Chapter Text
Renton
Renton was already starting to get bored by the time Simon finally emerged from the Sheriff Court. His grey suit was meant to say "Ah’m just a humble, law-abidin’ citizen" — grey is a calming colour, Simon had said — but it fit him too well, still whispering, “but Ah’m also sharp as a razor.” The sun caught the lenses of his glasses as he looked around, spotted Renton, and strode over.
"Sae?" said Renton, already guessing how it went from the smug glint in Simon's eye.
"The court," Simon intoned, mock-solemn, "has acknowledged ma efforts and hopes Ah'll keep oan the straight an' narrow." He failed to suppress a grin. "The beasht is officially oot of the cage."
"Congratulations.” Renton patted him on the back as they set off and fell into step. "The beasht can ditch these daft specs noo."
"These daft specs," Simon started, pulling them off and sliding them into his chest pocket, "are an elegant tool fur convincin’ people of one’s harmless an’ well-behaved nature. Should've picked that up years ago."
"Simon 2.0 — the reformed, respectable version," Renton quipped. "Sae whit's the plan then, eh?"
That there would be a plan, Renton had no doubt. What better way to mark freedom from court-mandated sobriety than with the very substances they'd forced you to avoid?
"Oh, definitely molly first," said Simon, with a dreamy look in his eyes. "Ah wouldn't mind a serotonin boost ony time noo. Hope ye’ve fuck aw planned tonight."
Renton sighed. A serotonin boost never sounded bad. The problem was, he wasn't sure it was still on the table for him.
"Ye knoo, mate, maybe Ah should…,” Renton started, searching for a way to say “check it wi ma doctor” without sounding like a doss cunt, but Simon cut him off.
"Didnae say it was fur ye, mate," he said. "Accordin’ tae ma research, mixin’ yer meds wi MDMA can cause whit is, in clinical terms, a case o immediate cardiac fuckery.”
It was hard to imagine a more disgustingly sweet gesture from Simon than looking up medical interactions to make sure Renton didn't kick it mid-high. Peak romance, you could say.
“An’ who's gonnae pay aff the other half o that government loan then?" Simon added quickly to try to amend the impression.
“Sae whit’s the plan then? Ye gettin’ high as a kite an’ me babysittin’ yer sweaty arse?” Renton grumbled, not that babysitting Simon's sweaty — and cuddly — arse was the worst thing in the world.
"We'll get ye a bangin’ edible, Rents." Simon ruffled Renton's hair before wrapping his arm around Renton’s neck. "Ah knoo a guy who makes brownies sae potent ye feel like ye're trippin’ oan shrooms."
"If Ah'm stoned as shite, Ah'm no budgin’ aff the sofa," said Renton.
Simon gave it a moment’s thought. “Ah'm strangely comfortable wi that,” he said, his high spirits impossible to crush.
~~~
"Tastes surprisingly decent," said Renton, licking his fingers. The chocolate brownie could rival some of the better stuff he'd had in Amsterdam. "Here’s hopin’ the strength lives up tae it."
"This shite takes ages tae kick in," said Simon, licking the edge of the paper to seal the joint. "Might as well get crackin’ in the meantime," he added, lighting it up and taking a drag.
Simon had done a whole set of calculations trying to figure out when they should take everything so "the peaks" would line up.
Of course, Renton thought that was a load of shite, but pretended to go along with it anyway.
"Sae the plan is, get high, then get higher, then melt intae the sofa?"
"More or less." Simon passed him the joint. "Also, bit o chill tunes, maybe some 4K nature drone footage oan the telly. Should be proper atmospheric."
Renton laughed. "Cannae believe ye're no tryin’ tae drag us round every club in town."
"Been brushin’ up oan molly lately," said Simon. "Apparently, it can hit even stronger at home wi the right setup."
"Whit, watchin’ lions shag in slow motion oan the savanna wi surround sound, full immersive experience?"
