FIC: Hardly a Substitute III
Jan. 1st, 2009 05:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: Hardly a Substitute III
Fandom: TRAINSPOTTING
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Miramax, Irvine Welsh.
Feedback: Is treasured.
Thanks: to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimberlite and LaConstance, for excellent beta.
Summary: A junkie scam and its results.
*************
The funniest part about the whole fucking affair
was that Sick Boy said we were under the radar.
Junkies always were.
And it was true -- at least it was for me. Getting
through, lying low, slipping past, trading up,
trading down, hanging out, hanging on, staying
alive. Back streets and bedsits and dark clubs,
toilet stalls and alleys. Who's got it, who wants
it, where's it coming from, is it cut, how much is
it and oh, by the way, no, I won't be back next
week, I'm getting clean. Junkies aren't
extroverts, they're not charming, they're not
witty, and they're not popular, because after a
while that dead stare, silence, sick complexion,
and shallow breathing tend to dampen budding
relationships, not to mention sparkling
conversation. That's the truth of heroin, when
you're clean, and you believe it. You believe the
adverts and the campaigns, the politicians and the
movie stars, at least for a little while, because
you've bought the bullshit, you've finally
appeared on the radar again. It's not society, not
normality, because normal has never appealed to
me, and I haven't cared fuck-all about what anyone
thinks of me for a long time.
But when the need returns, when the roar of
stillness becomes agonizing torture and crippling
depression, when the razor of craving slices
through your brain, when energy becomes corrupted
and you can't rid your body of cramping and
shaking any more than you can summon the courage
to sleep for fear of the nightmares that leave
you bathed in a clinging film of sweat, then you
don't care about the radar, don't care about your
family or your mates or a single thing that once
meant anything to you. Life can fuck off, and all
that matters is the hunger.
But Sick Boy -- now that was a different story.
He's always wanted to be on the radar, craved
attention as much as he craved heroin, making sure
that you watched him, admired his face and his
clothes and the utter fucking style of him,
listened to his endless talking and holding forth,
when really all he knew was scamming, Sean
Connery, and skag. Didn't matter to him -- he was
the center of his own universe and everyone
else's, and the awful truth was that when he
wanted to, when he turned his attention to you, it
was like he was bestowing a gift. You felt like
you mattered, and it made no difference that it
was shite, just another scam. Sick Boy's scammed
me into more dodgy schemes than I can count, and
fuck if I didn't feel like a doss prick afterwards.
So today was no different.
It was the sort of shop where some poor wee fuck
in epaulets opened the door for you, and when you
stepped in, all you smelled was money. It was so
posh that they didn't even bother with cameras or
security guards -- and the sad old cunt at the
door wasn't fast enough to catch you if you ran.
I didn't belong; they took one look at me and I
swear I could hear the collective raising of
eyebrows. But Sick Boy -- Sick Boy wore his
Cerrutti suit that he'd stolen -- naturally -- and
expensive shoes, and even with his skag-skinniness
and his cheap bleach job, he looked like he
belonged, and they courted him, shopgirls smiling
and of course the daft prick ate it up with a
fucking spoon.
If they courted him, they watched me; I might as
well have had a JUNKIE THIEF sign flashing above
my head. Smiles turned to suspicion, and Sick Boy
ignored me as he got the girl at the counter to
show him some watches. While her back was turned,
he stole three watches, two key carriers, and a
tie. I, of course, had no opportunity to steal
anything, and I realized that I was Sick Boy's
decoy. Wasn't that just fucking typical.
He'd stolen another watch, rearranging the ones
left on the tray, and I was getting nervous. Sick
Boy selected a jar of some hair slop, and then
paid for it -- twenty-two pounds, my God. He
managed to get the shopgirl's phone number --
smooth fucker -- and as we were walking out the
door, something beeped. Loud. And long.
Sick Boy grinned at me. "Run, Rents."
Fuck.
