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The first thing one does when joining a fandom is write a snippet. Apparently, the second thing one does is write porn. Or, this is how things work if you're me, at least. Especially when you have someone like sour_kitty flailing at you :D.
Title: Later
Pairing: Sick Boy/Rents
Rating: NC-17
Summary: This is the later Simon referred to
Notes: Vaguely alludes to Slow Burn,vaguely. Also, hopefully the newness to the fandom does not ruin the porn. Because I am no stranger to porn. So here's to believable (and good) characterizations plus porn, I hope (because yeah, the SB/R porn that uses the word "paramour"? Uh...NO).
It takes another eternity before they leave the pub. They’re only really leaving because Franco boxed a tourist and the best course of action seemed to be scattering. Tommy’s dragging Begbie’s irate arse away, and Spud disappears into a club directly across the street. That leaves Mark with Sick Boy leaning on him. Sick Boy is probably more drunk than he would like Mark to see, and Renton’s not bevvied at all. All of his lager went directly into Sick Boy, somehow.
“God,” Sick Boy says, soft and to no one, his shoulder pressing hard on Renton.
“Home, yeah?” Mark asks. He means his flat, but that’s where Sick Boy’s at most days now.
Simon just rolls his head on his neck, and Mark starts dragging him down the street. Without Begbie around, Sick Boy is a completely compliant drunk, following Mark, dithering on about football.
“Ah wan tae play some footba. When’re we goanna get another game goin?”
“S too cold tae play these days. Freeze yir bollocks off.”
“S no cold. S nice.”
“Mmm.”
The rest of the walk passes in silence, the cold finally getting the bevvy to slip out of Sick Boy’s eyes a little.
They make it up the stairs okay, and Sick Boy plucks the key out of Renton’s hand to let them in. He pockets the key afterwards, a signal that they have to stick together if Renton wants back into his own flat.
Sick Boy goes straight to the kitchen to drink rusty water out of the tap and Renton goes to the table to pick up his works. He can find the spoon, needle, cotton, all that shit but not the gear itself. He paws through everything, doesn’t see it. Panic trickles down his spine.
“Fuck.”
Sick Boy comes to stand in front of the telly, watching Mark dig around.
“Wha?”
“Ah cannae find the gear.”
He looks up at Sick Boy, who breathes out heavily through his nose and gives him a superior look.
“Jaysus, ye daft cunt.” He reaches into an inner pocket of the suit jacket he’s wearing over his t-shirt and pulls out the tiny bag, tosses it onto the table.
Mark closes his eyes and shakes his head, because of course Sick Boy has the skag. It’s his skag. It was his turn to buy, so he could carry it around if he wanted.
“Here. Come oan.” Sick Boy grabs Renton’s arm and pulls until they’re kneeling on the floor facing each other. Mark watches Sick Boy start cooking. His hands are remarkably steady for someone who drank that much lager. He’s also cooking up a much smaller hit than Mark likes the look of.
Sick Boy, observant fuck he is, notices and smirks. “Anaythen bigger and ye won sleep none.”
Renton shrugs and reaches forward to unbuckle Sick Boy’s belt, pulling it out. He pulls it tight around his left bicep as Sick Boy flicks the syringe, then stows it between his teeth. Sick Boy grabs Renton’s left arm. He scoots closer, one of his knees a little in between Mark’s knees, and smacks the inside of Mark’s elbow lightly.
“Hidden fuckin veins,” he grumbles, mostly to himself, rubbing his thumb over the blue bulge that finally appears. He holds the full syringe up, and looks at Mark. “Do ye want me tae dae it?”
“Mmm.” There’s actual need there now, simmering just under the anticipation. He always wants more when he and Simon shoot each other up. The intimacy is tantalizing, making the need more pleasurable.
Mark closes his eyes when the needle touches his arm. The prick is tiny, but the same promise as Simon’s thumb on his hand. He waits, breathless, for the plunge.
