FIC: Side Effects (Trainspotting, Sick Boy/Renton, NC-17)
TITLE: Side Effects
AUTHOR: Carmilla
EMAIL: carmilla99@hotmail.com
FANDOM: Trainspotting
PAIRING: Sick Boy/Renton
RATING: NC-17
SUMMARY: For duckgirlie, who requested Renton and Sick Boy having lots of sex, and no drug-taking. This is darker and has more druggy stuff in it than I’d originally intended, but considering the source material I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.
DISCLAIMER: Irvine Walsh wrote the book, and I suppose someone else owns the movie. At any rate, they’re not mine, and I make no money from this.
~
In the park, Sick Boy had his hand down the back of Renton’s jeans. They were lying on their stomachs in the long grass of their customary hill, and acting like nothing was happening. Sick Boy was talking about Sean Connery again, debating whether living in America made him a sell-out. Debating with himself, since Renton was mostly nodding and trying to act like Sick Boy didn’t have his hand on his balls, wasn’t alternating between cupping them and rubbing them gently, and occasionally pushing his thumb against his perineum for good measure. Whether this pretence was for the benefit of passers-by, or just for him, he wasn’t sure. Sick Boy was concluding that it wasn’t so much living in America that was the issue, it was taking citizenship. His finger ghosted over the crack of Renton’s arse, pushed in, just the tip, teasing. It was dry, and stung when he withdrew. Renton squirmed against the ground as Sick Boy moved his hand again, and wondered whether his T-shirt was long enough to hide either a hard-on or a stain on his jeans when he got up.
~
One of the nastiest things about coming off scag, maybe not more uncomfortable than the sweats or the shakes but certainly more insidious and more long-lasting, was the number of things that suddenly became important again. The simple purity of the score - make money - find drugs - score cycle was lost, and life became instead one hideous mass of complications. Suddenly you had to eat again, suddenly you cared what you ate, and your body craved good food after months of denial. Suddenly you had to give a shit what other people thought, suddenly their opinion of you mattered. And suddenly you desperately needed a fuck.
Renton was beginning to think Sick Boy had ulterior motives for kicking the junk whenever he did.
~
In the toilets of the club, Sick Boy had his hand over Renton’s mouth. Renton’s fly was undone, and Sick Boy’s other hand stretched Renton’s boxers out enough to jerk him off. His grip was firm, and his thumb circled lazily around Renton’s cockhead, smearing it with pre-come. Renton gripped Sick Boy’s arse harder as he began to pump him, tight and maddeningly slow. Ignoring the protesting noises his friend was making, Sick Boy carried on at his own pace, only speeding up when sweat was breaking out on Renton’s forehead and his left foot was twitching backwards, kicking the cubicle wall. Then he moved faster and faster, eventually working just the tip with a punishing rhythm. Renton bit the skin at the heel of his hand, released him, bit again; repeated hard nips because his teeth couldn’t find any purchase. His whole body stiffened when he came, and his head slammed back into the wall, thrashing from side to side.
Sick Boy cleaned his hand off with loo roll, but he was hardly done when Renton was on him, grabbing his wrists and pinning them behind his head as he kissed him fiercely, invasively. He ground against Sick Boy’s already hard crotch. Eventually he released his wrists in favour of his belt buckle, burying his face in the crock of Sick Boy’s neck and sucking on the exposed flesh. Vaguely, he smelt Alison's perfume, and remembered she was still in the club outside somewhere, wasted, dancing. Sick Boy was going to give her a ride home. He left a bigger hickey than he’d meant to.
When he’d succeeded in getting Sick Boy’s pants open and shoving them down, his friend sat on the rim of the toilet, and Renton knelt in front of him. It struck him as being rather sordid, wondered if that turned Sick Boy on, wondered if it turned him on. He wrapped a hand around the base of Sick Boy’s cock as he dragged his tongue along the length of its underside a couple of times, then forced as much as he could into his mouth. He wasn’t in the mood to make this last. He used his hand and his mouth together, moving them back and forth, gagging once when he took a little more than he’d intended and Sick Boy’s hips jerked forward. He remembered enough to use his tongue again, flicking the sensitive part just under the cockhead, and Sick Boy’s low moans became a steady stream of expletives, his hands tightening to a bone-crushing vise on Renton’s shoulders as he came.