"If that's whit gets ye goin’, Mark."
~~~
Half an hour in, and they were both already stoned off their tits — but the real high was still to come. Shagging lions forgotten, a live DJ set was streaming on the telly. Renton was sitting on the sofa, scooping ice cream straight from the tub, with Simon’s head in his lap.
"Ah still cannae imagine ye in aw that leather gear," Simon continued. "Did it no make ye feel aw ridiculous?"
"Ah told ye, there was no leather," said Renton, tapping Simon's nose with the spoon. Just the occasional latex, he thought.
"Oi," Simon muttered, wiping ice cream off his face.
"Ye sure ye dinnae want ony?" Renton asked.
"Dinnae want tae fuck up the high," said Simon. "Whit aboot gimp suits, ball gags, whips an’ aw?"
"There's some o that, but it depends oan the crowd. The props an’ the protocol are pure garnish. Whit matters is how power flows an’ the people come tae the clubs tae feel that — some just need a wee nudge tae get goin’.”
Simon still looked skeptical, but Renton continued, his mind toggling between past scenes and future potentials. “Some props can be interestin’ though."
Simon raised an eyebrow. "Like whit?"
“Restraints. Blindfolds. Cages—" Renton started.
"Like... people-sized cages?"
"Naw, ye daftie. Cock-sized cages," said Renton, watching Simon’s confusion. "Ye'd look good in one," he added just to mess with him.
Simon’s expression hardly changed, but Renton thought he noticed a barely perceptible smile breaking through.
"Ye're one kinky bastard, Mark,” Simon then said, not disagreeing.
The alarm on Simon's phone went off. He switched it off and grabbed the little baggie from the table. "Time tae roll," he said, emptying the contents into his mouth.
~~~
What's good about fucking when stoned? Probably the fact that it doesn't even have to be fucking. Touch feels brilliant. And with the right music on, you're in another world — a world of slow exploration and electric sensations. The kind of touch that talks; the touch that says more than words ever could.
Renton ran his hands slowly across Simon's chest. Simon's eyes were closed; he was breathing heavier now, wantonly sighing at shifts in pressure or changes in direction. Renton lifted his hand to cup Simon's cheek and trace his lip.
Simon was lying back, watching Renton through his long lashes, lips slightly parted — just like the first time Renton'd ever wanted to kiss him. Just like the first time he had kissed him, back when they first did molly together. Same look on Simon's face now — stupidly desperate to be kissed, which somehow made him absolutely irresistible. So Renton didn't resist.
Simon kissed him back, slowly, hands coming up to touch Renton's face.
Renton wanted more now. He closed his eyes as his hand went lower, down to Simon's crotch. Simon was definitely interested, but not quite hard yet — and wouldn't be for a while, the way MD hit.
"How do cock cages work?" mumbled Simon all of a sudden.
Renton opened his eyes and leaned back, trying to concentrate.
"Weel, some folks use them fur punishment or humiliation," he said, carefully watching Simon's face, "But Ah think they're best fur dry orgasms."
"How do ye mean?" Simon said, looking adorably perplexed.
"Ah mean ye come but ye dinnae spunk."
Simon snorted with all the confidence of a man who thought he'd invented sex. "Whit a load o shite. How can ye come without spunkin’?"
Renton could have explained that, but decided not to. "Do ye want me tae show ye?" he said instead.
Simon fell quiet, his pupils blown wide in the dim light. He must be reaching his peak, thought Renton.
"Rents, just tell me," Simon said, his voice a bit hoarse. "Whit exactly do ye want tae do tae me?"
Renton leaned in until their foreheads touched, their faces so close his lips brushed against Simon's.
"Everything," he breathed out. "Cage ye. Plug ye. Make ye come until ye cannae anymore." The words alone were enough to get Renton hard. "Whit do ye say?"
Simon drew in a slow, deep breath, and Renton knew he had his answer.
"Awright," he breathed against Renton's lips.