Fic: Outsides - L/P, L/Koch (imp)
Title: Outside
Pairing: Lister/Petersen, Lister/Kochanski (implied)
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don't own it, I just write it, which makes me no money.
Spoilers: Stasis Leak, perhaps, and the book Infinity Welcomes Careful Drivers.
Notes: Don't let Lister's thoughts about Kochanski confuse you; for the purposes of this fic, assume they never actually dated. That's all I'm gonna say about that for now. ;) Written as part of the fanfic100 challenge - my table is here.,
Dedicated to cobos, who suggested I "write something" on the plane to Indianapolis.
And there he was again; in a place between time and space, an existence somehow outside everything else. Lister yawned, and looked out the viewport. It was always like this on the shuttle; going out or coming back. All colonies were supposed to follow Universal Standard Time, but in practice, local time-zones were whatever the seedy space-port in question had decided on that week, always assuming that the different businesses had managed to agree on a single one. And, of course, the chance of any of them matching up with Red Dwarf's shipboard time were slimmer than that of Selby showing up sober on his first duty shift after planet-leave in just such a place.
Not that any of this mattered. Spaceports never slept as long as they were given a steady supply of thirsty, bored and horny spacers, and the flow of spacers never ended. Take, for example, Callisto, to which the shuttle carrying Lister and Petersen was now headed. You could see the glow of garish neon holo-signs advertising everything from cocaine-laced beer ("now legal to off-worlders!") to glow-in-the-dark strip-shows to live animal sex, before you could even make out the first faint glimmers of the landing lights at the dock. And here they were, in limbo, headed towards that den of... something or other. Not being a religious man, Lister often found himself at a loss when it came to finding words of condemnation. But whatever it was, they were headed towards it, eager to grasp any distraction it could offer from their frankly rather depressing lives.
Well, no, of course it was not like Lister to see things in such a gloomy light, but lately he just hadn't felt like himself. Since Kochanski... Yes, since Kochanski. No need to think it all the way through. He was in a funk, true enough, which is why he needed this leave so badly. He'd been surprised at Petersen's offer to join him, given the man's recent infatuation with sobriety, but the Dane had been rather insistent, urging Lister to 'get out there' and 'forget about that tøs, who'd never done right by him anyway.' He wouldn't drink himself, of course, he'd explained; but he wouldn't mind if Lister did. This pledge, however, had been broken the moment they'd boarded, and a rather feisty looking redhead in the seat next to him had offered him a shot of sambuca from her hip-flask. Lister glanced over to see him chatting her up, laughing and gesticulating wildly. Catching Lister's stare out of the corner of his eye, he gave a sly wink, as the redhead rolled her eyes, albeit with a huge, silly grin on her face. It was, Lister found, a little infectious.
They wasted no time finding a drinking-den. Which is to say, they stumbled straight out of the shuttle and in through the nearest door. You didn't look for a place to drink on Callisto; you fell into the first place you found, and spent the evening through early morning, or as the case might be, depending on the local whim, lunchtime through late afternoon, ricocheting from place to place like an erratic pinball. This suited Lister fine, because it meant that within what seemed like minutes he was already well on his way to becoming drunk enough to actually start enjoying himself. By the time they hit the place with the luminescent strippers, the only thing he could remember with any degree of accuracy was his name and that of the man lying on the sticky floor next to him. Petersen. God, you could always rely on Petersen. He loved Petersen. He really, really, really did.
"I love you, Petersen," he told the puddle of beer slightly to the right of the fallen man's ear.
"Good," something replied, from more or less the same direction, "let's celebrate it!"