We burst out of the shop together, knocking over
the old cunt in the epaulets, and ran, fucking ran
until the breath sobbed from my lungs in great
wheezing gasps, people sped past my vision in
brilliant bursts of color and light, flooding my
spine and brain with imperatives, and I heard Sick
Boy laughing behind me, heard shouts and sirens.
We dodged and shoved, creating chaos in our wake,
and somehow we got to Sick Boy's bedsit without
the police catching us. They would one of these
days, it was inevitable, a certainty in an
uncertain world, but for now we'd beaten it again,
that much closer to the sweet oblivion that
awaited us at the Mother Superior's.
We laughed, sick and weak, collapsed together on
the floor, the hysteria of the pardoned life
prisoner -- or the escaped criminal. Sick Boy
began pulling the watches from his pockets,
tossing them on the floor, one by one. Expensive
watches, time sliding into our bloodstreams,
pissed away in days, but it didn't matter.
I lay curled up on the floor, adrenaline making my
head spin, combining with the craving,
sweat-chilled, and I didn't react at first when I
felt Sick Boy's hand on my ass. The hand slid
between my legs, cupping my cock, and I froze.
It had been a long time. Three or four weeks at
least, and we hadn't done anything besides
cocksucking. Tame shite, nothing to get serious
about. But Sick Boy's hand disappeared, and then I
felt both his hands on my hips, pulling me
backward, into his stiff prick.
"Hey --"
"I want to fuck you, Rents."
I got colder. I'd wanted to hear that, but I
didn't want to be the one to ask first. And the
truth was that I'd never really expected it,
because Sick Boy never asks anyone for
anything...he just creeps up on you, and before
you know it, you've capitulated, and he's got his
cock stuck in your mouth and his hands holding you
immobile, and you don't even want to move, even if
you're able to. Because Sick Boy doesn't just get
what he wants...he takes what he wants, and fuck
asking.
It didn't take me three seconds to get to my knees
and start unbuttoning my jeans, yanking down my
keks and freeing my cock. Sick Boy moved away from
me, and I heard the rustle of paper. I looked
back, and he was on his knees, unscrewing the jar
of hair gel he'd bought.
I was hard. Just like that, practically, but
fucking scared, terrified in fact,because I'd
never been fucked up the ass -- I was a virgin,
and the craving was growing in me now, making me
shiver.
Sick Boy got up, took a kitchen chair, and dragged
it to the center of the room. I watched in
silence, shaking. He pulled me up, making sure his
hand brushed against my cock so that it leaped to
attention. He led me to the chair and stripped my
jacket from me. Peeled off my shirt and pulled off
my shoes, yanked my jeans down, getting rougher
with me, the need in his eyes making them glazed.
I couldn't speak. What could I say?
Sick Boy pushed me to my knees. "Bend over,
Rents."
I looked up at him. "Wait, man. I --"
"Bend over." He pushed my chest to the seat of the
chair and knelt between my legs. I felt his hands
run down my icy back, felt them on my ass. He
reached around and took my cock in his hand. "Feel
that," he laughed. "Christ, Rents."
I grunted and shifted in his grasp, my hands
wrapped around the legs of the chair. My hips
pumped backward, and I heard him undoing his
trousers. Then he took his hand away, and I felt
fingers sliding between my arse cheeks, slicked with
twenty-two quid hair gel. One long finger pushed
into my hole, and I bucked in surprise and shock.
"Relax, Rents." The finger probed deeper, and I
grunted and writhed as he added another one,
slicking gel all over, coating me in it, inside
and out, pushing deeper and deeper.
It was fucking terrifying, that intrusion, and I
clenched against him, trying to push him out.
"Wait --"
"Shut up, Rents." He pulled his fingers out, and
stroked my cock again. I moaned, and suddenly his
cock was against my ass, his breath hot in my ear.
"You're so fucking easy, Rents." He spread my ass,
and all at once pushed inside me, the tip of his
cock thick and hot as he plowed in.
Oh, god, it hurt. It felt like someone was shoving
a molten poker up my ass, and I couldn't feel any
pleasure in it, only pain, and I struggled against
him, but he held me down, held me still, one hand
on the back of my neck, the other clamped on one
shoulder.