“Kay.” Sick Boy’s voice is very close and very far away at the same time. And all of a sudden, it goes. Mark’s breath goes out too, shuddering, and he slams into the pool of euphoria. When he opens his eyes, just barely, the belt is off his arm, and Sick Boy is moving the gear and works to the table.
“Ain’t ye goanna…?” Mark mumbles, hands flopped onto his thighs.
“Ah’ll take ma hit wi breakfast,” Sick Boy replies. When everything breakable is on the table he turns back to Renton, and looks him over. “Awright, Rents?”
Mark smiles, blinks heavily and reaches out to run his hand over the camouflage covering Sick Boy’s thigh. As if Sick Boy would ever even try to hide from anything other than the police.
Simon is very serious looking. For a second Mark thinks he should perhaps be worried, not that he is in any capacity to worry right now. But then Sick Boy is leaning in to touch Mark’s lower lip with his own lips and Renton realizes he was only being eyefucked.
They both stay still for a few seconds, then the kiss moves forwards as Renton inhales and Sick Boy tilts his head to line them up better, one of his hands fisted while the other goes for the back of Mark’s head.
They’ve done this enough times for Renton to know that he’s really too high right now to do much good so he just keeps his mouth open and tries to press his tongue to Sick Boy’s. The kisses are a little sloppy and the suck of lips and tongues is loud in the quiet flat.
Underneath it Mark thinks he can hear his own heartbeat, loud and throbbing. The sound is as soothing to him as he knows the sound of the kissing is arousing for Simon. The restless shifting always gives Sick Boy away and he finally caves, pressing closer and kissing more aggressively.
Renton is totally Zen with his hit, so the kissing is magnificent. Sick Boy is rubbing his thumb against Mark’s jaw and that only feeds the euphoria. There’s no way he’s getting off tonight, skaggy baws and aw, but he wouldn’t mind helping Simon.
And Simon must want the help, pulling Mark’s hand further up the camouflage, cupping Mark’s hand over his cock. The rock of Sick Boy’s hips is instant and they can both feel Sick Boy start to get hard. Sick Boy’s little moan is wonderful, louder and more important than the beating of Renton’s heart.
With Sick Boy’s selfish hand guiding his, Mark rubs his hand over Sick Boy’s cock, his callouses catching on the mottled fabric. Sick Boy pulls his mouth away to hang his head and pant roughly, looking so much like the dogs they both hate that Renton laughs. It’s a broken, grating, ugly noise.
Sick Boy moans in response, his eyes closed and his fingers tight on the back of Mark’s neck while he rocks into both of their hands. He moans again and Mark aches. It’s like the skag ache, but it’s clean and something Mark has no desire to smooth away.
This time he leans in to kiss Simon and squeezes without being prompted. He knows Simon likes it when he does what Simon wants of his own accord. It’s a good show of the power Sick Boy has over people.
Their mouths break apart again and suddenly Sick Boy is pushing back and up, standing over Mark and looking down with dark eyes. It’s the same serious, vaguely hostile look from before.
“C’moan,” Sick Boy says, his voice low, enticing and completely dominant. He turns away, walking in the direction of the bed. He shrugs off the jacket and peels his pink t-shirt off as he goes, dropping them the way he drops all the unimportant things in Renton’s flat.
Mark smiles goofily at Sick Boy’s thin back, standing on wobbly legs to walk towards where Sick Boy is waiting for him.
“Take those off.” Sick Boy orders, pointing to the grey drainpipe jeans. “Thir fuckin disgustin.” Obediently Mark unbuttons and kicks them off, standing there in his socks, t-shirt and keks. Sick Boy gestures to Renton’s sagging bed and Mark climbs in, holding the covers so Sick Boy can climb in too. Which he does, straddling Renton despite the loud protests of bed springs.