Tattoo parlors were no fewer in number than the strip joints and casino arcades and sleazy sex-shops that not so much lined the streets as morphed seamlessly into one another, as though they were one huge, pulsating entertainment-organ. Lister found, much later, when it was indeed too late, that he remembered getting out of the place, holding on to Petersen's arm and trying to make a complicated joke about a frog with a speech-impediment, but not ever going in. Logic dictated that he had to have gone in at some point, but he might as well have stumbled into it when trying to find the mens room in an entirely different building. But yes, he definitely remembered going out. He also remembered his thigh itching, in the way something really painful tends to feel when your senses are dulled by too much alcohol. And it was the itching, it definitely was the itching that had made Petersen suggest they get the Painkillers. Unfortunately, or fortunately, as Lister had considered it to be at the time, these turned out to be vodka and tequila-based drinks that came in over-sized medicine bottles. It had also been the itching that had made Petersen, much, much later, in yet another bar, suggest the motel.
Looking back on this later, as he searched his mind for reasons why Petersen was suddenly acting so strangely towards him, Lister could remember nothing about the motel except that Petersen had suggested it, and that they had both woken up there the next morning. However, given that Lister had still been drunk at that point, this too was more or less a blur, and trying to come up with details was like shaking a magic eight-ball and seeing random fragments of memory float to the surface. But all that confused frustration from accusatory looks, enigmatic comments and inexplicable sudden sense of distance was in the future for the Lister who now laughingly threw himself on the single bed in the room, too drunk to notice or care that there was indeed only one of it.
“Lessee 'bout yuhr thigh... thing,” Petersen mumbled, sounding far too clear-headed. He had not yet gotten to the place where Danish and English merged in his mind to form a language marginally comprehensible only to those fluent in both. Sometimes, this process took place overnight, leading to interesting early morning conversation whenever Lister woke up in his quarters, which had, come to think of it, been rather often.
Far beyond the point of logical reasoning, Lister merely giggled and rolled to the side, allowing Petersen to crawl in next to him. “M fn, mn,” Lister explained through the pillow his face now pressed against. It felt rather good, so he kept it there, even as he felt Petersen's hands on his outer thigh. That felt rather good too.
“Lie still,” the Dane mumbled irrationally, given that was he who was trying to wrestle Lister onto his back, whereas the other man was perfectly comfortable where he was. Nevertheless, Lister eventually gave in, ending up, still giggling, with his hands on either side of Petersen's waist for balance. The two of them lay there for a moment, looking at one another, as Lister's giggles died away, leaving a contented smile.
“Whachu starin' at?” Lister patted Petersen's sides in movements as synchronized as he could manage. The other man did seem to be transfixed by something; had someone drawn on Lister's face without him noticing? It wouldn't be the first time on a binge like this. Lister shifted a little on the bed, and licked his lips. He felt like doing something, but he wasn't sure what. Petersen looked away for a moment, then turned back, his face a mask of emotions Lister couldn't place in the state he was currently in. There seemed to be some sort of sadness there though, he thought, as Petersen patted his thigh lamely, as though unsure of what to do next. “Aw... Don... Donbe... Yerra good...” But the rest of Lister's reassurances were lost in Petersen's sudden embrace, as he must have lost his grip on the bed, falling down on top of Lister, hard.
His arms wrapping around Lister, Petersen mumbled something that sounded like “crazy,” rocking Lister back and forwards in what became a bone-crushing hug. Lister merely laughed breathlessly, happy to go along with anything now, as long as it felt good. And yes, this did feel good. Very good. Simple words for a mind reduced to simplicity, but descriptive nonetheless. When Petersen finally rolled off him and onto the floor, Lister merely giggled, his one open eye following the Dane lazily as he mumbled something, and crossed the distance to the bathroom. As he disappeared inside and closed the door, Lister realized he might eventually need to make use of those facilities as well, and got up to stumble off in the same direction. In no kind of hurry, he leaned against the wall next to the door, half closing his eyes, and starting as a red, flustered face suddenly emerged, blinking at him.”Huh,” said Petersen.