Renton spat into the toilet. He’d never got the hang of swallowing.
~
They’d all done this, at some point or another. Done each other. Well, that was an exaggeration. Begbie had always kept his hands to himself, although his sneering comments about fags, often unprompted and usually followed by an ostentatious display of masculinity (like beating the crap out of some unsuspecting tourist) had made Renton wonder if he wasn’t perhaps in denial about something. Tommy, he was fairly sure, was entirely on the straight and narrow. But he and Spud and Sick Boy… well, heroin made all things possible. They’d fooled around with most of the people who passed through their little den. They’d all fucked Alison, although Sick Boy had dibs. Al tended to like the guys to do the work, but when she was feeling generous she could do some inspired things with her tongue. Spud would curl up at your side or paw at your chest like a puppy, and made little whimpering noises in the back of his throat when you jerked him off, and his mouth was too wet when he kissed you. Sick Boy on heroin was passive, simply fixing you with intense blue eyes and never looking away as you did whatever you decided to do to him. Renton had vague memories of once, or maybe more than once, getting down on his knees in front of the Mother Superior and opening his flies and shoving him against a wall as he sucked him off. Not for a hit; that would have been trashy. Just because he could.
Doing any of it sober was a very different thing, though.
~
In the bedroom, Sick Boy had his hand on Renton’s cock. With his other hand, he worked three fingers, slick with lube, in and out of Renton’s arse. He’d brought the stuff with him; Renton didn’t have any. Renton wasn’t sure why that was, considering how many evenings with Sick Boy eventually ended like this. Maybe it would feel like admitting something he didn’t want to admit or maybe he just didn’t have the balls to walk up to a counter and buy something like that. Sick Boy’s middle finger hit his prostate. He abruptly stopped thinking.
There was a moment’s fumbling hesitation as Sick Boy pulled a condom on. Renton wasn’t sure why they bothered; they’d shared enough needles in the past that anything one of them had, the other probably had too. But he wasn’t a junkie now, was he? No, not now. Now he was a responsible adult. Renton tried to stop smirking before Sick Boy could ask him what was so funny.
Like always, there was a moment of unbearable pressure as he was penetrated, and Sick Boy’s first thrust was one long, slow burn. But soon they found their rhythm and Renton could stop biting his lower lip. He felt his hips lifted slightly so that the strokes went deeper, hitting his prostate each time; he panted hard, trying to hang onto a little control, knowing he was being watched. They always fucked face to face; Sick Boy had a thing about eye contact. He must have liked whatever he was seeing now, because he started moving faster, harder. Abruptly, he grabbed one of Renton’s hands from where it was gripping the headboard, and dragged it down to his cock. Renton wasn’t naturally much of an exhibitionist, but his hand seemed to move largely of its own accord as he began to pull himself off in time with Sick Boy’s thrusts. Suddenly, his friend fell forward onto him heavily, hips moving almost spasmodically, and Renton fisted his other hand in that bleach blond hair as the pressure on the hand trapped between their bodies and the heat and friction of those last few thrusts brought him off, just before he felt the rush of Sick Boy’s orgasm.
Afterwards, Renton watched as Sick Boy pulled on his jeans and headed for the living room in search of his shirt. He never stayed the night, and Renton never asked him to. Besides, he had a feeling his friend had another appointment. He’d left a bunch of flowers in the sink when he first came in, and they certainly weren’t for him.
~
In the end, Renton knew, he was going to get back on the scag again. And it wasn’t going to be because the withdrawal was getting too much. It wasn’t even going to be for the bliss of that first hit that he never really stopped craving. It was going to be because he missed the simple, ordered nature of a life based around drugs. A life where pleasure was as straightforward as your next score, and actions didn’t have consequences, and anything you did was excusable because you were either on drugs or coming down off them, and the heroin wrapped your brain in cotton wool so nothing was complex or confusing or fucking hurt for no reason. That beat the hell out of real life any day of the week. Who was he kidding?
