Fic: Breakfast - Rimmer/Lister (sort of) PG-13
Again with the food!porn - I don't know what's come over me, honestly...
Title: Breakfast
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister (sort of)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don't own Red Dwarf, or any of the characters therein, more's the pity. There's no money in this either.
Notes: Not really slash, I feel, but as it's got some rather kinky descriptions in it, and references to kinky acts preformed by one of our heroes upon the other, I've decided to post it here. Hope you don't mind! The reflection on the ripeness of pears is blatantly, but lovingly stolen from the great Eddie Izzard. Written as part of the fanfic100 challenge - my table is here.
Lister hadn’t been all that hungry this morning, so it had been a light breakfast. A small bowl of corn-flakes with grated onions, a few poppadums with a little dish of vindaloo-sauce to dip them in, orange juice with a hefty sprinkling of Tabasco, a small curried-mutton omelet, and a tall glass of beer milkshake stood before him now, almost entirely finished off. They’d just recently been able to re-stock their supplies, and Kryten was relishing the new culinary possibilities thereby afforded to him. There stood also, because the mechanoid had unfortunately been programmed to not allow human beings to come to harm, even if it was by their own hand, a rather generous bowl of what Kryten referred to as “nearly fresh” - meaning recently defrosted - fruit salad, its pieces arranged in an attractive symmetrical pattern. Seated at the other end of the table was Rimmer, an unreadable look on his face.
Lazily, Lister reached out with one hand, and selected a piece of pear. He held it close to his face for a thorough scrutiny, then shrugged, and popped it into his mouth. “Not quite ripe,” he mumbled between chews. “Those pears are sneaky bastards. You bring ‘em home, leave ‘em out to ripen, and then they turn from rock hard into mulch overnight.”
“Well,” said Rimmer, “I wouldn’t know. We didn’t get a lot of them on Io.” He was sitting quite rigidly, more so than usual, and his hands were in his lap, clasped tightly together. He was looking at the bowl.
“Right then,” Lister said, “I’m ready to face another day of adventure.” He gave the bowl of fruit a critical look, then leaned backwards in his chair, tilting it at a dangerous angle. “Hey, Cat,” he yelled, “you want any fruit?”
The Cat, his hair still in rollers, a blow-drier in hand, stuck his head in and looked at Lister incredulously. “How many times do I have to tell you, bud?” he said in exasperation. “These,” he indicated his rather impressive incisors, “are not for hunting beetroots. Unless,” he reflected, “you’re talking about some kind of animal/vegetable hybrid, like those corn-dogs we found on that tanker last month.”
Lister sighed. “Look,” he said, “I’ve explained about the corn dogs. They’re just called that, they aren’t actual dogs, they aren’t even an animal! In fact, I’m not even sure they make it from anything remotely resembling animals.”
The Cat snorted. “Say what you like, I’m still not comfortable having them on board. Who knows, they might not all have been dead before they were frozen - what if one of them wakes up and tries to kill us?”
“Cat, they won’t kill us.” Lister paused, thoughtfully. “Not unless we try to eat them, anyway.”
“Well fine,” the Cat replied, heading out, “but don’t expect me to come to your aid when you go into the cargo bay for supplies, and one of those things leap for your throat!”
Shaking his head and smiling, Lister turned back to Rimmer, expecting a mocking tirade from his bunk-mate, but Rimmer was just sitting there, watching him quietly.
“Are you going to finish that?” he said, finally.
“Finish what?” Lister was busy looking into the now empty glass of milk-shake, trying to see whether there was any way to get at the last remaining beer-flavored deposits short of sticking his tongue down into it.
“That,” Rimmer said, nodding towards the bowl, “the fruit.”
“What?” Lister said distractedly. “No, I’m not.”
“Then… Could I have some?”
“Eh?” Lister looked up. “What for?”
Rimmer’s brow furrowed. “Well,” he began, “it’s all rather embarrassing, really. You see, I’ve got this weird sexual fetish where I like to stick bits of defrosted fruit up my arse while someone sings the Belgian national anthem backwards. And I already have a disc of “Barry Manilow Sings Europe” rigged up on the special player my bunk, I’d be delighted if you would be so kind as to assist me with the rest.”
Lister’s jaw dropped, but before he could go on Rimmer yelled “I’m going to EAT it, smeghead! EAT. I don’t know, you seem to be rather familiar with the concept.”
“But…” Lister stuttered, “you don’t have to eat. You’re a hologram!”
“No one HAS to eat, Lister. If we wanted to we could all live on small, aluminum colored pills and mineral water, but where’s the fun in that? Now that I’ve finally got a body that can eat, I’d like to ruddy well take advantage of it, thank you very much. I just so happen to like fruit, and I haven’t had any in a very long time, and would it be too much to ask for just one, ONE, smegging piece that you don’t even smegging want?” He had risen from the table, and was now standing, leaning over Lister and almost shouting. His face was red, and a vein on his forehead had started throbbing. The hard-light drive really was amazingly life-like, Lister noted absent-mindedly.
Lister leaned back, intimidated despite himself. “Alright, man,” he said, “alright! You could have just taken some, you know. I just didn’t think you’d want any, is all.”
“That’s right,” Rimmer said, sitting down again, “you don’t think.” He seemed a lot calmer though, and the vein had stopped throbbing. Carefully, he reached out an arm towards the bowl. Lister watched in fascination as the solid hologram picked up a rectangular chuck of apple, and moved it towards his mouth. His lips parted, and the apple disappeared inside. He closed his eyes. Slowly, ever so slowly, a smile spread across his face.
“You know,” Lister said, “I could always play you some Barry Manilow, if you like. You know, if it’ll help enhance the experience.”