He’s breathing heavily, hands framing Mark’s head while Mark’s hands touch his thighs, skimming the muscles held tight. Mark’s still smiling.
“Awright?”
Simon breathes out through his noise. He doesn’t like being teased, not like this. He unzips his own pants and then he grips one of Mark’s wrists tight. Making that forceful eye contact he presses Mark’s hand into the dark where there is only skin.
They both sigh. The comfort of skin on skin is palpable with or without heroin.
“Yeah,” Sick Boy says softly, answering nothing but his own thoughts, Renton’s tease long gone from both of them.
Using his thumb Mark strokes the head of Sick Boy’s cock slowly, unsure how he wants it. The whims of the man on top of him are ever-changing. Fast, slow, keep yir damned hands to yirself! Mark never knows, has to wait to be shown.
Sick Boy grunts at the touch, thrusts into it, then back, making Mark chase him. They pick up the rhythm easily from there.
Mark has no idea where his heartbeat is. But he doesn’t really care because Simon is making little noises in the back of his throat every time they push together. His eyes are closed which means Mark can watch him.
Simon’s head is tilted down, his bottom lip in his mouth, concentrating on fucking into Mark’s hand. The muscles on his stomach flex when Mark squeezes his cock. The sudden ache in Mark’s bones comes back, pleasant and painful. If his heart isn’t even beating any more that’s okay.
“Good?” Mark asks, rubbing his thumb underneath the head. Simon moans loudly, bucking up and digging his fingers into the mattress next to Mark’s head.
“Christ!” Simon’s hips buck faster, more insistently up into Mark’s hand and Mark can tell from the look of slack pleasure on Simon’s face that orgasm is in sight. They look at each other finally, and Mark almost wants to shy away from the bright light that is Simon Williamson getting off.
He doesn’t remember ever doing this with the lights on, although it very well could have happened.
Mark is pulled out of his thoughts and away from the light by Simon roughly hiking his shirt up to his nipples, arching into his fist, and fucking growling as he comes onto Mark’s stomach.
They’re both breathing hard as Sick Boy pulls himself away to flop next to Mark on the bed. Mark covers his eyes with his forearm, and lets out what might be described as a little moan.
“Ere.” He moves his arm. Sick Boy is slowly winding toilet paper around his hand. He stops, rips it off, and gives the wad to Mark, tossing the roll back in the floor. Mark takes it, nods, and starts trying to get the cum out of his belly button. Sick Boy does his pants back up and pulls a fag out of nowhere, lights it.
Mark gets up to throw the toilet paper into the toilet and turn off the two lights in his flat. He follows the light from the cherry back to the bed. They share the fag in silence. Mark listens to his heartbeat again.
Eventually they pull up the blanket and fall asleep, knees brushing.
He wakes up a few hours later, and he’s fucking freezing. Looking over, he finds out why. Sick Boy has wadded himself up in the comforter, and is as far over on the bed away from Mark as he can go.
Fucker even looks smug when he’s sleeping.
Inching closer, Mark starts liberating an edge of the blanket, tugging it gently away from Sick Boy’s grip. His cool hand brushes against warm skin and Sick Boy stirs enough to glare fuzzily at him. Mark tugs at his little section of blanket pointedly. For a few seconds Sick Boy just looks pissed, but then he untucks himself enough to hold up the blanket for Mark to squirm under.
Sick Boy drops the blanket back down over both of them. Using his warm hands as enticement he coaxes Renton to roll onto his belly, then throws a thigh over his arse and lays his wrist on top of Mark’s wrist. Then, like magic, he goes right back to sleep, like arranging sleeping partners is no strange thing to him.
If Mark turns his head, his nose almost brushes Simon’s armpit. He is not sure he has ever been this close to Simon when they’ve slept. Which is unfortunate because as cold as Sick Boy is in real life, he is apparently quite the furnace in bed. It’s very nice. And the casual propriety is kind of touching. And probably offensive, in some way. But Mark can’t think about that now, because he is very tired and warm.
