FIC: Shift (Trainspotting, Sick Boy/Renton, NC-17)
Argh, so many great requests for August, and here's me still trying to clear my backlog from months ago....
TITLE: Shift
AUTHOR: Carmilla
EMAIL: carmilla99@hotmail.com
FANDOM: Trainspotting
PAIRING: Sick Boy/Renton
RATING: NC-17
SUMMARY: For duckgirlie, who requested: Well, first of all, sex. Lots of sex. But specifically: I want something with a switch in the balance of power. Where it starts off with one person dominant, and somewhere along the way it changes. That said, I don't want S&M, though a little mild bondage is fine. Extra points if clothes get ripped off at some point. And even more points if it involves buttons flying off in all directions.
This is in the same continuity as ‘Side Effects’, but you certainly don’t need to read that one first.
DISCLAIMER: Not even close to being mine. Don’t sue.
~
Sick Boy was waiting for him, the first night Begbie went out alone. Renton was expecting it.
He’d been expecting it ever since Sick Boy first pushed his doorbell, over a fortnight ago, and taken in Renton’s boxers and his T-shirt that rode up just a little with a glance and a slightly predatory smile, a smile which promptly vanished as he spotted Begbie’s glowering presence on Renton’s sofa. The expectation had kicked his pulse up a notch whenever he caught Sick Boy looking at him over the past couple of weeks, made him shiver and bristle with goose bumps whenever Sick Boy brushed his fingers across his calf in the bed they were sharing, far too casually for it to have been an accident. And so there wasn’t even a question of what was going to happen when Renton walked into his apartment one evening and found that Sick Boy was there alone.
“Begbie’s out with some bird,” said Sick Boy. His tone was chatty, or trying to be. His tongue flickered across his lips. “He said not to wait up.” And he smiled his predator’s smile.
Renton just about had time to sling his briefcase into a corner before Sick Boy was on him, grabbing his shoulders, slamming him into the door and kissing him forcefully, and with a familiarity Renton realised he had missed. Sick Boy knew him, knew his mouth, knew his body, knew that if he slid his fingers across the back of Renton’s neck Renton would gasp a little, and if he ran his tongue just behind Renton’s teeth as he gasped, all the muscles in his arms would melt into compliant nothingness. Not breaking the kiss, Sick Boy slid his hands down Renton’s shoulders, divesting him of his jacket. He fumbled at Renton’s tie, his hands trapped between their bodies, but couldn’t get it loose. Hissing in frustration, he jerked his head back and yanked at it again, until Renton made a noise of protest, batted his hands away, and took it off himself, thrusting it into his trouser pocket. Sick Boy smiled in a satisfied sort of way, and began to undo Renton’s shirt buttons. At the fourth, he got bored, gripped either side of the shirt’s open neckline, and pulled.
“Hey!” Renton exclaimed, as he watched one of his shirt buttons roll away across the floor, never to be seen again. “Mind what you’re doing!”
“Shut up, you soft bastard,” smirked Sick Boy, shoving the shirt halfway down so that it trapped Renton’s arms behind his back and reaching down to cup the bulge in his trousers, none too gently.
They stumbled backwards across the room, heading vaguely in the direction of the bed, and somewhere along the way Sick Boy lost his T-shirt and gained a hickey on his collarbone. Then Renton was sitting on the end of the bed with Sick Boy standing in front of him, and was trying to undo his jeans, which was difficult because Sick Boy was making him squirm by running his thumbs around his nipples, and occasionally giving one or the other a vicious little twist.
As Renton finally managed to snap the last button open, Sick Boy rested one of his hands flat against Renton’s chest, and ran it up over his neck until it was resting against his cheek. He turned his face to one side, a familiar possessive gesture; it meant he was going to lean in and bite Renton’s neck, and Renton’s eyes were already shuttering closed when they fell on the table. The empty table. Where his telly used to be. And it struck him, the way it hadn’t struck him since that first awful moment when he’d looked up from his paper and known it was Begbie at the door: this was his house. His. His turf. And it was being invaded by these people.
It was probably Sick Boy’s surprise as much as Renton’s strength that allowed him to topple Sick Boy, spinning him round so that he landed on the bed. Not giving him time to recover from a possible winding, Renton yanked his jeans off, followed by his boxers, and straddled his hips. When Sick Boy reached for his shoulders, maybe thinking to wrestle him off, Renton ground his still clothed crotch down onto Sick Boy’s erection where it lay heavily across his stomach, and watched the interesting mix of pleasure and pain play out over his friend’s face. And then he had an idea.
