Fic: Heart - R/L - PG
Title: Heart
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don't own these boys, I just play with them. Don't make money from them either.
Spoilers: Legion
Notes: Just a little something while I work on meatier things. :) Written as part of the fanfic100 challenge - my table is here.
While David Lister had a tattoo on his inner thigh, proclaiming, in bright red ink, “I <3 Petersen,” this was not his greatest passion. Oh, it was true enough, though he'd deny it to anyone stupid enough to ask, but there were other things much closer to his heart these days.
He loved Indian food. The flavors; the way the sauces would caress his mouth and tongue like a lover; sliding down into his stomach effortlessly; tender meat falling apart at the lightest touch of his teeth and tongue, mixing with the other components in a symphony of taste sensations. The way he had to lick his fingers even if he didn't eat with them; the near sexual-pleasure of doing so; the odd satisfaction of soaking up the remnants of the meal with nan-bread or poppadums (or yes, his fingers); and of course the spices. The spices, burning his mouth and throat, segueing up his sinuses and mixing with his breath; taunting him as if to say; 'yeah, go on then, if you think yer hard enough!' And he was hard enough, which gave him an tingling sort of thrill, and made him want to celebrate with beer.
He worshiped beer. The taste of it was one thing. Nothing else was quite like it; there were no other flavors to compare it to. It tasted like quenching and amber and pub nights, like zero-G football and home. It smelled like long nights out, like pleasure, like coming home after a hard day's work, and though Lister tried to avoid those, there'd been enough of them in his life. Any alcohol would numb you, but beer did it so comfortably; like a good friend that knew exactly what you needed. You could trust beer - it was always there for you. Even here, far beyond any human life or civilization beer was still there for him, still tasting and smelling and feeling of pure joy. Some days that quiet hiss of the can as he opened the tab was the only thing that kept Lister going. A waft of carbon dioxide, sometimes a fine mist of the liquid itself would hit his face, and he everything would somehow be all right... until Rimmer would come in and slap the can away from his face with a sneer, mumbling something about 'rations' and 'drinking on duty-shift'.
Oh, how he hated Rimmer. He loathed the way he nagged and taunted and ranted and teased; the way he always put the toilet-seat down even though he didn't need to use it, what with never eating anything - that tea he constantly drank seeming to dissipate somewhere within the strange working of his artificial body. He couldn't stand to see the man standing in the cockpit all smarmy and gittish and full of himself, in those stupid tight trousers that made you want to lick them straight off him, like an absurd blue lolly. He despised how the smegger would get up right after sex and shower, scrubbing himself so ferociously it was clearly audible for someone pretending to be asleep in the room beyond. How he would sneak back in and snuggle up to Lister, pulling him close, making Lister stop hating him - forcing the anger out of his heart and filling him with something positive. Something he couldn't quite place. Something not entirely unlike love.
And these days, and certainly most nights, that warm, humming body was what was lay closest to Lister's heart.
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don't own these boys, I just play with them. Don't make money from them either.
Spoilers: Legion
Notes: Just a little something while I work on meatier things. :) Written as part of the fanfic100 challenge - my table is here.
While David Lister had a tattoo on his inner thigh, proclaiming, in bright red ink, “I <3 Petersen,” this was not his greatest passion. Oh, it was true enough, though he'd deny it to anyone stupid enough to ask, but there were other things much closer to his heart these days.
He loved Indian food. The flavors; the way the sauces would caress his mouth and tongue like a lover; sliding down into his stomach effortlessly; tender meat falling apart at the lightest touch of his teeth and tongue, mixing with the other components in a symphony of taste sensations. The way he had to lick his fingers even if he didn't eat with them; the near sexual-pleasure of doing so; the odd satisfaction of soaking up the remnants of the meal with nan-bread or poppadums (or yes, his fingers); and of course the spices. The spices, burning his mouth and throat, segueing up his sinuses and mixing with his breath; taunting him as if to say; 'yeah, go on then, if you think yer hard enough!' And he was hard enough, which gave him an tingling sort of thrill, and made him want to celebrate with beer.
He worshiped beer. The taste of it was one thing. Nothing else was quite like it; there were no other flavors to compare it to. It tasted like quenching and amber and pub nights, like zero-G football and home. It smelled like long nights out, like pleasure, like coming home after a hard day's work, and though Lister tried to avoid those, there'd been enough of them in his life. Any alcohol would numb you, but beer did it so comfortably; like a good friend that knew exactly what you needed. You could trust beer - it was always there for you. Even here, far beyond any human life or civilization beer was still there for him, still tasting and smelling and feeling of pure joy. Some days that quiet hiss of the can as he opened the tab was the only thing that kept Lister going. A waft of carbon dioxide, sometimes a fine mist of the liquid itself would hit his face, and he everything would somehow be all right... until Rimmer would come in and slap the can away from his face with a sneer, mumbling something about 'rations' and 'drinking on duty-shift'.
Oh, how he hated Rimmer. He loathed the way he nagged and taunted and ranted and teased; the way he always put the toilet-seat down even though he didn't need to use it, what with never eating anything - that tea he constantly drank seeming to dissipate somewhere within the strange working of his artificial body. He couldn't stand to see the man standing in the cockpit all smarmy and gittish and full of himself, in those stupid tight trousers that made you want to lick them straight off him, like an absurd blue lolly. He despised how the smegger would get up right after sex and shower, scrubbing himself so ferociously it was clearly audible for someone pretending to be asleep in the room beyond. How he would sneak back in and snuggle up to Lister, pulling him close, making Lister stop hating him - forcing the anger out of his heart and filling him with something positive. Something he couldn't quite place. Something not entirely unlike love.
And these days, and certainly most nights, that warm, humming body was what was lay closest to Lister's heart.