I am surprisingly nervy about this. Thoughts?
Title: Later
Pairing: Sick Boy/Rents
Rating: NC-17
Summary: This is the later Simon referred to
Notes: Vaguely alludes to Slow Burn,vaguely. Also, hopefully the newness to the fandom does not ruin the porn. Because I am no stranger to porn. So here's to believable (and good) characterizations plus porn, I hope (because yeah, the SB/R porn that uses the word "paramour"? Uh...NO).
It takes another eternity before they leave the pub. They’re only really leaving because Franco boxed a tourist and the best course of action seemed to be scattering. Tommy’s dragging Begbie’s irate arse away, and Spud disappears into a club directly across the street. That leaves Mark with Sick Boy leaning on him. Sick Boy is probably more drunk than he would like Mark to see, and Renton’s not bevvied at all. All of his lager went directly into Sick Boy, somehow.
“God,” Sick Boy says, soft and to no one, his shoulder pressing hard on Renton.
“Home, yeah?” Mark asks. He means his flat, but that’s where Sick Boy’s at most days now.
Simon just rolls his head on his neck, and Mark starts dragging him down the street. Without Begbie around, Sick Boy is a completely compliant drunk, following Mark, dithering on about football.
“Ah wan tae play some footba. When’re we goanna get another game goin?”
“S too cold tae play these days. Freeze yir bollocks off.”
“S no cold. S nice.”
“Mmm.”
The rest of the walk passes in silence, the cold finally getting the bevvy to slip out of Sick Boy’s eyes a little.
They make it up the stairs okay, and Sick Boy plucks the key out of Renton’s hand to let them in. He pockets the key afterwards, a signal that they have to stick together if Renton wants back into his own flat.
Sick Boy goes straight to the kitchen to drink rusty water out of the tap and Renton goes to the table to pick up his works. He can find the spoon, needle, cotton, all that shit but not the gear itself. He paws through everything, doesn’t see it. Panic trickles down his spine.
“Fuck.”
Sick Boy comes to stand in front of the telly, watching Mark dig around.
“Wha?”
“Ah cannae find the gear.”
He looks up at Sick Boy, who breathes out heavily through his nose and gives him a superior look.
“Jaysus, ye daft cunt.” He reaches into an inner pocket of the suit jacket he’s wearing over his t-shirt and pulls out the tiny bag, tosses it onto the table.
Mark closes his eyes and shakes his head, because of course Sick Boy has the skag. It’s his skag. It was his turn to buy, so he could carry it around if he wanted.
“Here. Come oan.” Sick Boy grabs Renton’s arm and pulls until they’re kneeling on the floor facing each other. Mark watches Sick Boy start cooking. His hands are remarkably steady for someone who drank that much lager. He’s also cooking up a much smaller hit than Mark likes the look of.
Sick Boy, observant fuck he is, notices and smirks. “Anaythen bigger and ye won sleep none.”
Renton shrugs and reaches forward to unbuckle Sick Boy’s belt, pulling it out. He pulls it tight around his left bicep as Sick Boy flicks the syringe, then stows it between his teeth. Sick Boy grabs Renton’s left arm. He scoots closer, one of his knees a little in between Mark’s knees, and smacks the inside of Mark’s elbow lightly.
“Hidden fuckin veins,” he grumbles, mostly to himself, rubbing his thumb over the blue bulge that finally appears. He holds the full syringe up, and looks at Mark. “Do ye want me tae dae it?”
“Mmm.” There’s actual need there now, simmering just under the anticipation. He always wants more when he and Simon shoot each other up. The intimacy is tantalizing, making the need more pleasurable.
Mark closes his eyes when the needle touches his arm. The prick is tiny, but the same promise as Simon’s thumb on his hand. He waits, breathless, for the plunge.
