Fic: In Passing - R/L (imp) - PG-13
Title: In Passing
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister (implied)
Rating: PG-13, for sexual implications
Disclaimer: I don't own Red Dwarf or its characters, and writing this makes me no money.
Spoilers: Stoke Me A Clipper.
Notes: An attempt to write boot porn. If I could draw, I'd draw it, but this is what I do, so hey! Written for the fanfic100 challenge - my table is here. As always, please bring me concrit!
It was just a random image; something he had noticed in passing, as it were, and Rimmer had no idea why it seemed to be stuck in his mind more than ten years later, hundreds of dimension jumps away. Rather than fade, as he was under the impression memories were supposed to do, it had become clearer and more detailed over the years, appearing in his mind at the most inconvenient moments. Why, he asked him self exasperatedly, did he remember this, but not in which dimension he had lost his favorite wig, or which button made his tiny cot expand to allow room for more than one person on it? He always got it confused with the emergency klaxxon button, which had runied more than one potentially romantic moment. No, that was lost somewhere in the reaches of his electronic mind. What did he see?
Lister. Smegging Lister.
Rimmer could no longer remember exactly when he'd seen it. Some time before he'd left Starbug, obviously. Not too long before, because it was clearly after Lister had given in, and allowed Kryten to give his longjohns a daily dose of bleach. They were in the image too - sort of.
It must have been one of those unbearably hot nights that had alternated with freezing cold ones whenever the environmental controls were on the fritz. Temperature fluxtuations didn't bother Rimmer, though he was aware of them, in the same way he was aware of the fact that his hair was some undefined shade of dull medium brown. It had certainly bothered Lister, though, which had to be why...
Well, at any rate, Rimmer must have been walking past Lister's quarters, because the image is framed by a door. Inside the door, Lister is standing, leaning against the frame. His head is leaning back; his eyes closed, his mouth half-open. Sweat is glistening on his skin, of which there is a lot of, because he is naked.
Naked, except for his boots.
The boots, Rimmer can clearly see, recalling it now with annoying ease, are unlaced, but polished, shimmering like Lister's pale brown skin. They are standing on a pair of discarded, perfectly white longjohns; or one of them is. The knee to which the other booted foot is attached - via a strong, glistening shin - is bent, the angle of the thigh obscuring what Rimmer nonetheless can't help thinking of, between Lister's legs.
His chest is rising and falling. Like the heartbeat Rimmer doesn't have.
Gloved hands press at the wall behind him, as if he can push the heat away, and he doesn't open his eyes. He doesn't see Rimmer. And Rimmer doesn't see him. Except in passing.
Years and dimensions later, Rimmer shakes his head, but the image remains. He can't get rid of it. He doesn't remember the names of the last three girls he shagged, or the way they looked when he led them to his cot, hoping he would press the right button. No; when he lies awake at night, his hand resting idly on his cock, this is what he remembers.
Lister.
Smegging Lister!
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister (implied)
Rating: PG-13, for sexual implications
Disclaimer: I don't own Red Dwarf or its characters, and writing this makes me no money.
Spoilers: Stoke Me A Clipper.
Notes: An attempt to write boot porn. If I could draw, I'd draw it, but this is what I do, so hey! Written for the fanfic100 challenge - my table is here. As always, please bring me concrit!
It was just a random image; something he had noticed in passing, as it were, and Rimmer had no idea why it seemed to be stuck in his mind more than ten years later, hundreds of dimension jumps away. Rather than fade, as he was under the impression memories were supposed to do, it had become clearer and more detailed over the years, appearing in his mind at the most inconvenient moments. Why, he asked him self exasperatedly, did he remember this, but not in which dimension he had lost his favorite wig, or which button made his tiny cot expand to allow room for more than one person on it? He always got it confused with the emergency klaxxon button, which had runied more than one potentially romantic moment. No, that was lost somewhere in the reaches of his electronic mind. What did he see?
Lister. Smegging Lister.
Rimmer could no longer remember exactly when he'd seen it. Some time before he'd left Starbug, obviously. Not too long before, because it was clearly after Lister had given in, and allowed Kryten to give his longjohns a daily dose of bleach. They were in the image too - sort of.
It must have been one of those unbearably hot nights that had alternated with freezing cold ones whenever the environmental controls were on the fritz. Temperature fluxtuations didn't bother Rimmer, though he was aware of them, in the same way he was aware of the fact that his hair was some undefined shade of dull medium brown. It had certainly bothered Lister, though, which had to be why...
Well, at any rate, Rimmer must have been walking past Lister's quarters, because the image is framed by a door. Inside the door, Lister is standing, leaning against the frame. His head is leaning back; his eyes closed, his mouth half-open. Sweat is glistening on his skin, of which there is a lot of, because he is naked.
Naked, except for his boots.
The boots, Rimmer can clearly see, recalling it now with annoying ease, are unlaced, but polished, shimmering like Lister's pale brown skin. They are standing on a pair of discarded, perfectly white longjohns; or one of them is. The knee to which the other booted foot is attached - via a strong, glistening shin - is bent, the angle of the thigh obscuring what Rimmer nonetheless can't help thinking of, between Lister's legs.
His chest is rising and falling. Like the heartbeat Rimmer doesn't have.
Gloved hands press at the wall behind him, as if he can push the heat away, and he doesn't open his eyes. He doesn't see Rimmer. And Rimmer doesn't see him. Except in passing.
Years and dimensions later, Rimmer shakes his head, but the image remains. He can't get rid of it. He doesn't remember the names of the last three girls he shagged, or the way they looked when he led them to his cot, hoping he would press the right button. No; when he lies awake at night, his hand resting idly on his cock, this is what he remembers.
Lister.
Smegging Lister!