangs around in the doorway. I can see him in the mirror. “All right?” he asks, anxious. “I heard shouting.”
I wish I could rub him right out of existence, just do away with his nervous fly buzzing altogether. “Cut my fucking hand,” I tell him through clenched teeth. I soak the cloth with the peroxide and dab gingerly at my hand. It stings like a bitch. I’ve got a long flap of skin just hanging around on my palm, the blanched lip of a deep red mouth.
There’s no gauze or anything in the cabinet, so I tear off a relatively clean portion of the tea towel and tie it tightly around my hand. I can see Frost hovering in the mirror. I see his mouth open, but before he can say anything, I turn around and say, “Would you get the fuck out of my face?”
He holds up his hands, and says, “Right. Sorry.” I hear his footsteps receding down the hall.
Once he’s gone, I just have to stand there for a minute, leaning on the sink with my good hand. The house is totally fucking silent, like I’m the only person alive in the whole city, and for just a second I feel like I could believe that. It doesn’t work, though, not for long enough. Somewhere outside a truck rumbles by, the noise of traffic lifting up through the air like poisonous gas.
The main floor is empty, and for a minute I wonder if maybe the kid’s just up and left, but then I see the door to the basement standing open.
The stairs are narrow and dark, but my feet barely touch them on the way down. The basement itself is dim, all bare concrete and the smell of rising damp.
He’s in a room off to the right, leaning over a cardboard box full of old LPs. There’s all sorts of junk hanging around-boxes of old paperbacks, a turntable, an old Persian rug with what looks like a brown blood stain on it. His back is to me, and his shirt has ridden up, exposing a crescent of milk-white skin just above the waistband of his jeans. He’s so absorbed in looking through the records that he doesn’t hear me coming until I’m halfway across the room. Then I see his shoulders tense slightly and he says, “I was wondering how long it’d take you.”
That does it. I’ve had just about enough of his fucking attitude. I close the distance between us and curl my arm around his neck, pressing the crook of my elbow hard against his windpipe. I hold tight to his shoulder with my injured hand, pulling him flush with my chest. “What do you think?” I ask. “That I want you?”
He shudders against me as he takes a labored breath. “That I care about you? That you mean anything to me?” I reach down with my free hand and grope his cock through his jeans. He’s already hard. Probably he has been all this time, thinking of me, waiting for me. He presses his arse back against my hips. But I’m not having any of that. I hold him still and pick up the motion, grinding my cock hard against his arse.
His hair tickles my nose and the cut on my palm throbs against his shoulder as I rock against him. The smell of his sweat fills my nose. I can feel his Adam’s apple working against the inside of my arm. He squirms in the circle of my arms, trying to get some purchase, some little bit of friction, but he’s not going to get anything. “You don’t,” I say, my mouth against his ear. I bite his ear then, hard, and he grunts, twisting against me. I just tighten my grip on him, pressing one arm closer around his throat, the other crushing against his ribs. “You’re nothing.”
I come thrusting against the curve of his arse, and when I let him go, his legs give out, and he falls down. He stays there on all fours on the floor, his face is bright red, his mouth hanging open as he takes huge greedy breaths.
My hand still hurts like fuck.
Part 8
Pairing: Mr. Smith/the Driver
Summary: The Driver continues to try and get a rise out of Mr. Smith.
Word Count: 1,876
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Breathplay
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, Parts 4&5, Part 6. It took me a long time, but here’s the next part at last. I think there are probably 2 or 3 more parts to come of this, but we’ll see how it goes.
7
I wake up with a start from a dream I can’t remember, and I’ve torn off the sheet, one foot on the floor, before I realize I was asleep. Then I just sit there until my heart’s slowed down and I can breathe like normal again.
It’s still dark, but my watch says it’s half ten. I feel like I’ve been swallowed up.
The hallway is marginally brighter, with a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The window at the end of the corridor has newsprint pasted over it, and a single thin shaft of light shines through a gap in the paper. Dust floats around in the air. From here, I can hear voices echoing up from downstairs, and the smell of something cooking hits me. I’m fucking starving, like I haven’t eaten in a week.
