Categories > TV > Red Dwarf > Forwards0 Reviews
The plusses and minuses of Rimmer's new projection.
He kept his eyes closed for a moment, relishing that. He could feel that the bench was cold and hard. No faith in this fact was required. All of the way down its back, it impressed its cold and hard nature into him.
"Arn?" Holly's voice asked.
"What?" he asked, feeling... smegging euphoric.
"You all right, there?"
Rimmer opened his eyes, seeing her impassive face staring down at him from a monitor across the room, and Kryten's slightly worried, angular excuse for a face staring down right next to him. "All right?" He tasted the idea, getting off of the bed carefully, very carefully. Edges and surfaces under his legs. His hands gripping the cool plastic. Feet making contact with the floor. Complete, utter, smegging bliss. His first two steps were stumbles, and he grabbed Kryten's shoulder plate to stay upright, thrilling at the feel of smooth plastisteel under his hand. He grabbed Kryten's syntho-skin face between his hands, rubbing up and down, to Kryten's visible consternation. "I feel fansmeggingtastic!" he bellowed, pressing a kiss to Kryten's quivering, chilly, jelly-rubber lips. He ran out of the medibay, laughing like an idiot and not caring. Behind him, Holly's voice floated - "Oh, hell."
Rimmer ran to his quarters. Ran! Jolts of deck against his feet! He touched wall panels as he ran by, just feather touches. Anything more would be too much! He wanted to lick the Door Open switch, but hit it with the heel of his hand, running into the room and standing in the middle, his brain singing a mantra - whattotouch, whattotouch, whattotouch? He ran over to the far wall, stroking it, running his fingers up and down the ragged seam, edges catching at his fingers. He felt the sensual bulge of rivets against his fingers. He... yes, what the hell. He licked it. Bitter metal and grime and grease and smeg knows what else - a banquet for a sense-starved tongue. Oh, god, yes, he thought as he licked it again; smeg, yes! He ran to the little kitchenette, shivering as he pulled the cabinet's handle, and took down a glass. He held it between his hands for a moment, stroking it, relishing its glassy tactile nature, before filling it with water.
The door hissed open again. "Oi, smeghead." Even Lister's sullen teenagerish voice could not dampen Rimmer's mood. He lifted the glass, sniffing the faint non-scent of water, then took a gulp. Water flowed down his throat, smooth, clean, cold - he was in paradise. Smegging paradise. He turned, putting his back against the wall - sensation, impossible sensation! - and took another sinful, decadent gulp of water. He finished the glass, then held it in his hands, feeling the glass between his palms, panting for a reason that had nothing to do with air. The smooth, slick miracle of glass! He rubbed it in his hands, gripping it tightly.
"Eh... I guess..." Lister looked doubtfully at Rimmer, then at the glass in his hands, noting what must be an incredibly stupid expression of bliss on Rimmer's face. Rimmer didn't care. The rest of the world could go to Hades on a motorbus. He could feel! He gripped the glass between his hands, tighter, tighter, until it shattered, fragments digging into his palms with intense, sharp pain. He looked down at them, blood running freely from the cuts, fading to nothing as it dripped off of his hands. This pain, too, was sensation, and he marveled at it.
"Oh, eh!" Lister yelped. "What the smeg are you /doin'/?" He ran forward, grabbing Rimmer's hands and forcing them apart and upwards. He grabbed the right one with his left hand, picking the shards of glass out of it with his own right hand.
Rimmer started to shiver in earnest, wracking, body-wide shivers. Lister's hands. They were something more than metal or glass or syntho-skin. The warmth, texture, vitality, pulsating blood, all sang a symphony of physical sensation that was far too loud for him. He pressed himself against the wall, trying to halt the shudders.
"Oi! What the smeg is up with you, you tosser?" Lister asked in exasperation, as Rimmer's hands shook along with the rest of him. Now finished with the right hand, Lister grabbed Rimmer's left hand, more tightly, and started to pick the glass out of it. Rimmer looked at those hands, mesmerized. Stubby, short fingers with chewed-to-the-quick nails. Warm. Soft. Had his Lister's hands been like this? How could he have been so cavalier? Had he just so utterly and completely forgotten? He started to whimper, cringing at the sound but powerless to stop.