"Easy, Mark -- easy." He moved inside me, and my
cock jumped again when the tip of his prick
brushed against my prostate. I gritted my teeth
and moaned; I felt like the top of my head was
going to explode.
I was sweating, and his hand slipped down from my
neck, sliding down my back and over one hip, and
finally his hand curled around my cock and grasped
it, exerting pressure and emanating heat.
"Oh, fuck -- it hurts, man. It hurts."
Sick Boy grunted in reply, pushing himself in
until I felt his balls pressing against my ass. He
moved again, thrust his hips against mine, fisting
my cock.
"You like it?"
I might have answered that I didn't know, but I
couldn't; all that came out of my mouth was a
groan. Sick Boy started to thrust, slowly, his
cock slick as he moved forward and back.
"You're a virgin, Rents." Sick Boy's voice was
tight, gasping, and amused.
"Sorry," I managed, as he thrust again, moving
faster, his cock sliding in and out of me,
slippery and easier now that I was stretched out.
He pushed harder, and I shuddered as I came into
his hand. He let go of my cock, smearing come up
my belly, and I felt his teeth sink into my
shoulder and a sudden burning wetness up my ass.
He cried out and sagged against me, his body heavy
on mine.
Finally he rose, pulling me up with him. He
pressed his mouth to my ear, but not to kiss me.
In his best Connery, he murmured, "Good job,
Moneypenny. Never thought I'd pop that cherry."
Then he stuck his tongue in my ear and let me go,
getting up and wiping his cock off with my shirt.
The daft cunt.
I got dressed, the need building to a frenzy
inside me, and watched as he scooped up one watch
and one key carrier and handed them to me. "You
owe me, Rents."
I wasn't sure if he meant the fuck or the things
he'd stolen to get the gear. "Stick it on my tab."
Sick Boy looked at me for a long moment. "Aye," he
said at last. "I'll see you."
I pocketed the watch and key carrier, and left,
closing the door quietly.
Time to visit the Mother Superior.
End.
Fandom: TRAINSPOTTING
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Miramax, Irvine Welsh.
Feedback: Is treasured.
Thanks: to
kimberlite and LaConstance, for excellent beta.Summary: A junkie scam and its results.
*************
The funniest part about the whole fucking affair
was that Sick Boy said we were under the radar.
Junkies always were.
And it was true -- at least it was for me. Getting
through, lying low, slipping past, trading up,
trading down, hanging out, hanging on, staying
alive. Back streets and bedsits and dark clubs,
toilet stalls and alleys. Who's got it, who wants
it, where's it coming from, is it cut, how much is
it and oh, by the way, no, I won't be back next
week, I'm getting clean. Junkies aren't
extroverts, they're not charming, they're not
witty, and they're not popular, because after a
while that dead stare, silence, sick complexion,
and shallow breathing tend to dampen budding
relationships, not to mention sparkling
conversation. That's the truth of heroin, when
you're clean, and you believe it. You believe the
adverts and the campaigns, the politicians and the
movie stars, at least for a little while, because
you've bought the bullshit, you've finally
appeared on the radar again. It's not society, not
normality, because normal has never appealed to
me, and I haven't cared fuck-all about what anyone
thinks of me for a long time.
But when the need returns, when the roar of
stillness becomes agonizing torture and crippling
depression, when the razor of craving slices
through your brain, when energy becomes corrupted
and you can't rid your body of cramping and
shaking any more than you can summon the courage
to sleep for fear of the nightmares that leave
you bathed in a clinging film of sweat, then you
don't care about the radar, don't care about your
family or your mates or a single thing that once
meant anything to you. Life can fuck off, and all
that matters is the hunger.
But Sick Boy -- now that was a different story.