I freshen up a little before going downstairs-have a piss, splash some water on my face, scrub the crust out of my eyes. It doesn’t do me much good. In the mirror above the sink, I look wrung out. My skin itches, and I want a fucking shave, but there’s not much chance of that.
I find them in the kitchen. Frost is frying eggs while the kid sits on the counter and watches.
“. . . all kinds,” he’s saying. He must see me out of the corner of his eye, because then he turns to me and says, “Ain’t that right?”
“Eh?” Frost looks over at the kid, and turns to see what he’s looking at. “Oh, all right, mate?”
I’m not really listening to Frost. I’m more interested in the soft red mark on the kid’s neck, right where I left it.
“Frost was just telling me about some bird he knew that got off watching boxing matches. And I was saying how it takes all kinds. Don’t you think?” He grins at me, flashing his teeth.
I shoot him a warning look, and think about what his teeth would look like with his blood smeared across them while I try to keep my jaw from clenching. Luckily, though, Frost isn’t paying the least bit of attention. He’s turned back to the frying pan, and is whistling tunelessly through his teeth.
“Where the fuck is O’Flaherty?” I ask.
“Went upstairs to take a phone call,” Frost says. “Eggs?”
“There’s coffee, too,” the kid says. He doesn’t even ask if I want any, just pours me some, from an old metal job on the stove. He slides off the counter and comes over to give it to me. He hands me the cup, but doesn’t let go once I’ve got it, just stands there, looking up at me. I can smell him, over all the cooking smells, and he still smells like sex from last night. Fuck if I’m not half hard already.
The seconds tick by, but still he doesn’t move. The coffee cup is burning my fingers. Right when I’m sure Frost is going to turn around and catch us, the kid says, “There’s sugar on the counter” and lets go.
He gets some plates down from a cabinet, and I notice his feet are bare on the greying linoleum. He stands on his toes to reach the high shelf, and I have to take a gulp of my coffee to distract myself from the straining, white arch of his foot.
Just then O’Flaherty comes down, and then Frost declares breakfast to be ready, and we all sit down at the kitchen table like a little fucking family.
“So, we celebrities yet?” He’s got his mouth full, but he’s talking anyway, and then he takes a huge swallow of coffee and it makes me want to vomit.
“Made yesterday’s evening edition,” O’Flaherty says. He cuts his eggs up into tiny pieces before he eats them.
I force myself to eat. My stomach’s all caught up in knots. They talk around me, stupid pointless bullshit, nonsense, they might as well be chimps chattering for all what they’re saying fucking matters. Mostly I just hold tight onto my coffee cup. I think about what it would be like to be somewhere else. Maybe somewhere that didn’t make me want to tear my skin off.
“Oi, mate,” he says to me. I jerk a little, I can’t help it. “You gonna eat that?” He gestures to my last slice of toast.
I wasn’t planning on it, but I say, “Yes.”
He leans forward in his seat and plucks the toast right off my plate. “Get your filthy hands off my plate,” I say, and knock his hand away, but it’s too late, he’s got the toast.
He fucking smirks at me, the little cunt. “Aw, you love me really.” He tears off a big bite with his teeth. “He can’t say no to me,” he says to Frost, who chortles in his easy idiot way.
I look down and notice that my hand is chalk white, all the blood drained out of it. I can’t even feel my fingers.
He crunches down the last scrap of toast, and then gets up from the table, dusting his hands off on his jeans. “I’m gonna take a look around, if that’s all right with you gents.” He lifts his eyebrows at O’Flaherty, who nods. “Cheers,” he says, and slips out of he room.
“Aw, fuck,” Frost says suddenly. “He said he’d do the washing up.”
“Just leave it in the sink,” O’Flaherty snaps.
“I’ll do them,” I say.
Frost looks at me like I just offered to blow him. But he doesn’t get it. I want something to do to distract myself from the need I have to wrench each one of the kid’s teeth out one by one. Frost’s smart enough not to quibble with a good offer, though, so he says, “Fine by me.”