Sick Boy’s eyes went wide when he saw Renton pull his balled-up tie out of his pocket, and he made a little strangled noise in the back of his throat, but didn’t say anything. But he was clearing shocked when, instead of making any move to tie him down, Renton wound the thing around his head until it had made a pretty thorough blindfold.
This was breaking their pattern, and then some. Sick Boy always wanted to be in a position where he could make eye contact; he was the only guy Renton knew who hated doggy-style and would say so. Renton smiled a little to himself. That was one satisfaction he wasn’t going to get tonight.
He took his time exploring his friend’s torso with lips and fingers, alternating kisses with pinches and scratches, soothing strokes with hard little bites. Sick Boy, maybe sensing something steely in Renton’s mood, was quieter and more compliant than Renton had ever known him to be when sober. But he whimpered when Renton bit the soft skin at the top of his inner thigh, and when Renton ran his tongue across his balls, ever so lightly, the sound became almost a sob, and his hips shifted restively, seeking contact. Renton repeated the caress, once, then got up long enough to undo his trousers and shuck them off. Sick Boy’s backpack was lying under the table, and Renton went to rummage through it in search of lube.
Sick Boy must have noticed when he’d left the bed, and Renton deliberately kept as quiet as he could. His friend lay still for a little while, but he was obviously restless, and it wasn’t long before he began to call out.
“Rents? You there? Seriously, Renton, where the fuck are you? This isn’t fucking funny!” A pause, during which Renton, lube in one hand and condom in the other (he had his own, but why waste them?), headed back to the bed. He stood over Sick Boy, watched his fists clench and unclench, his shoulders hunch and settle. “Right, if you don’t tell me where you are now, I’m taking this fucking thing off, getting dressed and leaving! Walking right out that fucking door!” At this point, Renton silenced him with a hand over his mouth and a fist wrapped firmly around his cock.
He pumped him a few times, slow and steady, and when he let go Sick Boy’s hips jerked desperately, fucking the air. He hissed when Renton rolled the condom onto him, and followed it up with a generous handful of lube.
Renton couldn’t do to himself what Sick Boy did to him, fuck himself with greased fingers to get ready. It would have been too awkward, felt too strange. Instead he crouched over Sick Boy, took his cock firmly in his hand, and lowered himself onto it.
The first inch was the worst. The muscle protested at the sudden intrusion and Renton bit his lip until he tasted blood to keep from making a sound. Sick Boy showed no such restraint, his gasp at the moment of penetration turning into a long drawn out “Fu-ck me!” as Renton impaled himself fully. He tried to push upwards, but Renton, hands on his shoulders, kept him pinned to the mattress. They’d move when he was good and ready.
He had a feeling he’d be sore tomorrow - it took him longer than usual to adjust to the familiar burn inside. Once he had, he gingerly sank down until he was kneeling astride his friend, and before long he was making short, shallow thrusts while Sick Boy panted and sweated beneath him, his head thrashing from side to side. Now and then a stroke went deeper, and Renton had to gasp and shudder a little himself. Soon he found he was provoking those deep thrusts, squirming to get more contact. And then, another happy thought occurring, he sat down hard, so that Sick Boy was buried balls-deep inside him, and began to simply rock back and forth, maintaining that delicious contact. One hand splayed on Sick Boy’s chest for balance, he started to jerk himself off, and he found that without his friend’s knowing gaze on him, he was far more relaxed, happy to do exactly what he liked.
Judging by Sick Boy’s moan, and the urgent, almost involuntary thrusts his hips made every now and again, he could tell what Renton was doing. And as Renton’s hand sped up, he started speaking.
“Rents - ah - take the damn thing - ah, fuck - off, would you? I want - want to see what you're - Renton, please?”
And with that, Renton came suddenly and explosively all over Sick Boy’s chest.
Sick Boy made a little choked-off sound that was probably more shock than anything else, pulled Renton down to him and started thrusting in earnest. Renton was happy enough to ride it out, and his friend climaxed a couple of moments after he did, fingernails scoring along Renton’s back and leaving marks that he expected he’d keep for a long while to come. As soon as he saw the tension in Sick Boy’s muscles start to fade, Renton eased their bodies apart, and clambered off the bed. He had already pulled his trousers on again before he thought to remove the blindfold.
~
When Begbie came back the next morning, Renton had the bed and Sick Boy was sleeping on the couch. Over breakfast, Renton explained his plan to move the two of them into an apartment of their own, one that he hardly ever showed. Begbie was quiet pleased with the idea; Sick Boy didn’t argue.
