(no subject)
Title: Puzzle
Pairing: Sick Boy/Rents, Dianne/Renton
Rating: NC-17
Summary: This is what happens when Dianne comes over
Notes: Turfed this up out of ye olde files as I was tripping around in them tonight. Should have put this up sooner, but, my memory is for shit. Alas and alack, but it made it to the community so it's okay.
Dianne inspects the flat with her nose held high, her eyes tracking over the dirt in the corners and Sick Boy’s socks on the floor. It’s not like she hasn’t been here before, but her little waltz of disapproval is routine now. The flat is no more dirty than usual, Mark thinks. Perhaps it’s even a little cleaner, what with all the time Sick Boy’s been spending around.
The real difference here is that Sick Boy is actually present. He’s never around when Dianne is around. Mark makes sure of it. The two of them are too much alike. So much so that if Mark keeps them apart, he can think that they are somehow the same person. It’s much safer to believe that there exists only one person like this instead of two.
Finally finishing her circle around the flat Dianne comes back to stand near the couch. Sick Boy is sitting against one arm of the couch, knees up so he can do the crossword in the paper. His shirt is crummy from the toast Mark has been giving him at regular intervals while he works. Dianne stares at him as he calmly pens in a word and Mark shifts in his uneasy position at the counter, watching them both, feeling god awfully guilty for some reason.
Sick Boy doesn’t look up until Dianne coughs, once, far more delicately than fits her. When he does look up, pen poised between long fingers, he fakes surprise, letting his eyes go wide and his mouth slip into a closed-mouth approximation of what he looks like when he’s amused.
“Why, hallo, young Dianne,” Sick Boy says. He bites his lip and looks her up and down. Mark hopes it’s only for show, but with Simon Williamson, you can never be sure. He has changed his mind before.
“Yes,” Dianne apparently realizes the game is afoot. “So, Simon how’ve you been getting-”
“Mark,” Sick Boy interrupts, looking over his shoulder at Renton, “do ye know a six letter word fer ‘oan ice’?”
Dianne’s head snaps up to look at Mark, who stills. In this moment, he hates Sick Boy, so much so that even his full mouth can’t save him. He has to choose between answering Sick Boy’s question and admonishing him.
“Uh…”
Dianne glares.
“Well?” Sick Boy prompts, tapping the end of the pen on his lower lip. His eyes are full of cruel heat.
“Frozen, Sick Boy,” Mark says quickly, and as soon as Sick Boy starts writing it down Mark plows on. “Dianne, do ye want tae watch a film or somethin?”
Her attention shifts from the now-busy man on the couch to Mark, who takes a step forward. Mark smiles in what he hopes is a pleasing way. He might just pull this off. It is possible that he can keep them both happy, maybe.
She smiles shyly and tucks her hair behind her ears. Christ, she is so young, standing there in jeans and a short t-shirt. Mark’s insides drop low, ashamed of themselves for leaping up that first night he saw her.
“Yeh, okay.” Dianne nods and crouches down to run her fingertips over the cases.
Sick Boy tucks his bottom lip into his mouth, scratching away. Mark sighs and sits on the couch next to Sick Boy’s curled toes.
A quarter of the way through Dr. Strangelove, which is most lighthearted movie Mark owns, Sick Boy finishes his crossword and, dropping the pen and newspaper on the floor, he covers his eyes with his arm. Mark glances over and watches Sick Boy stretch out the cramp in his writing hand.
Dianne leans further into Mark’s side and his eyes flick back to the television. He doesn’t for a second believe she understands this movie, but her hand is warm and small inside of his. It feels nice, in that distinctly wrong, going-to-gaol way.
And there is the problem of Sick Boy sitting beside him, sulking (yes, it’s definitely a sulk. The lower half of Sick Boy’s face is decidedly petulant). Slowly, Mark lets his free hand drift over his own thigh and it stops at the edge. He stretches his fingers out, can’t reach, so he lets his hand fall. His thumb taps the bump on Sick Boy’s ankle.
Mark can see that Sick Boy’s biting the inside of his lip, not smiling, not quite.
That evening finds Mark still sitting on the couch. He had managed to dispatch Dianne with a surprisingly low amount of fuss. He imagines she had been uncomfortable enough with Sick Boy on the couch beside them to ask for sex. A long kiss had been enough to get her out the door, looking over her shoulder fondly at him.
He was pretty pleased with himself for not getting in a fight, or having to referee one. Dianne had been an inappropriate level of clingy, but Sick Boy hadn’t taken the bait. He hadn’t given up his spot on the couch, but had stayed mostly silent unless Mark directly addressed him. Dianne didn’t even bother trying.
As soon as Dianne was gone Sick Boy had perked up, stretching across the whole couch like a smug cat, smiling not at Mark, not exactly. But he was pleased all the same. Sick Boy had managed to outlast Dianne, and he didn’t even have to be especially cruel to win.
In a gesture of his goodwill, he lifted up his shins to let Mark sit on the couch. In a more possessive gesture he laid them over Mark’s lap. Mark’s hand falls to his ankle. Sick Boy had smiled wide and genuine then, and pulled Mark towards him by his shirt front so they could kiss.
