FIC: Hardly a Substitute IV

[splix]

Title: Hardly a Substitute IV
Fandom: Trainspotting
Rating: NC-17.
Warning: D/s.
Disclaimer: Miramax, Irvine Welsh.
Feedback: Is treasured.
Thanks: to kimberlite and LaConstance, for excellent beta.
Summary: Renton and Sick Boy have a night on the town.




**********


Sick Boy and I were clean again, otherwise we
wouldn't have gone out.

It was that sort of night; staying in and drinking
and watching videos would have led to boredom, and
that little itch, that never went away completely
no matter how clean you got, would soon become
unbearable. So it was keep moving or succumb;
boredom was the real enemy. That was Sick Boy's
theory, or so he told me, but he didn't make eye
contact with me when he said it, and I suspected a
different truth, even with the ever-present
craving.

I watched him from the far side of the dance
floor; some trance shite was playing, and every
stupid punter and bird in the place was rolling,
high as a fucking kite or pissed out of their
brains -- except for me. I was stone-cold sober,
and fucking miserable. The speed I'd ingested
earlier didn't seem to be working; I was bored,my
jaw clenching as I watched two birds crawling all
over Sick Boy.

It wasn't that I was jealous, ken; Sick Boy would
always be more successful with birds. It was just
the thought of it, the thought that the cunt made
the effort and always succeeded without making it seem
as though he tried. It was worth it, he told me,
with a quick contemptuous glance at my jeans and
trainers, at my ragged jumper.

Once, a very long time ago, I might have bothered
to dress up, to shave and wear cologne, to find
new clothes, to emulate Sick Boy. But the truth of
the matter was that it was never a contest. It
wasn't so much that Sick Boy had all the style and
panache I lacked. He had every confidence in his
own ability to make people notice him; that was
the principal difference. You couldn't compete
with that, no matter how hard you tried.

The music changed -- it got faster, chopped up
drums and heavy bass. It pissed me off for no
reason I could determine. I waded in to tell Sick
Boy that I was going home, and the crowd closed
around me, manic-slow multicolored strobelit
motion and the press of a thousand bodies against
me. The speed -- I was sure that Sick Boy had cut
it with something, the fucker -- was starting to
kick in, heightening my senses. I could smell amyl
nitrate, model glue, paint thinner, butane, video
head cleaner, butyl nitrate, and even petrol
against the sweat and fog. It was mostly homemade
shite, and we ordinarily felt justified in
scorning it as an amateur high, but the smells
were tempting now, and I started to look around
for someone who would part with a little, for a
small sum -- just a wee bit to enjoy before I
headed home for some chips, a video and a wank.

I felt a hand grabbing my wrist, and I was dragged
deeper into the crowd. All at once Sick Boy's face
was in front of me, and he mouthed the word
"blow," nodding toward the toilets. That would do; I
nodded in return. He pulled me along, his hand
still locked around my wrist, and I watched as he
maneuvered through the crowd, kissing and dancing
his way along, and everyone but me eating it up, no
one knowing what a poxy, boring fucker he could be.
This was his atmosphere, his home, his kingdom.

I was jealous, but I'd be fucked if I'd let the
tosser know it.

We got into the toilet, and Sick Boy let go of my
wrist to push on a succession of toilet stall
doors until he found an empty stall. He gestured me
inside, closing and bolting the door behind us.There was
hardly room enough for one person, let alone two,
but neither of us cared. Sick Boy withdrew a
plastic bag from his pocket. There was just enough for
two; we made short work of it, then leaned against the
walls, sniffling, waiting for the blow to deliver.

Sick Boy extracted a pack of cigarettes from his
coat and tapped two out. He lit them both, then
passed one to me, his eyes fastening to my hand
when I reached out for the fag. "Having a good
time, Rents?" he inquired.

"Grand."

"That's good."

"Aye." Suddenly the swirling smoke and Sick Boy's
proximity to me made me twitchy; I turned to
leave. Sick Boy swung his leg up, planting his
foot on the opposite wall and blocking my exit.

"Been a while, mate," he said.

I couldn't even look at him. I stared at the door
of the stall, reading the poetry of the ages.
Dekko sux big cox. Mattie + Davey. I fucked Nicola
Bishop. XTC 401903. "Since what?" I asked. I knew;
it had been one month, thirteen days,
and...fifteen hours since he fucked me.

Let's be perfectly clear on that; he fucked me,
and fucked me hard. There was no question of that,
but neither was it mentioned again after it
occurred. While I didn't imagine that I'd dreamt
the whole thing up, I didn't think that he had
given it any thought at all. He was great with the
birds, after all, and they practically lined up
outside his door. He'd cop off every night if he
could, and often he could. You'd never imagine
Sick Boy thinking about the next ride he'd get
with Mark Renton, not a notable finisher in the
grand scheme of erotic experience. I was a novelty
to him, and I kept my mouth shut. That seemed
sufficient.

"Don't be fuckin' soft, Rents." Sick Boy flicked
his smoke into the bog and lowered his leg, giving
me an opportunity to leave. When I didn't move, he
grabbed my arm and shoved me up against the wall,
kissing me hard enough for his teeth to split my
upper lip, pushing my legs into the bog roll
dispenser.

I grabbed on to him, dropping my own cigarette and
threading my fingers through his hair, pulling him
close. Not out of love or affection, you
understand, merely the practical pressure of
arousal. I'd been dying for it, and fuck it if he
didn't seem to know. His hand groped at the crotch
of my jeans, fumbling until they located my cock.
I angled my hips toward him, enough for him to get
the message. He spread his fingers and rubbed,
exerting just enough force to begin to make me
hard.