“Kay.” Sick Boy’s voice is very close and very far away at the same time. And all of a sudden, it goes. Mark’s breath goes out too, shuddering, and he slams into the pool of euphoria. When he opens his eyes, just barely, the belt is off his arm, and Sick Boy is moving the gear and works to the table.
“Ain’t ye goanna…?” Mark mumbles, hands flopped onto his thighs.
“Ah’ll take ma hit wi breakfast,” Sick Boy replies. When everything breakable is on the table he turns back to Renton, and looks him over. “Awright, Rents?”
Mark smiles, blinks heavily and reaches out to run his hand over the camouflage covering Sick Boy’s thigh. As if Sick Boy would ever even try to hide from anything other than the police.
Simon is very serious looking. For a second Mark thinks he should perhaps be worried, not that he is in any capacity to worry right now. But then Sick Boy is leaning in to touch Mark’s lower lip with his own lips and Renton realizes he was only being eyefucked.
They both stay still for a few seconds, then the kiss moves forwards as Renton inhales and Sick Boy tilts his head to line them up better, one of his hands fisted while the other goes for the back of Mark’s head.
They’ve done this enough times for Renton to know that he’s really too high right now to do much good so he just keeps his mouth open and tries to press his tongue to Sick Boy’s. The kisses are a little sloppy and the suck of lips and tongues is loud in the quiet flat.
Underneath it Mark thinks he can hear his own heartbeat, loud and throbbing. The sound is as soothing to him as he knows the sound of the kissing is arousing for Simon. The restless shifting always gives Sick Boy away and he finally caves, pressing closer and kissing more aggressively.
Renton is totally Zen with his hit, so the kissing is magnificent. Sick Boy is rubbing his thumb against Mark’s jaw and that only feeds the euphoria. There’s no way he’s getting off tonight, skaggy baws and aw, but he wouldn’t mind helping Simon.
And Simon must want the help, pulling Mark’s hand further up the camouflage, cupping Mark’s hand over his cock. The rock of Sick Boy’s hips is instant and they can both feel Sick Boy start to get hard. Sick Boy’s little moan is wonderful, louder and more important than the beating of Renton’s heart.
With Sick Boy’s selfish hand guiding his, Mark rubs his hand over Sick Boy’s cock, his callouses catching on the mottled fabric. Sick Boy pulls his mouth away to hang his head and pant roughly, looking so much like the dogs they both hate that Renton laughs. It’s a broken, grating, ugly noise.
Sick Boy moans in response, his eyes closed and his fingers tight on the back of Mark’s neck while he rocks into both of their hands. He moans again and Mark aches. It’s like the skag ache, but it’s clean and something Mark has no desire to smooth away.
This time he leans in to kiss Simon and squeezes without being prompted. He knows Simon likes it when he does what Simon wants of his own accord. It’s a good show of the power Sick Boy has over people.
Their mouths break apart again and suddenly Sick Boy is pushing back and up, standing over Mark and looking down with dark eyes. It’s the same serious, vaguely hostile look from before.
“C’moan,” Sick Boy says, his voice low, enticing and completely dominant. He turns away, walking in the direction of the bed. He shrugs off the jacket and peels his pink t-shirt off as he goes, dropping them the way he drops all the unimportant things in Renton’s flat.
Mark smiles goofily at Sick Boy’s thin back, standing on wobbly legs to walk towards where Sick Boy is waiting for him.
“Take those off.” Sick Boy orders, pointing to the grey drainpipe jeans. “Thir fuckin disgustin.” Obediently Mark unbuttons and kicks them off, standing there in his socks, t-shirt and keks. Sick Boy gestures to Renton’s sagging bed and Mark climbs in, holding the covers so Sick Boy can climb in too. Which he does, straddling Renton despite the loud protests of bed springs.
He’s breathing heavily, hands framing Mark’s head while Mark’s hands touch his thighs, skimming the muscles held tight. Mark’s still smiling.
“Awright?”
