Thijs Visser (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
getawaying) wrote2021-05-26 01:51 pm
getawaying) wrote2021-05-26 01:51 pm
rise and fall.
Marcel looks at him. That special look he adopts when he's turned on beyond all reason and wants it, now. As always, Thijs' body reacts instinctively, his cock going half-hard in his pants, his breathing speeding up, his chest heaving, rise and fall, rise and fall.
The other boy advances like a fucking bull.
They're picking up a package of new samples at Het IJ. It's just the two of them, since it's gonna be a tricky transaction and Marcel didn't wanna involve people he didn't trust. Thijs feels kinda honored. To have been chosen like that. The car's been parked at steiger 14, it'll take them exactly a minute to cover the distance. Should anything go wrong.
Something's always going wrong, when dealing with this shit.
He watches Marcel negotiate with the mule from the Belgian fraction, his hands gesturing in the air, hard, unyielding motion. In the end, he just points at the bag and shows the guy his middle finger. Thijs can't help smiling a bit, even if it isn't actually all that fucking funny. Sometimes Marcel just cracks him up. However, when the mule suddenly pulls out a gun and starts waving it around wildly, yelling in French that Thijs doesn't understand, but Marcel does, the fun's over and Marcel serves the idiot a roundhouse kick to the head, so he drops his weapon and tumbles sideways, stumbling into the harbor's night-darkened waters. Plop, and he's gone.
Picking up the gun, then the bag, Marcel trots over to Thijs like nothing's happened. Nothing at all.
Shit, Marcel's so fucking cool that way.
His hands are rough and unapologetic as he grabs Thijs by the shoulders and slams him up against the wall, just crashing him into bricks and tapestry and something creaks, like it's giving, might be Thijs, actually. He feels pretty giving right about now.
The other boy smashes their lips together and they're kissing and it's never like in the movies, with Marcel. It's never like that. It's always all tongue and breath that smells like Red Bull and a hand lodged in his hair, angling his head like he's got no say.
Not that he doesn't. Marcel's gonna back off, if Thijs tells him to. He'll just have to punch him to make him listen, sure, but he's gonna. Thijs knows.
It takes them 45 seconds to run to the car. Marcel is muttering his name under his breath, get in, he says and slams the door on the passenger seat open, crawling inside with the bag at his feet. Slams it shut again behind him. Thijs does the same on the other side, places himself with his foot on the speeder, one hand on the wheel, the other on the stick. He reverses off the docks, turned in his seat to look behind him, then speeds off towards Prins Hendrikkade.
"Let's see if they actually got our shit," Marcel says out loud, leaning down to grab the bag and throw it open, feeling inside. Out the corner of his eye, he can see Marcel's mouth moving in the flickering lights, as if he's counting out loud, but soundlessly. He does that when spelling, too, though unlike spelling, Marcel's got no issues with numbers at all. He's better than most.
Thijs keeps an eye on the rearview mirror, keeps looking over his shoulder as well, checking for tails, sirens, the red and blue flashes of police cars, but Nieuwezuds Voorburgwal is quiet at three in the morning.
It's only the two of them.
Marcel's breathing hard against the side of his face, kissing his way down over his jaw, the side of his neck. Thijs knows what's coming long before it happens, because it's a thing, yeah, how Marcel likes to bite. He does so now, too, sinking his teeth into the thin skin stretching over his shoulder, bites until it hurts and Thijs' losing his breath, forgetting anything but the feeling of Marcel's weight against him. He weighs a ton, not in the fat way, just in the muscular, present, strong way, right?
He whimpers and shifts, pushing his crotch and his now completely hard cock up against the other boy's thigh. Also muscular. Also strong.
"Fuck," Marcel says as the sirens suddenly resound between the canal houses. Thijs glances up at the rearview mirror, they've got a tail, but it's only one car and he can handle that. Smiling just a little, because this is where it gets fun, he speeds up and starts turning to the right, heading for the flower market at a neck-breaking speed.
Marcel's grabbing the Belgian guy's gun and loading it, glancing back over his shoulder while his hands work. Thijs only notices the movements of him like a dark shadow at the corner of his vision, he's kinda elsewhere occupied, you know. "Dead end," Marcel tells him conversationally, as if the fact that flower market's blocked doesn't fucking touch him.
Thijs raises an eyebrow. "It's a small car, we can squeeze through," he replies.
His Fiesta might not look too good afterwards, but it'll live and so will they, most importantly.
"Fuck yes," Marcel groans and drops his hand to the front of Thijs' pants, pressing up against the hard outline of his cock through the denim. Thijs is desperately angling his head to get more of his tongue, moaning into his mouth as the other boy starts rubbing up against him. His hands are cradling his shoulders, arm sliding around his neck, holding him close while they start rutting against each other like fucking animals.
The dark apartment's lit up by street and traffic lights, police sirens echoing as their cars zoom by, no wiser for it. They're just the two of them, here, in the darkness, no one knowing, no one suspecting.
"Want me to suck you," Marcel asks, voice hoarse in his ear.