I reached down to unbutton my jeans, and Sick Boy
grasped my hands, forcing them up against my
chest, pushing himself against me so that I
couldn't move. He didn't speak; he kissed me
again, his tongue shoving its way into my mouth.
Desperate, I thrust my cock toward him, rubbing as
much as I could.

Sick Boy let me go and banged out of the stall.

I was aghast. I had a mind to make a snotty
comment, something along the lines of 'Something I
said?' but all I managed was "What the fuck are
you doing?"

A short, stroppy gadge in a tracksuit walked up to
the stall. "Oi -- you about finished, mate?"

"Fuck off!" Sick Boy snarled, turning from the
sink, where he was pumping lotion soap into a
towel. He rounded on the cunt, towering over him
until the punter backed away, eyes lowered. That
accomplished, he banged back into the stall,
slamming and bolting the door, then unfastening
his trousers with one hand. He pulled down his
keks; silk boxers, I noted, before I noted that
his cock was hard. "Go on, Mark," he said,
sounding short of breath. "Pull your pants down,
man."

Moving slowly -- at least it felt slow -- I
unbuttoned my jeans and pushed them past my hips.
I yanked down my own keks; the material brushed
against my prick. I could hear the thumping of the
drums and bass outside the bog, and I could smell
the reek of hash and poppers inside, mingling with
cigarette smoke and alcohol. Taking my cock in
my hand, I reached out and wrapped a hand around
Sick Boy's, stroking him, feeling his cock growing
harder and hotter.

Holding the towel, Sick Boy leaned back against
the wall of the stall, his eyes closed, his hips
beginning to twitch, not quite rhythmically, but
steadily all the same. My hesitation disappeared
slowly; I moved closer, rubbing our cocks
together, watching his face as he groaned.

Sick Boy's eyes opened. He reached out with his
free hand and grabbed my shoulder, turning me
around. "Go on, Rents."

Scowling -- was I that inept? -- I obeyed him,
feeling my prick pressed against the coolness of
the metal wall when he pushed me against it. Sick
Boy pulled my jeans and keks down farther, and
then I felt a slick finger sliding over my arse
and pressing against the entrance to my hole. I
was so intent on my cock that it took a moment for
me to register that Sick Boy had his finger up my
arse.

"Not here," I began, but Sick Boy's hand covered
my mouth, smashing against my already injured
lips, and he pressed me up against the wall.

"Shut it, Rents."

Of course he wanted it here. Where better than in
public, what better than the possibility of
getting caught? It was, and would always be Sick
Boy's habit; he lived for the drama of any given
situation.

I was acutely aware of his weight against me, of
his soapy finger fucking me, pushing in, pulling
out, of his hand tight over my mouth. I licked his
hand, and the pressure tightened; he'd leave
bruises. And probably wanted to.

Not that I minded.

He kept working his finger in and out, stretching
me. From time to time his soapy hand would slide
over my hip and down my belly to stroke my cock,
to make sure it was still hard. He played with the
head, laughing a little when I let out a shudder
and a muffled gasp. I could feel my balls
tightening; I was nearly ready to spill.

I felt the head of his cock, slippery with soap,
at my hole, hard and persistent. I groaned behind
his hand as he forced his way inside; even with
the soap, the friction was painful, or else I
hadn't been fucked enough. How was I supposed to
know?

He thrust up against me, and curled his hard,
soapy fingers around my cock, stroking it, tossing
me off as he pushed in and drew back, grunting,
his mouth against my ear. I moaned, and he bit my
earlobe. "Don't want to get caught, do you,
Rents?"

I couldn't nod or shake my head; he held me too
tightly, and I was making noises I couldn't help.
The coke and the speed had coalesced into a
bright, spiraling mass within me; my body needed
more than I could possibly get at that moment.
Sick Boy's hand moved faster against my cock as he
pushed into me, forcing me against the wall; need
was gathering to a head in my taut balls.
Trembling, I placed my hands against the wall and
pushed back, thrusting my ass against his prick.

Sick Boy pumped in a quick, wild frenzy, spilling
inside me. He thrust a few more times, then was
still, leaning against me, breathing hard. The
movement of his hand on my cock had stopped, but
his fingers were still curled around it.

Sick Boy spoke into my ear again. "Want more?"

I nodded, thrusting into his hand, groaning a
little. His hand over my mouth pulled me back so
that my head rested on his shoulder. He resumed
the movement of his hand, and it wasn't a minute
until my body was bucking against him like mad; I
let out a smothered shout and came, spunk
splattering on the wall, sliding down over Reg
loves Jenny, fuk u, and Andy is a buftie.

Sick Boy let me go, grabbing the bog roll and
wiping his hand off. He refastened his trousers
and patted my cheek as I turned around. "Thanks,
laddie."

I closed my eyes. One day he'll have done one
Connery impersonation too many, and I'd have to
kill him.

"You don't mind getting your own taxi home, do you
Rents?" he asked in his own voice. "I was going to
go home with Philippa."

I shook my head. "That's fine."

"Take care of that lip," Sick Boy said, and
sauntered out of the stall, leaving me to button
myself up and assess my situation. I did just
that; I pulled up my keks, buttoned my jeans, and
left the loo, two punters giving me funny looks as
though they smelled the spunk on me. That was just
fine.

At least, I thought, I was no longer bored.



End.