“Yuh,” Lister replied, in agreement, taking a short step back, only to have the Dane follow along. As he was trying to figure out which direction to go next, Lister found himself bumping into the other man's face and body, their noses brushing, their chests sliding against one another in a flurry of waving arms, rushed breaths and half-laughs. They ended up, finally, nose to nose, both blinking rapidly, faces twitching, hands moving like nervous squirrels, darting between their bodies, not quite touching, not quite knowing where to go. As by accident, their lips met, quickly. Then again, as darting as their looks and hands; fleeting, as though unimportant. But each meeting lingered longer, until Lister found himself pressed against that same bit of wall, a thrill like a triple shot of vodka rushing up and down his spine, as hands fumbled with his shirt and t-shirt, ducking over and under them with aimless desperation. Somehow, they landed on the bed, their legs maneuvering around one another in a frantic pattern of trial and error, shedding garments erratically, until they were collectively just some boxers, a shirt and a boot or two short of total nudity.
Who was on top of the other was hard to say in this tangle of body parts, but in any case, erections rubbed against one another almost on instinct, as hands clutched buttocks both in and outside of underwear, and mouths explored whatever was closest to them. Lister stuck out his tongue, and felt it slide down a hairy chest, as odd little moans sounded in his ears. When a hand gripped his cock firmly, Lister gasped and leaned back, closing his eyes, thrusting into it. He no longer knew where he was and whom he was with, but that didn't seem to matter. He thought of Kris, and the things he had dreamed of her doing with her slender fingers, but these fingers were a far cry from what he had imagined that soft, delightful touch to be. Still, it seemed to be what he needed now, and he pressed against the body surrounding him, feeling an erection that was not his own slide into the crevice between his legs, and he knew for a fact he'd never dreamt of Kris doing that to him! Somehow though, it all seemed to fit. It felt comfortable; right. A mouth found his own, and tongues entwined as Lister felt his climax build up. Normally he would slow it down, force it away to prolong the act, but this felt less like sex than it did masturbation; something you did for release, not mutual pleasure. Even so, on the brink of orgasm, he found a pair of sad blue eyes staring into his own, and the burst of pleasure that followed seemed somehow... Hollow.
When they woke the next morning, everything but the present was gone from Lister's mind, and he readily, though confusedly, agreed to Petersen's muttered plea that they forget all about this. After all, he reflected, this place, like the shuttle, was somewhere outside of everywhere else; an in-between state of being where nothing really mattered.
Pairing: Lister/Petersen, Lister/Kochanski (implied)
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don't own it, I just write it, which makes me no money.
Spoilers: Stasis Leak, perhaps, and the book Infinity Welcomes Careful Drivers.
Notes: Don't let Lister's thoughts about Kochanski confuse you; for the purposes of this fic, assume they never actually dated. That's all I'm gonna say about that for now. ;) Written as part of the fanfic100 challenge - my table is here.,
Dedicated to cobos, who suggested I "write something" on the plane to Indianapolis.
And there he was again; in a place between time and space, an existence somehow outside everything else. Lister yawned, and looked out the viewport. It was always like this on the shuttle; going out or coming back. All colonies were supposed to follow Universal Standard Time, but in practice, local time-zones were whatever the seedy space-port in question had decided on that week, always assuming that the different businesses had managed to agree on a single one. And, of course, the chance of any of them matching up with Red Dwarf's shipboard time were slimmer than that of Selby showing up sober on his first duty shift after planet-leave in just such a place.
Not that any of this mattered. Spaceports never slept as long as they were given a steady supply of thirsty, bored and horny spacers, and the flow of spacers never ended. Take, for example, Callisto, to which the shuttle carrying Lister and Petersen was now headed. You could see the glow of garish neon holo-signs advertising everything from cocaine-laced beer ("now legal to off-worlders!") to glow-in-the-dark strip-shows to live animal sex, before you could even make out the first faint glimmers of the landing lights at the dock. And here they were, in limbo, headed towards that den of... something or other. Not being a religious man, Lister often found himself at a loss when it came to finding words of condemnation. But whatever it was, they were headed towards it, eager to grasp any distraction it could offer from their frankly rather depressing lives.