He's always wanted to be on the radar, craved
attention as much as he craved heroin, making sure
that you watched him, admired his face and his
clothes and the utter fucking style of him,
listened to his endless talking and holding forth,
when really all he knew was scamming, Sean
Connery, and skag. Didn't matter to him -- he was
the center of his own universe and everyone
else's, and the awful truth was that when he
wanted to, when he turned his attention to you, it
was like he was bestowing a gift. You felt like
you mattered, and it made no difference that it
was shite, just another scam. Sick Boy's scammed
me into more dodgy schemes than I can count, and
fuck if I didn't feel like a doss prick afterwards.
So today was no different.
It was the sort of shop where some poor wee fuck
in epaulets opened the door for you, and when you
stepped in, all you smelled was money. It was so
posh that they didn't even bother with cameras or
security guards -- and the sad old cunt at the
door wasn't fast enough to catch you if you ran.
I didn't belong; they took one look at me and I
swear I could hear the collective raising of
eyebrows. But Sick Boy -- Sick Boy wore his
Cerrutti suit that he'd stolen -- naturally -- and
expensive shoes, and even with his skag-skinniness
and his cheap bleach job, he looked like he
belonged, and they courted him, shopgirls smiling
and of course the daft prick ate it up with a
fucking spoon.
If they courted him, they watched me; I might as
well have had a JUNKIE THIEF sign flashing above
my head. Smiles turned to suspicion, and Sick Boy
ignored me as he got the girl at the counter to
show him some watches. While her back was turned,
he stole three watches, two key carriers, and a
tie. I, of course, had no opportunity to steal
anything, and I realized that I was Sick Boy's
decoy. Wasn't that just fucking typical.
He'd stolen another watch, rearranging the ones
left on the tray, and I was getting nervous. Sick
Boy selected a jar of some hair slop, and then
paid for it -- twenty-two pounds, my God. He
managed to get the shopgirl's phone number --
smooth fucker -- and as we were walking out the
door, something beeped. Loud. And long.
Sick Boy grinned at me. "Run, Rents."
Fuck.
We burst out of the shop together, knocking over
the old cunt in the epaulets, and ran, fucking ran
until the breath sobbed from my lungs in great
wheezing gasps, people sped past my vision in
brilliant bursts of color and light, flooding my
spine and brain with imperatives, and I heard Sick
Boy laughing behind me, heard shouts and sirens.
We dodged and shoved, creating chaos in our wake,
and somehow we got to Sick Boy's bedsit without
the police catching us. They would one of these
days, it was inevitable, a certainty in an
uncertain world, but for now we'd beaten it again,
that much closer to the sweet oblivion that
awaited us at the Mother Superior's.
We laughed, sick and weak, collapsed together on
the floor, the hysteria of the pardoned life
prisoner -- or the escaped criminal. Sick Boy
began pulling the watches from his pockets,
tossing them on the floor, one by one. Expensive
watches, time sliding into our bloodstreams,
pissed away in days, but it didn't matter.
I lay curled up on the floor, adrenaline making my
head spin, combining with the craving,
sweat-chilled, and I didn't react at first when I
felt Sick Boy's hand on my ass. The hand slid
between my legs, cupping my cock, and I froze.
It had been a long time. Three or four weeks at
least, and we hadn't done anything besides
cocksucking. Tame shite, nothing to get serious
about. But Sick Boy's hand disappeared, and then I
felt both his hands on my hips, pulling me
backward, into his stiff prick.
"Hey --"
"I want to fuck you, Rents."
I got colder. I'd wanted to hear that, but I
didn't want to be the one to ask first. And the
truth was that I'd never really expected it,
because Sick Boy never asks anyone for
anything...he just creeps up on you, and before
you know it, you've capitulated, and he's got his
cock stuck in your mouth and his hands holding you
immobile, and you don't even want to move, even if
you're able to. Because Sick Boy doesn't just get
what he wants...he takes what he wants, and fuck
asking.
It didn't take me three seconds to get to my knees
and start unbuttoning my jeans, yanking down my
keks and freeing my cock. Sick Boy moved away from
me, and I heard the rustle of paper. I looked
back, and he was on his knees, unscrewing the jar
of hair gel he'd bought.