END
TITLE: Shift
AUTHOR: Carmilla
EMAIL: carmilla99@hotmail.com
FANDOM: Trainspotting
PAIRING: Sick Boy/Renton
RATING: NC-17
SUMMARY: For duckgirlie, who requested: Well, first of all, sex. Lots of sex. But specifically: I want something with a switch in the balance of power. Where it starts off with one person dominant, and somewhere along the way it changes. That said, I don't want S&M, though a little mild bondage is fine. Extra points if clothes get ripped off at some point. And even more points if it involves buttons flying off in all directions.
This is in the same continuity as ‘Side Effects’, but you certainly don’t need to read that one first.
DISCLAIMER: Not even close to being mine. Don’t sue.
~
Sick Boy was waiting for him, the first night Begbie went out alone. Renton was expecting it.
He’d been expecting it ever since Sick Boy first pushed his doorbell, over a fortnight ago, and taken in Renton’s boxers and his T-shirt that rode up just a little with a glance and a slightly predatory smile, a smile which promptly vanished as he spotted Begbie’s glowering presence on Renton’s sofa. The expectation had kicked his pulse up a notch whenever he caught Sick Boy looking at him over the past couple of weeks, made him shiver and bristle with goose bumps whenever Sick Boy brushed his fingers across his calf in the bed they were sharing, far too casually for it to have been an accident. And so there wasn’t even a question of what was going to happen when Renton walked into his apartment one evening and found that Sick Boy was there alone.
“Begbie’s out with some bird,” said Sick Boy. His tone was chatty, or trying to be. His tongue flickered across his lips. “He said not to wait up.” And he smiled his predator’s smile.
Renton just about had time to sling his briefcase into a corner before Sick Boy was on him, grabbing his shoulders, slamming him into the door and kissing him forcefully, and with a familiarity Renton realised he had missed. Sick Boy knew him, knew his mouth, knew his body, knew that if he slid his fingers across the back of Renton’s neck Renton would gasp a little, and if he ran his tongue just behind Renton’s teeth as he gasped, all the muscles in his arms would melt into compliant nothingness. Not breaking the kiss, Sick Boy slid his hands down Renton’s shoulders, divesting him of his jacket. He fumbled at Renton’s tie, his hands trapped between their bodies, but couldn’t get it loose. Hissing in frustration, he jerked his head back and yanked at it again, until Renton made a noise of protest, batted his hands away, and took it off himself, thrusting it into his trouser pocket. Sick Boy smiled in a satisfied sort of way, and began to undo Renton’s shirt buttons. At the fourth, he got bored, gripped either side of the shirt’s open neckline, and pulled.
“Hey!” Renton exclaimed, as he watched one of his shirt buttons roll away across the floor, never to be seen again. “Mind what you’re doing!”
“Shut up, you soft bastard,” smirked Sick Boy, shoving the shirt halfway down so that it trapped Renton’s arms behind his back and reaching down to cup the bulge in his trousers, none too gently.
They stumbled backwards across the room, heading vaguely in the direction of the bed, and somewhere along the way Sick Boy lost his T-shirt and gained a hickey on his collarbone. Then Renton was sitting on the end of the bed with Sick Boy standing in front of him, and was trying to undo his jeans, which was difficult because Sick Boy was making him squirm by running his thumbs around his nipples, and occasionally giving one or the other a vicious little twist.
As Renton finally managed to snap the last button open, Sick Boy rested one of his hands flat against Renton’s chest, and ran it up over his neck until it was resting against his cheek. He turned his face to one side, a familiar possessive gesture; it meant he was going to lean in and bite Renton’s neck, and Renton’s eyes were already shuttering closed when they fell on the table. The empty table. Where his telly used to be. And it struck him, the way it hadn’t struck him since that first awful moment when he’d looked up from his paper and known it was Begbie at the door: this was his house. His. His turf. And it was being invaded by these people.
It was probably Sick Boy’s surprise as much as Renton’s strength that allowed him to topple Sick Boy, spinning him round so that he landed on the bed. Not giving him time to recover from a possible winding, Renton yanked his jeans off, followed by his boxers, and straddled his hips. When Sick Boy reached for his shoulders, maybe thinking to wrestle him off, Renton ground his still clothed crotch down onto Sick Boy’s erection where it lay heavily across his stomach, and watched the interesting mix of pleasure and pain play out over his friend’s face. And then he had an idea.