It works, at first. The burning pressure of the water on my hands has a calming effect, and I feel my shoulders relaxing. I’m not going to let the kid get to me. I’m bigger than that. He’s just some little piece of tail. He’s just the getaway driver. He’s nothing.
I guess I lose track of what I’m doing, because the next thing I know the water is pink around the dishes, and I realize I’m holding a knife around the blade. “Fuck,” I shout, more from surprise than anything else. I didn’t even fucking feel it. But there it is, a huge deep gash in my palm. “Motherfucker.” I wrap my hand in a musty tea towel and kick the cabinet beneath the sink for good measure. I leave the rest of the dishes in the pink suds, and go upstairs to try and find something to dress the wound with.
In the bathroom cabinet, there’s a half-empty bottle of hydrogen peroxide that looks like it’s been sitting there since 1982. I pop it open and unwrap the tea towel, which is already sticking to the wound.
Frost comes up and hangs around in the doorway. I can see him in the mirror. “All right?” he asks, anxious. “I heard shouting.”
I wish I could rub him right out of existence, just do away with his nervous fly buzzing altogether. “Cut my fucking hand,” I tell him through clenched teeth. I soak the cloth with the peroxide and dab gingerly at my hand. It stings like a bitch. I’ve got a long flap of skin just hanging around on my palm, the blanched lip of a deep red mouth.
There’s no gauze or anything in the cabinet, so I tear off a relatively clean portion of the tea towel and tie it tightly around my hand. I can see Frost hovering in the mirror. I see his mouth open, but before he can say anything, I turn around and say, “Would you get the fuck out of my face?”
He holds up his hands, and says, “Right. Sorry.” I hear his footsteps receding down the hall.
Once he’s gone, I just have to stand there for a minute, leaning on the sink with my good hand. The house is totally fucking silent, like I’m the only person alive in the whole city, and for just a second I feel like I could believe that. It doesn’t work, though, not for long enough. Somewhere outside a truck rumbles by, the noise of traffic lifting up through the air like poisonous gas.
The main floor is empty, and for a minute I wonder if maybe the kid’s just up and left, but then I see the door to the basement standing open.
The stairs are narrow and dark, but my feet barely touch them on the way down. The basement itself is dim, all bare concrete and the smell of rising damp.
He’s in a room off to the right, leaning over a cardboard box full of old LPs. There’s all sorts of junk hanging around-boxes of old paperbacks, a turntable, an old Persian rug with what looks like a brown blood stain on it. His back is to me, and his shirt has ridden up, exposing a crescent of milk-white skin just above the waistband of his jeans. He’s so absorbed in looking through the records that he doesn’t hear me coming until I’m halfway across the room. Then I see his shoulders tense slightly and he says, “I was wondering how long it’d take you.”
That does it. I’ve had just about enough of his fucking attitude. I close the distance between us and curl my arm around his neck, pressing the crook of my elbow hard against his windpipe. I hold tight to his shoulder with my injured hand, pulling him flush with my chest. “What do you think?” I ask. “That I want you?”
He shudders against me as he takes a labored breath. “That I care about you? That you mean anything to me?” I reach down with my free hand and grope his cock through his jeans. He’s already hard. Probably he has been all this time, thinking of me, waiting for me. He presses his arse back against my hips. But I’m not having any of that. I hold him still and pick up the motion, grinding my cock hard against his arse.
His hair tickles my nose and the cut on my palm throbs against his shoulder as I rock against him. The smell of his sweat fills my nose. I can feel his Adam’s apple working against the inside of my arm. He squirms in the circle of my arms, trying to get some purchase, some little bit of friction, but he’s not going to get anything. “You don’t,” I say, my mouth against his ear. I bite his ear then, hard, and he grunts, twisting against me. I just tighten my grip on him, pressing one arm closer around his throat, the other crushing against his ribs. “You’re nothing.”
I come thrusting against the curve of his arse, and when I let him go, his legs give out, and he falls down. He stays there on all fours on the floor, his face is bright red, his mouth hanging open as he takes huge greedy breaths.
My hand still hurts like fuck.
Part 8