Lister looked up, startled. Whatever he saw in Rimmer's face, it made him drop Rimmer's hand and slowly back away. Too slowly. Rimmer reached out and grabbed Lister's cheeks between his hands, stroking them, leaving streaks of bright red that faded to nothing as his hands fell away. Too much. An excess of sensation, that softness, those lines! But Rimmer's hands felt cold and naked, and so he reached out and grabbed Lister's cheeks again, kneading, rubbing, running his fingers over Lister's nose, his eyelids, his short wiry hair, his too-soft-too-sensual lips. Rimmer lunged forwards, pushing his own lips against Lister's, and Lister's mouth opened almost immediately. Rimmer was whimpering in earnest, now, almost whining like a kicked cur, rubbing Lister's face far too hard, sticking his tongue into Lister's mouth to taste nicotine and lager and not-brushed-teeth, but it was magnificent! He felt horniness at this, but it was just one small part of his overwhelming sense of finally and too long without/. Lister was feeling horniness, some part of his mind observed, as the other man - no, the /boy - grabbed Rimmer's buttocks and pulled, hard, squeezing, and ran his tongue inside of Rimmer's mouth, bumping Rimmer's tongue as if to knock it out of his way.
They shook and staggered, locked in a bizarre wrestling match, each trying to open the other's mouth wider with his own tongue, grabbing and tearing at clothing. Lister seemed to have a bit more of an idea of where he was going than Rimmer, and the backs of Rimmer's knees bumped against his bunk. Ah, less than an hour ago, that sensation would have been enough to push anything else out of Rimmer's mind, but other sensations were rapidly falling into a place of decreased importance next to skin and stubble and teeth and sweat. Lister grabbed Rimmer low on the buttocks and heaved, landing on top of Rimmer as Rimmer landed on the bunk, clonking his head against the wall. A moment of dizziness resolved into Lister straddling him awkwardly, shirt on, trousers shoved down to his ankles, which were crossed atop Rimmer's pushed-together legs. Lister had a feral, almost angry, expression on his face as he grabbed Rimmer's hands and put them on his own cock - uncircumcised, Rimmer noted, not like his, as he slipped the foreskin down with one hand, hardly able to believe the slickness of the skin, the precome that skated his finger over the head. The bumps and veins were a feast for Rimmer's too-long-incorporeal hands, and he stroked up and down, hard, hand over hand, lubricated by his own blood, faster and faster. A trickle of drool made its way out of the corner of his mouth. Lister threw his head back, moaning, as he came. His come dribbled over Rimmer's hands, and Rimmer put them to his mouth and started to lick. Salty? Bitter. Tangy, with his own blood mixed in.
Rimmer forgot about taste for a moment as Lister ripped his red trousers open and pulled out his cock. The boy stroked it twice, then lowered his head, tongue out. He appeared to change his mind, however, and bit Rimmer's cock, quite hard. Sensation being sensation, and Rimmer being overstimulated, he came, thrashing about on the sheet as Lister fell back to avoid his flailing limbs. Rimmer's wildly waving hands finally grabbed the blanket like an anchor of sanity, caressing its cool roughness. His rational mind returned as his shudders quieted, his hands still gripping the blanket tightly, and that rational mind took in the situation, aghast. Shirt and trousers ripped open, hands bloody, Lister's come and his own rapidly drying to a sticky crust on his stomach, drool sliding down the corner of his mouth. He licked up the drool and shut his mouth with a snap, struggling to a sitting position that was not nearly dignified enough to make up for... well, everything else. Certainly not Lister standing beside the bed, tugging his trousers back up, looking almost as aghast as Rimmer felt. Boy, Rimmer had thought during the... the.. whatever they had just done, and it hit him right between the eyes as the /boy/, no more than sixteen and a half, stared back at him, wide-eyed. Rimmer swallowed.
"You..." Lister licked his lips, and his face fell back into its sullen teenage glare. "I'm not your Lister," he spat. He turned, stalking to the door, and slapped the Door Open switch. "Pervert," he blew over his shoulder, like smoke from one of his vile cigarettes. The word floated its stinking way through the air to Rimmer as the door closed, and Rimmer lay back on his bunk, inhaling it, not trusting himself to loose his grip on the blanket. His body paid no attention to the fact that he had enough sensation, for now, and sang its song of itchy blanket and cool air and /sticky semen/.
Perhaps the thwippps hadn't been so unbearable, after all.