"God, please," Thijs replies, word stuttering out of him.
Abandoning the car near Thorbeckeplein, they make a dash for it, running across the nearest bridge leading over Herengracht and to the safe house that de Groot's got in that part of town. It's an old apartment from the 1920s, decked out with a bed and a table, some chairs, light that doesn't work because no one pays the bills unless they need the place for a major op.
Everything's dark. The only light's coming from outside, the moon, the lamps, muted sounds of life, because Amsterdam is, if not awake, then awakening at this time of night. Marcel drops the bag near the corner, glancing out of both windows twice. Then, he fishes out his phone and starts the chain of command.
Thijs is just standing there, looking at him. He's thinking, he looks so capable and so cool, like nothing in the world can touch him.
And suddenly, he wants to touch him more than anything.
He drops to his knees, does Marcel, just like that, like it doesn't make him less than what he is. Thijs is gasping, reaching down to help open his pants, as Marcel's fingers start in on the buttons, the zipper. Marcel's making a keen sound at the back of his throat, pulling out his cock and spitting in his right hand before he starts stroking it. Everything's slick and wet and friction and slide and touch, so Thijs' knees buckle a little and he fucking whimpers again. Marcel hums. Leans in and licks a fat trail up the underside of his cock.
"Watching you drive always makes me so fucking hot for you," Marcel tells him in between two licks, then bends his neck and sucks the head of his cock into his mouth, tightening his lips around the glans and smearing precum every-fucking-where with his tongue, dipping into the slit, lapping at him.
Thijs stares up at the ceiling, breathing hard, fingers in the other boy's hair. Oh.
Although Marcel can't spell or read for the life of him, he types faster than anyone Thijs knows on phone. He can send out ten messages or something like that in a minute, uses a lot of emojis, abbreviations, slang, but it's comprehensible and it registers easily. Thijs watches him now, typing out a long message, it seems, probably for de Groot - he's gonna guess about their location, needing a new means of transport, shit like that. Marcel's got fingers in so many pies, he always knows a fucking way out. It's amazing, really.
Thijs admires him for it. Before Marcel, he didn't admire a lot of men. He doesn't know what that says about him. Or about Marcel. Maybe nothing, maybe everything.
Eventually, Marcel glances up from his phone. Only then does Thijs notice how fast he's breathing, the blown-up size of his pupils, the huge bulge in his pants. It's the adrenaline, he thinks to himself, just looking on while Marcel pockets his phone again and straightens up. It's the adrenaline and it's me.
Marcel wants him. He's looking at him. That special look he adopts when he's turned on beyond all reason and wants it, now. As always, Thijs' body reacts instinctively, his cock going half-hard in his pants, his breathing speeding up, his chest heaving, rise and fall, rise and fall.
Rise and fall.
The other boy advances like a fucking bull.
They're picking up a package of new samples at Het IJ. It's just the two of them, since it's gonna be a tricky transaction and Marcel didn't wanna involve people he didn't trust. Thijs feels kinda honored. To have been chosen like that. The car's been parked at steiger 14, it'll take them exactly a minute to cover the distance. Should anything go wrong.
Something's always going wrong, when dealing with this shit.
He watches Marcel negotiate with the mule from the Belgian fraction, his hands gesturing in the air, hard, unyielding motion. In the end, he just points at the bag and shows the guy his middle finger. Thijs can't help smiling a bit, even if it isn't actually all that fucking funny. Sometimes Marcel just cracks him up. However, when the mule suddenly pulls out a gun and starts waving it around wildly, yelling in French that Thijs doesn't understand, but Marcel does, the fun's over and Marcel serves the idiot a roundhouse kick to the head, so he drops his weapon and tumbles sideways, stumbling into the harbor's night-darkened waters. Plop, and he's gone.
Picking up the gun, then the bag, Marcel trots over to Thijs like nothing's happened. Nothing at all.
Shit, Marcel's so fucking cool that way.
His hands are rough and unapologetic as he grabs Thijs by the shoulders and slams him up against the wall, just crashing him into bricks and tapestry and something creaks, like it's giving, might be Thijs, actually. He feels pretty giving right about now.
The other boy smashes their lips together and they're kissing and it's never like in the movies, with Marcel. It's never like that. It's always all tongue and breath that smells like Red Bull and a hand lodged in his hair, angling his head like he's got no say.
Not that he doesn't. Marcel's gonna back off, if Thijs tells him to. He'll just have to punch him to make him listen, sure, but he's gonna. Thijs knows.
It takes them 45 seconds to run to the car. Marcel is muttering his name under his breath, get in, he says and slams the door on the passenger seat open, crawling inside with the bag at his feet. Slams it shut again behind him. Thijs does the same on the other side, places himself with his foot on the speeder, one hand on the wheel, the other on the stick. He reverses off the docks, turned in his seat to look behind him, then speeds off towards Prins Hendrikkade.
"Let's see if they actually got our shit," Marcel says out loud, leaning down to grab the bag and throw it open, feeling inside. Out the corner of his eye, he can see Marcel's mouth moving in the flickering lights, as if he's counting out loud, but soundlessly. He does that when spelling, too, though unlike spelling, Marcel's got no issues with numbers at all. He's better than most.