Well, no, of course it was not like Lister to see things in such a gloomy light, but lately he just hadn't felt like himself. Since Kochanski... Yes, since Kochanski. No need to think it all the way through. He was in a funk, true enough, which is why he needed this leave so badly. He'd been surprised at Petersen's offer to join him, given the man's recent infatuation with sobriety, but the Dane had been rather insistent, urging Lister to 'get out there' and 'forget about that tøs, who'd never done right by him anyway.' He wouldn't drink himself, of course, he'd explained; but he wouldn't mind if Lister did. This pledge, however, had been broken the moment they'd boarded, and a rather feisty looking redhead in the seat next to him had offered him a shot of sambuca from her hip-flask. Lister glanced over to see him chatting her up, laughing and gesticulating wildly. Catching Lister's stare out of the corner of his eye, he gave a sly wink, as the redhead rolled her eyes, albeit with a huge, silly grin on her face. It was, Lister found, a little infectious.
They wasted no time finding a drinking-den. Which is to say, they stumbled straight out of the shuttle and in through the nearest door. You didn't look for a place to drink on Callisto; you fell into the first place you found, and spent the evening through early morning, or as the case might be, depending on the local whim, lunchtime through late afternoon, ricocheting from place to place like an erratic pinball. This suited Lister fine, because it meant that within what seemed like minutes he was already well on his way to becoming drunk enough to actually start enjoying himself. By the time they hit the place with the luminescent strippers, the only thing he could remember with any degree of accuracy was his name and that of the man lying on the sticky floor next to him. Petersen. God, you could always rely on Petersen. He loved Petersen. He really, really, really did.
"I love you, Petersen," he told the puddle of beer slightly to the right of the fallen man's ear.
"Good," something replied, from more or less the same direction, "let's celebrate it!"
Tattoo parlors were no fewer in number than the strip joints and casino arcades and sleazy sex-shops that not so much lined the streets as morphed seamlessly into one another, as though they were one huge, pulsating entertainment-organ. Lister found, much later, when it was indeed too late, that he remembered getting out of the place, holding on to Petersen's arm and trying to make a complicated joke about a frog with a speech-impediment, but not ever going in. Logic dictated that he had to have gone in at some point, but he might as well have stumbled into it when trying to find the mens room in an entirely different building. But yes, he definitely remembered going out. He also remembered his thigh itching, in the way something really painful tends to feel when your senses are dulled by too much alcohol. And it was the itching, it definitely was the itching that had made Petersen suggest they get the Painkillers. Unfortunately, or fortunately, as Lister had considered it to be at the time, these turned out to be vodka and tequila-based drinks that came in over-sized medicine bottles. It had also been the itching that had made Petersen, much, much later, in yet another bar, suggest the motel.
Looking back on this later, as he searched his mind for reasons why Petersen was suddenly acting so strangely towards him, Lister could remember nothing about the motel except that Petersen had suggested it, and that they had both woken up there the next morning. However, given that Lister had still been drunk at that point, this too was more or less a blur, and trying to come up with details was like shaking a magic eight-ball and seeing random fragments of memory float to the surface. But all that confused frustration from accusatory looks, enigmatic comments and inexplicable sudden sense of distance was in the future for the Lister who now laughingly threw himself on the single bed in the room, too drunk to notice or care that there was indeed only one of it.
“Lessee 'bout yuhr thigh... thing,” Petersen mumbled, sounding far too clear-headed. He had not yet gotten to the place where Danish and English merged in his mind to form a language marginally comprehensible only to those fluent in both. Sometimes, this process took place overnight, leading to interesting early morning conversation whenever Lister woke up in his quarters, which had, come to think of it, been rather often.
Far beyond the point of logical reasoning, Lister merely giggled and rolled to the side, allowing Petersen to crawl in next to him. “M fn, mn,” Lister explained through the pillow his face now pressed against. It felt rather good, so he kept it there, even as he felt Petersen's hands on his outer thigh. That felt rather good too.
“Lie still,” the Dane mumbled irrationally, given that was he who was trying to wrestle Lister onto his back, whereas the other man was perfectly comfortable where he was. Nevertheless, Lister eventually gave in, ending up, still giggling, with his hands on either side of Petersen's waist for balance. The two of them lay there for a moment, looking at one another, as Lister's giggles died away, leaving a contented smile.