Sick Boy’s eyes went wide when he saw Renton pull his balled-up tie out of his pocket, and he made a little strangled noise in the back of his throat, but didn’t say anything. But he was clearing shocked when, instead of making any move to tie him down, Renton wound the thing around his head until it had made a pretty thorough blindfold.
This was breaking their pattern, and then some. Sick Boy always wanted to be in a position where he could make eye contact; he was the only guy Renton knew who hated doggy-style and would say so. Renton smiled a little to himself. That was one satisfaction he wasn’t going to get tonight.
He took his time exploring his friend’s torso with lips and fingers, alternating kisses with pinches and scratches, soothing strokes with hard little bites. Sick Boy, maybe sensing something steely in Renton’s mood, was quieter and more compliant than Renton had ever known him to be when sober. But he whimpered when Renton bit the soft skin at the top of his inner thigh, and when Renton ran his tongue across his balls, ever so lightly, the sound became almost a sob, and his hips shifted restively, seeking contact. Renton repeated the caress, once, then got up long enough to undo his trousers and shuck them off. Sick Boy’s backpack was lying under the table, and Renton went to rummage through it in search of lube.
Sick Boy must have noticed when he’d left the bed, and Renton deliberately kept as quiet as he could. His friend lay still for a little while, but he was obviously restless, and it wasn’t long before he began to call out.
“Rents? You there? Seriously, Renton, where the fuck are you? This isn’t fucking funny!” A pause, during which Renton, lube in one hand and condom in the other (he had his own, but why waste them?), headed back to the bed. He stood over Sick Boy, watched his fists clench and unclench, his shoulders hunch and settle. “Right, if you don’t tell me where you are now, I’m taking this fucking thing off, getting dressed and leaving! Walking right out that fucking door!” At this point, Renton silenced him with a hand over his mouth and a fist wrapped firmly around his cock.
He pumped him a few times, slow and steady, and when he let go Sick Boy’s hips jerked desperately, fucking the air. He hissed when Renton rolled the condom onto him, and followed it up with a generous handful of lube.
Renton couldn’t do to himself what Sick Boy did to him, fuck himself with greased fingers to get ready. It would have been too awkward, felt too strange. Instead he crouched over Sick Boy, took his cock firmly in his hand, and lowered himself onto it.
The first inch was the worst. The muscle protested at the sudden intrusion and Renton bit his lip until he tasted blood to keep from making a sound. Sick Boy showed no such restraint, his gasp at the moment of penetration turning into a long drawn out “Fu-ck me!” as Renton impaled himself fully. He tried to push upwards, but Renton, hands on his shoulders, kept him pinned to the mattress. They’d move when he was good and ready.
He had a feeling he’d be sore tomorrow - it took him longer than usual to adjust to the familiar burn inside. Once he had, he gingerly sank down until he was kneeling astride his friend, and before long he was making short, shallow thrusts while Sick Boy panted and sweated beneath him, his head thrashing from side to side. Now and then a stroke went deeper, and Renton had to gasp and shudder a little himself. Soon he found he was provoking those deep thrusts, squirming to get more contact. And then, another happy thought occurring, he sat down hard, so that Sick Boy was buried balls-deep inside him, and began to simply rock back and forth, maintaining that delicious contact. One hand splayed on Sick Boy’s chest for balance, he started to jerk himself off, and he found that without his friend’s knowing gaze on him, he was far more relaxed, happy to do exactly what he liked.
Judging by Sick Boy’s moan, and the urgent, almost involuntary thrusts his hips made every now and again, he could tell what Renton was doing. And as Renton’s hand sped up, he started speaking.
“Rents - ah - take the damn thing - ah, fuck - off, would you? I want - want to see what you're - Renton, please?”
And with that, Renton came suddenly and explosively all over Sick Boy’s chest.
Sick Boy made a little choked-off sound that was probably more shock than anything else, pulled Renton down to him and started thrusting in earnest. Renton was happy enough to ride it out, and his friend climaxed a couple of moments after he did, fingernails scoring along Renton’s back and leaving marks that he expected he’d keep for a long while to come. As soon as he saw the tension in Sick Boy’s muscles start to fade, Renton eased their bodies apart, and clambered off the bed. He had already pulled his trousers on again before he thought to remove the blindfold.
~
When Begbie came back the next morning, Renton had the bed and Sick Boy was sleeping on the couch. Over breakfast, Renton explained his plan to move the two of them into an apartment of their own, one that he hardly ever showed. Begbie was quiet pleased with the idea; Sick Boy didn’t argue.
END