Author: Roadstergal.
Title: Ache.
Censor: R.
Pairing: Implications of Rimmer/Lister.
Commentary: Please. roadstergal@gmail.com
Disclaimer: They don’t belong to me, and I make no money off of them.
Note: This is a followup to Kahvi's Blue.
Rimmer huddled against the backboard of his bed, punching his boxing gloves against one another. The pillows, sad bags insufficiently full of desultory stuffing, squished out of his way as he pressed against the reassuringly firm wood. The mere thought of reassuringly firm wood made the unreassuringly firm wood in his trousers twitch, and Rimmer glared at it. The facial contortions involved in what his rather high standards considered a good glare brought a great deal of pain with them. He pulled off the gloves and started to prod, gently, at his face. His left eye was very tender, most likely black; his nose wiggled in a worryingly loose way between his fingers, releasing new trickles of warmth that he hoped was blood over the congealed lump of stickiness beneath it that he very much hoped was blood. His lower lip was split in two places, each swollen to what felt like a grotesque size.
After so many years of feeling nothing aside from himself and the unsatisfying, sawdust-like food and drink that Holly used to simulate for him until he became sick of it (the novelty rather than the actual sensation being the appeal of the same dull nothing-drinks on the Enlightenment), it was astonishing to feel anything at all. He was absurdly grateful even to feel the rather significant amount of pain the kerfuffle had caused. He found himself prodding at the black eye a little more, then running his hand down and pinching where Lister's teeth had broken his skin. The aching in his crotch increased the more he prodded at the aching in his face and shoulder, and he suddenly stopped as he realized that there was a certain connection occurring. He flopped his head back, and it contacted the headboard with a clonk that made stars appear. He groaned. What the hell was he doing? What was wrong with him? Three million years and change without feeling anything, and he was about ready to thank Lister profusely for beating the shit out of him! And was about ready to thank him by... No, he had not. It had been a fit of madness, nothing more. Rimmer bit his relatively undamaged upper lip and desperately tried to think unsexy thoughts about Lister. He tried to bring to mind, in vivid detail, the way the other man would chew his toenails, lifting his foot to his mouth, snapping the jagged end off in his teeth, then turning with it still stuck between his lips, a drooping half-moon of deceased keratin, and spitting it to flop in a sad little curl on Rimmer's bunk. He tried to think about the way Lister would grab a piece of curried meat between engine-grease-stained fingers and lift it to his lips, leaving a vivid trail of sauce splatters running along the table, up his shirt, and to his mouth, where he would masticate with his mouth open, saliva and curry squishing out between his teeth for the disgust of all. He thought about the godawful banshee wailing that Lister laughingly called playing the guitar - and that was a very, very bad idea, because it lead to the almost orgasmic delight Rimmer felt as he smashed the offending hunk of wood against the wall, and that lead to the dull thud-thud of Lister punching him over and over, and that lead to the metallic taste of blood in his mouth as he kissed Lister, his tongue tasting the remains of telekinetic wine still lingering in the other man's mouth, Rimmer's mind turning its taste to that of blood, as well, and that lead to the almost orgasmic agony of Lister's teeth crunching through his hard-light flesh...
Rimmer groaned again as his erection began to protest his neglect of it. He raised his head and looked at it, and the bloody hard-light clothing that responded all to well to his mental state disappeared. He stared at the offending member and pondered. He had wanked as a soft-light hologram, rather a lot - after all, when all you can touch is yourself, your entertainment options are somewhat limited. It had always been as dull an experience as eating hologrammatic food had been, however, and if his hard-light body was truly just as sensitive and real as his real body had been - and it had so far proven to be - this activity was likely to be incapacitating. But the agonizing ache was currently incapacitating, and he was going to have to try this out eventually, he was sure - and before he had quite mentally prepared, his hand had reached down and grabbed his erection, and began to move. He pushed his head back against the headboard and squeezed his eyes shut, making rather pathetic whining noises through his teeth at the intensity of the sensation. He tried to think about something appropriate as he twiddled his head with his thumb and tightened his encircling hand, sliding his other hand down to massage his balls - McGruder growling at him, Kochanski bending over to pick something up off of the ground, that time that the fire alarm had sounded when he was fixing the sink in the women's shower room, and a full shift duty had come pounding out of the shower, starkers - but his erection had taken control, and insisted on thoughts of Lister's hands on his body, sliding and gripping, of his teeth puncturing Rimmer's shoulder in sensual agony. Rimmer came in what was, even for him, record time, with a noise that might have been 'Geronimo' if it were not spat through tightly clenched teeth in the middle of a groaning wail. He heaved out a few more groans as the station swam in a disconcerting fashion around him.
He opened his eyes, finally, and took a deep breath. He wiped his sticky hands on the coverlet, noting a bit too clinically that the come disappeared in pale blue sparks as soon as it left his hands, just as his blood had. His blood. He suddenly froze and looked at the wall in front of him. If it had been thin enough for him to hear Lister's pathetic attempts at tuning through it...
He pulled on the overstartched pajamas that were folded neatly next to him; they slid over his skin with all of the delicate smoothness of carbolic soap. He put on the boxing gloves and folded into a semi-fetal position, looking at the door with no small amount of dread.
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