Sick Boy was at his door again. Renton let him in.
END
AUTHOR: Carmilla
EMAIL: carmilla99@hotmail.com
FANDOM: Trainspotting
PAIRING: Sick Boy/Renton
RATING: NC-17
SUMMARY: For duckgirlie, who requested Renton and Sick Boy having lots of sex, and no drug-taking. This is darker and has more druggy stuff in it than I’d originally intended, but considering the source material I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.
DISCLAIMER: Irvine Walsh wrote the book, and I suppose someone else owns the movie. At any rate, they’re not mine, and I make no money from this.
~
In the park, Sick Boy had his hand down the back of Renton’s jeans. They were lying on their stomachs in the long grass of their customary hill, and acting like nothing was happening. Sick Boy was talking about Sean Connery again, debating whether living in America made him a sell-out. Debating with himself, since Renton was mostly nodding and trying to act like Sick Boy didn’t have his hand on his balls, wasn’t alternating between cupping them and rubbing them gently, and occasionally pushing his thumb against his perineum for good measure. Whether this pretence was for the benefit of passers-by, or just for him, he wasn’t sure. Sick Boy was concluding that it wasn’t so much living in America that was the issue, it was taking citizenship. His finger ghosted over the crack of Renton’s arse, pushed in, just the tip, teasing. It was dry, and stung when he withdrew. Renton squirmed against the ground as Sick Boy moved his hand again, and wondered whether his T-shirt was long enough to hide either a hard-on or a stain on his jeans when he got up.
~
One of the nastiest things about coming off scag, maybe not more uncomfortable than the sweats or the shakes but certainly more insidious and more long-lasting, was the number of things that suddenly became important again. The simple purity of the score - make money - find drugs - score cycle was lost, and life became instead one hideous mass of complications. Suddenly you had to eat again, suddenly you cared what you ate, and your body craved good food after months of denial. Suddenly you had to give a shit what other people thought, suddenly their opinion of you mattered. And suddenly you desperately needed a fuck.
Renton was beginning to think Sick Boy had ulterior motives for kicking the junk whenever he did.
~
In the toilets of the club, Sick Boy had his hand over Renton’s mouth. Renton’s fly was undone, and Sick Boy’s other hand stretched Renton’s boxers out enough to jerk him off. His grip was firm, and his thumb circled lazily around Renton’s cockhead, smearing it with pre-come. Renton gripped Sick Boy’s arse harder as he began to pump him, tight and maddeningly slow. Ignoring the protesting noises his friend was making, Sick Boy carried on at his own pace, only speeding up when sweat was breaking out on Renton’s forehead and his left foot was twitching backwards, kicking the cubicle wall. Then he moved faster and faster, eventually working just the tip with a punishing rhythm. Renton bit the skin at the heel of his hand, released him, bit again; repeated hard nips because his teeth couldn’t find any purchase. His whole body stiffened when he came, and his head slammed back into the wall, thrashing from side to side.
Sick Boy cleaned his hand off with loo roll, but he was hardly done when Renton was on him, grabbing his wrists and pinning them behind his head as he kissed him fiercely, invasively. He ground against Sick Boy’s already hard crotch. Eventually he released his wrists in favour of his belt buckle, burying his face in the crock of Sick Boy’s neck and sucking on the exposed flesh. Vaguely, he smelt Alison's perfume, and remembered she was still in the club outside somewhere, wasted, dancing. Sick Boy was going to give her a ride home. He left a bigger hickey than he’d meant to.
When he’d succeeded in getting Sick Boy’s pants open and shoving them down, his friend sat on the rim of the toilet, and Renton knelt in front of him. It struck him as being rather sordid, wondered if that turned Sick Boy on, wondered if it turned him on. He wrapped a hand around the base of Sick Boy’s cock as he dragged his tongue along the length of its underside a couple of times, then forced as much as he could into his mouth. He wasn’t in the mood to make this last. He used his hand and his mouth together, moving them back and forth, gagging once when he took a little more than he’d intended and Sick Boy’s hips jerked forward. He remembered enough to use his tongue again, flicking the sensitive part just under the cockhead, and Sick Boy’s low moans became a steady stream of expletives, his hands tightening to a bone-crushing vise on Renton’s shoulders as he came.