Thijs keeps an eye on the rearview mirror, keeps looking over his shoulder as well, checking for tails, sirens, the red and blue flashes of police cars, but Nieuwezuds Voorburgwal is quiet at three in the morning.
It's only the two of them.
Marcel's breathing hard against the side of his face, kissing his way down over his jaw, the side of his neck. Thijs knows what's coming long before it happens, because it's a thing, yeah, how Marcel likes to bite. He does so now, too, sinking his teeth into the thin skin stretching over his shoulder, bites until it hurts and Thijs' losing his breath, forgetting anything but the feeling of Marcel's weight against him. He weighs a ton, not in the fat way, just in the muscular, present, strong way, right?
He whimpers and shifts, pushing his crotch and his now completely hard cock up against the other boy's thigh. Also muscular. Also strong.
"Fuck," Marcel says as the sirens suddenly resound between the canal houses. Thijs glances up at the rearview mirror, they've got a tail, but it's only one car and he can handle that. Smiling just a little, because this is where it gets fun, he speeds up and starts turning to the right, heading for the flower market at a neck-breaking speed.
Marcel's grabbing the Belgian guy's gun and loading it, glancing back over his shoulder while his hands work. Thijs only notices the movements of him like a dark shadow at the corner of his vision, he's kinda elsewhere occupied, you know. "Dead end," Marcel tells him conversationally, as if the fact that flower market's blocked doesn't fucking touch him.
Thijs raises an eyebrow. "It's a small car, we can squeeze through," he replies.
His Fiesta might not look too good afterwards, but it'll live and so will they, most importantly.
"Fuck yes," Marcel groans and drops his hand to the front of Thijs' pants, pressing up against the hard outline of his cock through the denim. Thijs is desperately angling his head to get more of his tongue, moaning into his mouth as the other boy starts rubbing up against him. His hands are cradling his shoulders, arm sliding around his neck, holding him close while they start rutting against each other like fucking animals.
The dark apartment's lit up by street and traffic lights, police sirens echoing as their cars zoom by, no wiser for it. They're just the two of them, here, in the darkness, no one knowing, no one suspecting.
"Want me to suck you," Marcel asks, voice hoarse in his ear.
"God, please," Thijs replies, word stuttering out of him.
Abandoning the car near Thorbeckeplein, they make a dash for it, running across the nearest bridge leading over Herengracht and to the safe house that de Groot's got in that part of town. It's an old apartment from the 1920s, decked out with a bed and a table, some chairs, light that doesn't work because no one pays the bills unless they need the place for a major op.
Everything's dark. The only light's coming from outside, the moon, the lamps, muted sounds of life, because Amsterdam is, if not awake, then awakening at this time of night. Marcel drops the bag near the corner, glancing out of both windows twice. Then, he fishes out his phone and starts the chain of command.
Thijs is just standing there, looking at him. He's thinking, he looks so capable and so cool, like nothing in the world can touch him.
And suddenly, he wants to touch him more than anything.
He drops to his knees, does Marcel, just like that, like it doesn't make him less than what he is. Thijs is gasping, reaching down to help open his pants, as Marcel's fingers start in on the buttons, the zipper. Marcel's making a keen sound at the back of his throat, pulling out his cock and spitting in his right hand before he starts stroking it. Everything's slick and wet and friction and slide and touch, so Thijs' knees buckle a little and he fucking whimpers again. Marcel hums. Leans in and licks a fat trail up the underside of his cock.
"Watching you drive always makes me so fucking hot for you," Marcel tells him in between two licks, then bends his neck and sucks the head of his cock into his mouth, tightening his lips around the glans and smearing precum every-fucking-where with his tongue, dipping into the slit, lapping at him.
Thijs stares up at the ceiling, breathing hard, fingers in the other boy's hair. Oh.
Although Marcel can't spell or read for the life of him, he types faster than anyone Thijs knows on phone. He can send out ten messages or something like that in a minute, uses a lot of emojis, abbreviations, slang, but it's comprehensible and it registers easily. Thijs watches him now, typing out a long message, it seems, probably for de Groot - he's gonna guess about their location, needing a new means of transport, shit like that. Marcel's got fingers in so many pies, he always knows a fucking way out. It's amazing, really.
Thijs admires him for it. Before Marcel, he didn't admire a lot of men. He doesn't know what that says about him. Or about Marcel. Maybe nothing, maybe everything.
Eventually, Marcel glances up from his phone. Only then does Thijs notice how fast he's breathing, the blown-up size of his pupils, the huge bulge in his pants. It's the adrenaline, he thinks to himself, just looking on while Marcel pockets his phone again and straightens up. It's the adrenaline and it's me.
Marcel wants him. He's looking at him. That special look he adopts when he's turned on beyond all reason and wants it, now. As always, Thijs' body reacts instinctively, his cock going half-hard in his pants, his breathing speeding up, his chest heaving, rise and fall, rise and fall.
Rise and fall.