Simon breathes out through his noise. He doesn’t like being teased, not like this. He unzips his own pants and then he grips one of Mark’s wrists tight. Making that forceful eye contact he presses Mark’s hand into the dark where there is only skin.
They both sigh. The comfort of skin on skin is palpable with or without heroin.
“Yeah,” Sick Boy says softly, answering nothing but his own thoughts, Renton’s tease long gone from both of them.
Using his thumb Mark strokes the head of Sick Boy’s cock slowly, unsure how he wants it. The whims of the man on top of him are ever-changing. Fast, slow, keep yir damned hands to yirself! Mark never knows, has to wait to be shown.
Sick Boy grunts at the touch, thrusts into it, then back, making Mark chase him. They pick up the rhythm easily from there.
Mark has no idea where his heartbeat is. But he doesn’t really care because Simon is making little noises in the back of his throat every time they push together. His eyes are closed which means Mark can watch him.
Simon’s head is tilted down, his bottom lip in his mouth, concentrating on fucking into Mark’s hand. The muscles on his stomach flex when Mark squeezes his cock. The sudden ache in Mark’s bones comes back, pleasant and painful. If his heart isn’t even beating any more that’s okay.
“Good?” Mark asks, rubbing his thumb underneath the head. Simon moans loudly, bucking up and digging his fingers into the mattress next to Mark’s head.
“Christ!” Simon’s hips buck faster, more insistently up into Mark’s hand and Mark can tell from the look of slack pleasure on Simon’s face that orgasm is in sight. They look at each other finally, and Mark almost wants to shy away from the bright light that is Simon Williamson getting off.
He doesn’t remember ever doing this with the lights on, although it very well could have happened.
Mark is pulled out of his thoughts and away from the light by Simon roughly hiking his shirt up to his nipples, arching into his fist, and fucking growling as he comes onto Mark’s stomach.
They’re both breathing hard as Sick Boy pulls himself away to flop next to Mark on the bed. Mark covers his eyes with his forearm, and lets out what might be described as a little moan.
“Ere.” He moves his arm. Sick Boy is slowly winding toilet paper around his hand. He stops, rips it off, and gives the wad to Mark, tossing the roll back in the floor. Mark takes it, nods, and starts trying to get the cum out of his belly button. Sick Boy does his pants back up and pulls a fag out of nowhere, lights it.
Mark gets up to throw the toilet paper into the toilet and turn off the two lights in his flat. He follows the light from the cherry back to the bed. They share the fag in silence. Mark listens to his heartbeat again.
Eventually they pull up the blanket and fall asleep, knees brushing.
He wakes up a few hours later, and he’s fucking freezing. Looking over, he finds out why. Sick Boy has wadded himself up in the comforter, and is as far over on the bed away from Mark as he can go.
Fucker even looks smug when he’s sleeping.
Inching closer, Mark starts liberating an edge of the blanket, tugging it gently away from Sick Boy’s grip. His cool hand brushes against warm skin and Sick Boy stirs enough to glare fuzzily at him. Mark tugs at his little section of blanket pointedly. For a few seconds Sick Boy just looks pissed, but then he untucks himself enough to hold up the blanket for Mark to squirm under.
Sick Boy drops the blanket back down over both of them. Using his warm hands as enticement he coaxes Renton to roll onto his belly, then throws a thigh over his arse and lays his wrist on top of Mark’s wrist. Then, like magic, he goes right back to sleep, like arranging sleeping partners is no strange thing to him.
If Mark turns his head, his nose almost brushes Simon’s armpit. He is not sure he has ever been this close to Simon when they’ve slept. Which is unfortunate because as cold as Sick Boy is in real life, he is apparently quite the furnace in bed. It’s very nice. And the casual propriety is kind of touching. And probably offensive, in some way. But Mark can’t think about that now, because he is very tired and warm.
I am surprisingly nervy about this. Thoughts?