Renton spat into the toilet. He’d never got the hang of swallowing.
~
They’d all done this, at some point or another. Done each other. Well, that was an exaggeration. Begbie had always kept his hands to himself, although his sneering comments about fags, often unprompted and usually followed by an ostentatious display of masculinity (like beating the crap out of some unsuspecting tourist) had made Renton wonder if he wasn’t perhaps in denial about something. Tommy, he was fairly sure, was entirely on the straight and narrow. But he and Spud and Sick Boy… well, heroin made all things possible. They’d fooled around with most of the people who passed through their little den. They’d all fucked Alison, although Sick Boy had dibs. Al tended to like the guys to do the work, but when she was feeling generous she could do some inspired things with her tongue. Spud would curl up at your side or paw at your chest like a puppy, and made little whimpering noises in the back of his throat when you jerked him off, and his mouth was too wet when he kissed you. Sick Boy on heroin was passive, simply fixing you with intense blue eyes and never looking away as you did whatever you decided to do to him. Renton had vague memories of once, or maybe more than once, getting down on his knees in front of the Mother Superior and opening his flies and shoving him against a wall as he sucked him off. Not for a hit; that would have been trashy. Just because he could.
Doing any of it sober was a very different thing, though.
~
In the bedroom, Sick Boy had his hand on Renton’s cock. With his other hand, he worked three fingers, slick with lube, in and out of Renton’s arse. He’d brought the stuff with him; Renton didn’t have any. Renton wasn’t sure why that was, considering how many evenings with Sick Boy eventually ended like this. Maybe it would feel like admitting something he didn’t want to admit or maybe he just didn’t have the balls to walk up to a counter and buy something like that. Sick Boy’s middle finger hit his prostate. He abruptly stopped thinking.
There was a moment’s fumbling hesitation as Sick Boy pulled a condom on. Renton wasn’t sure why they bothered; they’d shared enough needles in the past that anything one of them had, the other probably had too. But he wasn’t a junkie now, was he? No, not now. Now he was a responsible adult. Renton tried to stop smirking before Sick Boy could ask him what was so funny.
Like always, there was a moment of unbearable pressure as he was penetrated, and Sick Boy’s first thrust was one long, slow burn. But soon they found their rhythm and Renton could stop biting his lower lip. He felt his hips lifted slightly so that the strokes went deeper, hitting his prostate each time; he panted hard, trying to hang onto a little control, knowing he was being watched. They always fucked face to face; Sick Boy had a thing about eye contact. He must have liked whatever he was seeing now, because he started moving faster, harder. Abruptly, he grabbed one of Renton’s hands from where it was gripping the headboard, and dragged it down to his cock. Renton wasn’t naturally much of an exhibitionist, but his hand seemed to move largely of its own accord as he began to pull himself off in time with Sick Boy’s thrusts. Suddenly, his friend fell forward onto him heavily, hips moving almost spasmodically, and Renton fisted his other hand in that bleach blond hair as the pressure on the hand trapped between their bodies and the heat and friction of those last few thrusts brought him off, just before he felt the rush of Sick Boy’s orgasm.
Afterwards, Renton watched as Sick Boy pulled on his jeans and headed for the living room in search of his shirt. He never stayed the night, and Renton never asked him to. Besides, he had a feeling his friend had another appointment. He’d left a bunch of flowers in the sink when he first came in, and they certainly weren’t for him.
~
In the end, Renton knew, he was going to get back on the scag again. And it wasn’t going to be because the withdrawal was getting too much. It wasn’t even going to be for the bliss of that first hit that he never really stopped craving. It was going to be because he missed the simple, ordered nature of a life based around drugs. A life where pleasure was as straightforward as your next score, and actions didn’t have consequences, and anything you did was excusable because you were either on drugs or coming down off them, and the heroin wrapped your brain in cotton wool so nothing was complex or confusing or fucking hurt for no reason. That beat the hell out of real life any day of the week. Who was he kidding?
Sick Boy was at his door again. Renton let him in.
END