Mark is still here, still sitting on the couch. His fingers are wound in Sick Boy’s ruffled blonde hair and his head is tilted back as far as it can go. This is the closet to skag, -to God-Mark has been in ages. He can’t breathe, even though he’s gasping. The ceiling is a swirl of beige and off-white, dirty paint and water stains.
“I-” Mark chokes. The reality of this is almost beyond him. His brain is slowing down, a finger through tar.
The fact of this matter is Sick Boy is sucking his cock.
His mouth is hot and silky, and the suction is just rough enough to tell Mark that Sick Boy doesn’t do this for other people. Sick Boy’s never done this for Mark, or Mark for him. It wasn’t taboo. They just never talked about it. As far as Mark is concerned, hands on dicks and mouths together was fantastic in itself.
This is better, so good he can’t even describe. One hand is braced against his belly while the other one holds his cock still. Mark closes his eyes when a particularly hard suck comes. He moans softly, swallowing thickly. Opening his eyes, Mark chances a look down. Sick Boy is kneeling between his legs, kissing his own fingers, his eyes closed too. They’re both fighting with this.
With his mouth hanging open, Mark rubs the back of Sick Boy’s neck because he knows Sick Boy likes it and Sick Boy moans around him. He pulls back to lick instead of sucking and Mark is so close. Pressing the flat of his tongue against the underside of Mark’s cock, Sick Boy looks up at Mark. Their eyes meet and still looking at Mark, Sick Boy takes his hand away from Mark’s stomach and starts rubbing himself through his pants.
It’s that image that lights the fire in Mark’s belly. He bucks up, moaning low. Sick Boy pulls back, just using his hand to bring Mark off. He doesn’t taste, not with his mouth but with his eyes as Mark comes onto his own t-shirt. Sick Boy’s whole face is hot, and his hand clenches on the lump in his pants.
Mark’s chest is heaving. He lets his head roll back on his neck, and his hands slip to Simon’s shoulders. Focusing on catching his breath Mark feels Sick Boy wipe his hands on the inside of Mark’s thighs. He doesn’t even move when Sick Boy climbs up next to him on the couch. Doesn’t open his eyes as Sick Boy kisses him, grips one of his wrists, gentler than usual. Sick Boy’s tongue maps his teeth, and he rubs the heat in between Simon’s thighs.
Straddling one of Mark’s thighs Sick Boy’s body comes close, even as their mouths part. What Sick Boy says is barely a whisper, but it is the key to something important.
“Remember this.”
Pairing: Sick Boy/Rents, Dianne/Renton
Rating: NC-17
Summary: This is what happens when Dianne comes over
Notes: Turfed this up out of ye olde files as I was tripping around in them tonight. Should have put this up sooner, but, my memory is for shit. Alas and alack, but it made it to the community so it's okay.
Dianne inspects the flat with her nose held high, her eyes tracking over the dirt in the corners and Sick Boy’s socks on the floor. It’s not like she hasn’t been here before, but her little waltz of disapproval is routine now. The flat is no more dirty than usual, Mark thinks. Perhaps it’s even a little cleaner, what with all the time Sick Boy’s been spending around.
The real difference here is that Sick Boy is actually present. He’s never around when Dianne is around. Mark makes sure of it. The two of them are too much alike. So much so that if Mark keeps them apart, he can think that they are somehow the same person. It’s much safer to believe that there exists only one person like this instead of two.
Finally finishing her circle around the flat Dianne comes back to stand near the couch. Sick Boy is sitting against one arm of the couch, knees up so he can do the crossword in the paper. His shirt is crummy from the toast Mark has been giving him at regular intervals while he works. Dianne stares at him as he calmly pens in a word and Mark shifts in his uneasy position at the counter, watching them both, feeling god awfully guilty for some reason.
Sick Boy doesn’t look up until Dianne coughs, once, far more delicately than fits her. When he does look up, pen poised between long fingers, he fakes surprise, letting his eyes go wide and his mouth slip into a closed-mouth approximation of what he looks like when he’s amused.
“Why, hallo, young Dianne,” Sick Boy says. He bites his lip and looks her up and down. Mark hopes it’s only for show, but with Simon Williamson, you can never be sure. He has changed his mind before.
“Yes,” Dianne apparently realizes the game is afoot. “So, Simon how’ve you been getting-”
“Mark,” Sick Boy interrupts, looking over his shoulder at Renton, “do ye know a six letter word fer ‘oan ice’?”
Dianne’s head snaps up to look at Mark, who stills. In this moment, he hates Sick Boy, so much so that even his full mouth can’t save him. He has to choose between answering Sick Boy’s question and admonishing him.
“Uh…”
Dianne glares.
“Well?” Sick Boy prompts, tapping the end of the pen on his lower lip. His eyes are full of cruel heat.
“Frozen, Sick Boy,” Mark says quickly, and as soon as Sick Boy starts writing it down Mark plows on. “Dianne, do ye want tae watch a film or somethin?”