“Shut up, Lister,” Rimmer mumbled, but there was no anger in his voice. Only pleasure.
Title: Breakfast
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister (sort of)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don't own Red Dwarf, or any of the characters therein, more's the pity. There's no money in this either.
Notes: Not really slash, I feel, but as it's got some rather kinky descriptions in it, and references to kinky acts preformed by one of our heroes upon the other, I've decided to post it here. Hope you don't mind! The reflection on the ripeness of pears is blatantly, but lovingly stolen from the great Eddie Izzard. Written as part of the fanfic100 challenge - my table is here.
Lister hadn’t been all that hungry this morning, so it had been a light breakfast. A small bowl of corn-flakes with grated onions, a few poppadums with a little dish of vindaloo-sauce to dip them in, orange juice with a hefty sprinkling of Tabasco, a small curried-mutton omelet, and a tall glass of beer milkshake stood before him now, almost entirely finished off. They’d just recently been able to re-stock their supplies, and Kryten was relishing the new culinary possibilities thereby afforded to him. There stood also, because the mechanoid had unfortunately been programmed to not allow human beings to come to harm, even if it was by their own hand, a rather generous bowl of what Kryten referred to as “nearly fresh” - meaning recently defrosted - fruit salad, its pieces arranged in an attractive symmetrical pattern. Seated at the other end of the table was Rimmer, an unreadable look on his face.
Lazily, Lister reached out with one hand, and selected a piece of pear. He held it close to his face for a thorough scrutiny, then shrugged, and popped it into his mouth. “Not quite ripe,” he mumbled between chews. “Those pears are sneaky bastards. You bring ‘em home, leave ‘em out to ripen, and then they turn from rock hard into mulch overnight.”
“Well,” said Rimmer, “I wouldn’t know. We didn’t get a lot of them on Io.” He was sitting quite rigidly, more so than usual, and his hands were in his lap, clasped tightly together. He was looking at the bowl.
“Right then,” Lister said, “I’m ready to face another day of adventure.” He gave the bowl of fruit a critical look, then leaned backwards in his chair, tilting it at a dangerous angle. “Hey, Cat,” he yelled, “you want any fruit?”
The Cat, his hair still in rollers, a blow-drier in hand, stuck his head in and looked at Lister incredulously. “How many times do I have to tell you, bud?” he said in exasperation. “These,” he indicated his rather impressive incisors, “are not for hunting beetroots. Unless,” he reflected, “you’re talking about some kind of animal/vegetable hybrid, like those corn-dogs we found on that tanker last month.”
Lister sighed. “Look,” he said, “I’ve explained about the corn dogs. They’re just called that, they aren’t actual dogs, they aren’t even an animal! In fact, I’m not even sure they make it from anything remotely resembling animals.”
The Cat snorted. “Say what you like, I’m still not comfortable having them on board. Who knows, they might not all have been dead before they were frozen - what if one of them wakes up and tries to kill us?”
“Cat, they won’t kill us.” Lister paused, thoughtfully. “Not unless we try to eat them, anyway.”
“Well fine,” the Cat replied, heading out, “but don’t expect me to come to your aid when you go into the cargo bay for supplies, and one of those things leap for your throat!”
Shaking his head and smiling, Lister turned back to Rimmer, expecting a mocking tirade from his bunk-mate, but Rimmer was just sitting there, watching him quietly.
“Are you going to finish that?” he said, finally.
“Finish what?” Lister was busy looking into the now empty glass of milk-shake, trying to see whether there was any way to get at the last remaining beer-flavored deposits short of sticking his tongue down into it.
“That,” Rimmer said, nodding towards the bowl, “the fruit.”
“What?” Lister said distractedly. “No, I’m not.”
“Then… Could I have some?”
“Eh?” Lister looked up. “What for?”
Rimmer’s brow furrowed. “Well,” he began, “it’s all rather embarrassing, really. You see, I’ve got this weird sexual fetish where I like to stick bits of defrosted fruit up my arse while someone sings the Belgian national anthem backwards. And I already have a disc of “Barry Manilow Sings Europe” rigged up on the special player my bunk, I’d be delighted if you would be so kind as to assist me with the rest.”
Lister’s jaw dropped, but before he could go on Rimmer yelled “I’m going to EAT it, smeghead! EAT. I don’t know, you seem to be rather familiar with the concept.”
“But…” Lister stuttered, “you don’t have to eat. You’re a hologram!”
“No one HAS to eat, Lister. If we wanted to we could all live on small, aluminum colored pills and mineral water, but where’s the fun in that? Now that I’ve finally got a body that can eat, I’d like to ruddy well take advantage of it, thank you very much. I just so happen to like fruit, and I haven’t had any in a very long time, and would it be too much to ask for just one, ONE, smegging piece that you don’t even smegging want?” He had risen from the table, and was now standing, leaning over Lister and almost shouting. His face was red, and a vein on his forehead had started throbbing. The hard-light drive really was amazingly life-like, Lister noted absent-mindedly.
Lister leaned back, intimidated despite himself. “Alright, man,” he said, “alright! You could have just taken some, you know. I just didn’t think you’d want any, is all.”
“That’s right,” Rimmer said, sitting down again, “you don’t think.” He seemed a lot calmer though, and the vein had stopped throbbing. Carefully, he reached out an arm towards the bowl. Lister watched in fascination as the solid hologram picked up a rectangular chuck of apple, and moved it towards his mouth. His lips parted, and the apple disappeared inside. He closed his eyes. Slowly, ever so slowly, a smile spread across his face.
“You know,” Lister said, “I could always play you some Barry Manilow, if you like. You know, if it’ll help enhance the experience.”
“Shut up, Lister,” Rimmer mumbled, but there was no anger in his voice. Only pleasure.