I was hard. Just like that, practically, but
fucking scared, terrified in fact,because I'd
never been fucked up the ass -- I was a virgin,
and the craving was growing in me now, making me
shiver.
Sick Boy got up, took a kitchen chair, and dragged
it to the center of the room. I watched in
silence, shaking. He pulled me up, making sure his
hand brushed against my cock so that it leaped to
attention. He led me to the chair and stripped my
jacket from me. Peeled off my shirt and pulled off
my shoes, yanked my jeans down, getting rougher
with me, the need in his eyes making them glazed.
I couldn't speak. What could I say?
Sick Boy pushed me to my knees. "Bend over,
Rents."
I looked up at him. "Wait, man. I --"
"Bend over." He pushed my chest to the seat of the
chair and knelt between my legs. I felt his hands
run down my icy back, felt them on my ass. He
reached around and took my cock in his hand. "Feel
that," he laughed. "Christ, Rents."
I grunted and shifted in his grasp, my hands
wrapped around the legs of the chair. My hips
pumped backward, and I heard him undoing his
trousers. Then he took his hand away, and I felt
fingers sliding between my arse cheeks, slicked with
twenty-two quid hair gel. One long finger pushed
into my hole, and I bucked in surprise and shock.
"Relax, Rents." The finger probed deeper, and I
grunted and writhed as he added another one,
slicking gel all over, coating me in it, inside
and out, pushing deeper and deeper.
It was fucking terrifying, that intrusion, and I
clenched against him, trying to push him out.
"Wait --"
"Shut up, Rents." He pulled his fingers out, and
stroked my cock again. I moaned, and suddenly his
cock was against my ass, his breath hot in my ear.
"You're so fucking easy, Rents." He spread my ass,
and all at once pushed inside me, the tip of his
cock thick and hot as he plowed in.
Oh, god, it hurt. It felt like someone was shoving
a molten poker up my ass, and I couldn't feel any
pleasure in it, only pain, and I struggled against
him, but he held me down, held me still, one hand
on the back of my neck, the other clamped on one
shoulder.
"Easy, Mark -- easy." He moved inside me, and my
cock jumped again when the tip of his prick
brushed against my prostate. I gritted my teeth
and moaned; I felt like the top of my head was
going to explode.
I was sweating, and his hand slipped down from my
neck, sliding down my back and over one hip, and
finally his hand curled around my cock and grasped
it, exerting pressure and emanating heat.
"Oh, fuck -- it hurts, man. It hurts."
Sick Boy grunted in reply, pushing himself in
until I felt his balls pressing against my ass. He
moved again, thrust his hips against mine, fisting
my cock.
"You like it?"
I might have answered that I didn't know, but I
couldn't; all that came out of my mouth was a
groan. Sick Boy started to thrust, slowly, his
cock slick as he moved forward and back.
"You're a virgin, Rents." Sick Boy's voice was
tight, gasping, and amused.
"Sorry," I managed, as he thrust again, moving
faster, his cock sliding in and out of me,
slippery and easier now that I was stretched out.
He pushed harder, and I shuddered as I came into
his hand. He let go of my cock, smearing come up
my belly, and I felt his teeth sink into my
shoulder and a sudden burning wetness up my ass.
He cried out and sagged against me, his body heavy
on mine.
Finally he rose, pulling me up with him. He
pressed his mouth to my ear, but not to kiss me.
In his best Connery, he murmured, "Good job,
Moneypenny. Never thought I'd pop that cherry."
Then he stuck his tongue in my ear and let me go,
getting up and wiping his cock off with my shirt.
The daft cunt.
I got dressed, the need building to a frenzy
inside me, and watched as he scooped up one watch
and one key carrier and handed them to me. "You
owe me, Rents."
I wasn't sure if he meant the fuck or the things
he'd stolen to get the gear. "Stick it on my tab."
Sick Boy looked at me for a long moment. "Aye," he
said at last. "I'll see you."
I pocketed the watch and key carrier, and left,
closing the door quietly.
Time to visit the Mother Superior.
End.