Her attention shifts from the now-busy man on the couch to Mark, who takes a step forward. Mark smiles in what he hopes is a pleasing way. He might just pull this off. It is possible that he can keep them both happy, maybe.
She smiles shyly and tucks her hair behind her ears. Christ, she is so young, standing there in jeans and a short t-shirt. Mark’s insides drop low, ashamed of themselves for leaping up that first night he saw her.
“Yeh, okay.” Dianne nods and crouches down to run her fingertips over the cases.
Sick Boy tucks his bottom lip into his mouth, scratching away. Mark sighs and sits on the couch next to Sick Boy’s curled toes.
A quarter of the way through Dr. Strangelove, which is most lighthearted movie Mark owns, Sick Boy finishes his crossword and, dropping the pen and newspaper on the floor, he covers his eyes with his arm. Mark glances over and watches Sick Boy stretch out the cramp in his writing hand.
Dianne leans further into Mark’s side and his eyes flick back to the television. He doesn’t for a second believe she understands this movie, but her hand is warm and small inside of his. It feels nice, in that distinctly wrong, going-to-gaol way.
And there is the problem of Sick Boy sitting beside him, sulking (yes, it’s definitely a sulk. The lower half of Sick Boy’s face is decidedly petulant). Slowly, Mark lets his free hand drift over his own thigh and it stops at the edge. He stretches his fingers out, can’t reach, so he lets his hand fall. His thumb taps the bump on Sick Boy’s ankle.
Mark can see that Sick Boy’s biting the inside of his lip, not smiling, not quite.
That evening finds Mark still sitting on the couch. He had managed to dispatch Dianne with a surprisingly low amount of fuss. He imagines she had been uncomfortable enough with Sick Boy on the couch beside them to ask for sex. A long kiss had been enough to get her out the door, looking over her shoulder fondly at him.
He was pretty pleased with himself for not getting in a fight, or having to referee one. Dianne had been an inappropriate level of clingy, but Sick Boy hadn’t taken the bait. He hadn’t given up his spot on the couch, but had stayed mostly silent unless Mark directly addressed him. Dianne didn’t even bother trying.
As soon as Dianne was gone Sick Boy had perked up, stretching across the whole couch like a smug cat, smiling not at Mark, not exactly. But he was pleased all the same. Sick Boy had managed to outlast Dianne, and he didn’t even have to be especially cruel to win.
In a gesture of his goodwill, he lifted up his shins to let Mark sit on the couch. In a more possessive gesture he laid them over Mark’s lap. Mark’s hand falls to his ankle. Sick Boy had smiled wide and genuine then, and pulled Mark towards him by his shirt front so they could kiss.
Mark is still here, still sitting on the couch. His fingers are wound in Sick Boy’s ruffled blonde hair and his head is tilted back as far as it can go. This is the closet to skag, -to God-Mark has been in ages. He can’t breathe, even though he’s gasping. The ceiling is a swirl of beige and off-white, dirty paint and water stains.
“I-” Mark chokes. The reality of this is almost beyond him. His brain is slowing down, a finger through tar.
The fact of this matter is Sick Boy is sucking his cock.
His mouth is hot and silky, and the suction is just rough enough to tell Mark that Sick Boy doesn’t do this for other people. Sick Boy’s never done this for Mark, or Mark for him. It wasn’t taboo. They just never talked about it. As far as Mark is concerned, hands on dicks and mouths together was fantastic in itself.
This is better, so good he can’t even describe. One hand is braced against his belly while the other one holds his cock still. Mark closes his eyes when a particularly hard suck comes. He moans softly, swallowing thickly. Opening his eyes, Mark chances a look down. Sick Boy is kneeling between his legs, kissing his own fingers, his eyes closed too. They’re both fighting with this.
With his mouth hanging open, Mark rubs the back of Sick Boy’s neck because he knows Sick Boy likes it and Sick Boy moans around him. He pulls back to lick instead of sucking and Mark is so close. Pressing the flat of his tongue against the underside of Mark’s cock, Sick Boy looks up at Mark. Their eyes meet and still looking at Mark, Sick Boy takes his hand away from Mark’s stomach and starts rubbing himself through his pants.
It’s that image that lights the fire in Mark’s belly. He bucks up, moaning low. Sick Boy pulls back, just using his hand to bring Mark off. He doesn’t taste, not with his mouth but with his eyes as Mark comes onto his own t-shirt. Sick Boy’s whole face is hot, and his hand clenches on the lump in his pants.
Mark’s chest is heaving. He lets his head roll back on his neck, and his hands slip to Simon’s shoulders. Focusing on catching his breath Mark feels Sick Boy wipe his hands on the inside of Mark’s thighs. He doesn’t even move when Sick Boy climbs up next to him on the couch. Doesn’t open his eyes as Sick Boy kisses him, grips one of his wrists, gentler than usual. Sick Boy’s tongue maps his teeth, and he rubs the heat in between Simon’s thighs.
Straddling one of Mark’s thighs Sick Boy’s body comes close, even as their mouths part. What Sick Boy says is barely a whisper, but it is the key to something important.
“Remember this.”