“Whachu starin' at?” Lister patted Petersen's sides in movements as synchronized as he could manage. The other man did seem to be transfixed by something; had someone drawn on Lister's face without him noticing? It wouldn't be the first time on a binge like this. Lister shifted a little on the bed, and licked his lips. He felt like doing something, but he wasn't sure what. Petersen looked away for a moment, then turned back, his face a mask of emotions Lister couldn't place in the state he was currently in. There seemed to be some sort of sadness there though, he thought, as Petersen patted his thigh lamely, as though unsure of what to do next. “Aw... Don... Donbe... Yerra good...” But the rest of Lister's reassurances were lost in Petersen's sudden embrace, as he must have lost his grip on the bed, falling down on top of Lister, hard.
His arms wrapping around Lister, Petersen mumbled something that sounded like “crazy,” rocking Lister back and forwards in what became a bone-crushing hug. Lister merely laughed breathlessly, happy to go along with anything now, as long as it felt good. And yes, this did feel good. Very good. Simple words for a mind reduced to simplicity, but descriptive nonetheless. When Petersen finally rolled off him and onto the floor, Lister merely giggled, his one open eye following the Dane lazily as he mumbled something, and crossed the distance to the bathroom. As he disappeared inside and closed the door, Lister realized he might eventually need to make use of those facilities as well, and got up to stumble off in the same direction. In no kind of hurry, he leaned against the wall next to the door, half closing his eyes, and starting as a red, flustered face suddenly emerged, blinking at him.”Huh,” said Petersen.
“Yuh,” Lister replied, in agreement, taking a short step back, only to have the Dane follow along. As he was trying to figure out which direction to go next, Lister found himself bumping into the other man's face and body, their noses brushing, their chests sliding against one another in a flurry of waving arms, rushed breaths and half-laughs. They ended up, finally, nose to nose, both blinking rapidly, faces twitching, hands moving like nervous squirrels, darting between their bodies, not quite touching, not quite knowing where to go. As by accident, their lips met, quickly. Then again, as darting as their looks and hands; fleeting, as though unimportant. But each meeting lingered longer, until Lister found himself pressed against that same bit of wall, a thrill like a triple shot of vodka rushing up and down his spine, as hands fumbled with his shirt and t-shirt, ducking over and under them with aimless desperation. Somehow, they landed on the bed, their legs maneuvering around one another in a frantic pattern of trial and error, shedding garments erratically, until they were collectively just some boxers, a shirt and a boot or two short of total nudity.
Who was on top of the other was hard to say in this tangle of body parts, but in any case, erections rubbed against one another almost on instinct, as hands clutched buttocks both in and outside of underwear, and mouths explored whatever was closest to them. Lister stuck out his tongue, and felt it slide down a hairy chest, as odd little moans sounded in his ears. When a hand gripped his cock firmly, Lister gasped and leaned back, closing his eyes, thrusting into it. He no longer knew where he was and whom he was with, but that didn't seem to matter. He thought of Kris, and the things he had dreamed of her doing with her slender fingers, but these fingers were a far cry from what he had imagined that soft, delightful touch to be. Still, it seemed to be what he needed now, and he pressed against the body surrounding him, feeling an erection that was not his own slide into the crevice between his legs, and he knew for a fact he'd never dreamt of Kris doing that to him! Somehow though, it all seemed to fit. It felt comfortable; right. A mouth found his own, and tongues entwined as Lister felt his climax build up. Normally he would slow it down, force it away to prolong the act, but this felt less like sex than it did masturbation; something you did for release, not mutual pleasure. Even so, on the brink of orgasm, he found a pair of sad blue eyes staring into his own, and the burst of pleasure that followed seemed somehow... Hollow.
When they woke the next morning, everything but the present was gone from Lister's mind, and he readily, though confusedly, agreed to Petersen's muttered plea that they forget all about this. After all, he reflected, this place, like the shuttle, was somewhere outside of everywhere else; an in-between state of being where nothing really mattered.