Fic: A Smooth Ride - R - Derek Custer/Male
Oct. 2nd, 2006 11:23 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
kahvi.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
reddwarfslashTitle: A Smooth Ride
Pairing: Derek Custer/M
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don't own Red Dwarf or any other fictional universes except those I create myself, and this is not one of them. The name "Derek Custer" belongs to Grant/Naylor, but the character inspired from it was created by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
roadstergal. I am happy to be allowed to play with him.
Spoilers: None; minor references to Rimmerworld and Back To Reality.
Notes: Written as a gift toroadstergal, who suggested I post it here. Tomb Raider movieverse crossover if you want it to be, but only if you squint. ;)
Derek Custer steered the sleek, red body of the Ducati 999 smoothly into the parking lot of the flood-lit mansion. The vermilion pseduo-leather of his flight-suit, normally quite suitable for riding, had been heated to an almost uncomfortable degree by the radiating heat from the exhaust pipes, which for some reason the designers had chosen to curl at just that particular angle underneath the seat. He couldn't help but wince a little as he slid off the bike, locking it with the system of invisible, self-deploying force-fields he had fitted into the spokes of either wheel. His thighs ached dully as he began to unzip himself with practiced hands, revealing a shining black silk suit, clearly tailor-made to any eye but that of an expert, who would immediately recognize the handiwork of specially trained Tritonite weaving spider-GELFs. His gloves safely deposited along with the rest of his leathers and his bright red helmet in the multi-dimensional pack that took, because of its very nature, virtually no room inside the pocket of his vest, he strode confidently towards the crowds that were already arriving. The shades, he decided, with some degree of smug satisfaction, could stay.
There were, of course, a variety of missions a dimension-jumping, time-hopping intergalactic hero was expected to take on, and an equal variety of enjoyment to be gained from them. Now and again though, Derek Custer felt the need to simply indulge himself. Truth be told, he admitted to himself as he gave the doorman a curt nod and wink (and a nigh-on impossible to notice wad of neatly folded bills straight into his pocket), more than half his missions were motivated at least in part by sheer self-indulgence. And why not, he thought as he entered the spacious ballroom? It wasn't as if he didn't preform a valuable service on ever single one of his adventures. There was always someone to rescue, something to defuse, or some crisis to avoid, end or in some rare cases, aggravate; so what did it matter if Derek's reasons for undertaking a certain mission were not always... should one say... a burning desire for justice and the triumph of good over evil?
He had a weakness. Moving among the laughing, immaculately dressed party guests, Derek considered this weakness, allowing himself to dwell on the myriad other instances where he had allowed it to influence his judgment and decisions. Frankly, in all his years of adventuring, he could not name a single instance in which doing so had resulted in any kind of harm to himself or others. Accepting a glass of champagne from a waiter who gave him a not-too-unsubtle come-hither look, he glanced towards the winding staircase at the back of the room, and smiled. Maneuvering over there was no mean feat, considering the number of guests who felt the need to sidle up to him, intent on striking up an intimate conversation, but Derek was used to this. Soon, he was half-way to the floor above, flirting and hand-kissing his way to the very top of those elegantly carved stairs.
Up here, the crowd quickly thinned to the odd couple here and there, searching for some private place in which to do the things that Derek felt he got to do all too seldom. Adventuring was a busy job, and even when you did rescue a beautiful monster from a raging princess, you all too often had to bring them back before their parents worried. Not nearly enough time for what Derek considered to be a satisfactory romp in the sack, he mused, working his way nonchalantly into the darkness of the disused hallways. Besides, young girls and beautiful monsters were a dime a dozen in this crazy universe. And while Derek enjoyed them happily, and with a healthy appetite, they were nothing compared to that one, irresistible weakness; an example of which was currently residing behind the door just in front of him. He shot an arm out gingerly, and opened it. “Mmpfh!” the tied up figure in butler's clothing inside exclaimed.
“Custer. Derek Custer,” Derek explained with a grin. “Shag now or later?” It was always, he felt, polite to ask.
“In the linen cupboard?” the figure spluttered, once Derek's dexterous fingers had freed him from the gag of fine, monogrammed handkerchiefs.
Derek shrugged. “If ye like. Or we could just get on with the escaping.” He winked. “Shall we?”
The figure nodded, seeming somewhat perplexed. “Look,” he mumbled, as Derek busied himself with removing the remainder of his bonds, “I'm awfully glad to have your help...”
“You are?” Derek interrupted, throwing a pillow-case to the ground to the obvious displeasure of his rescuee. The former captive's face was delightfully familiar; the close-cropped and meticulously tamed curls, the slightly heavy-lidded eyes above an impressive nose with equally impressive nostrils, the latter flaring disconcertingly. The eyes were that fleeting color somewhere between green and brown that was always impossible to entirely pinpoint, and the skin was as pale anything you'd find this side of albinism. The voice, however, was different. Not just the tone, which was confident and polite without the sometimes grating enthusiasm and imposed familiarity of Ace, but the pitch and lack of nasal qualities. This was not Ace, but not quite Arnold Rimmer either.
“Yes, I am, rather,” the not-Rimmer went on, in his oddly dulcet tones. Derek studied him for a moment, wondering what his place was in this universe. It was an odd dimension indeed. “But I'm not entirely sure about this 'shagging' business.”
At least, Derek thought, there were some similarities to all versions of Arnold Rimmer the multiverse over. Smiling reassuringly, he put one arm around the other man, supporting him out of the tight space in which he had been stuck for what must surely have been a rather tedious amount of time. “Don't worry,” he deadpanned, “we'll sort that out later.”
The Ducati hummed happily, as though delighted to have the two men ride it along the roads leading into the nearby city of Liverpool, which in this dimension lay on the North-American continent, which in turn was populated by people speaking a rather interesting dialect close to what was spoken in Australia in Derek's home-dimension. The man seated behind him spoke a clearly enunciated Received Pronunciation, however, speaking succinctly and almost reluctantly, as though slightly suspicious of Derek's motivations. These little observations into geography and linguistics kept Derek's mind busy, and away from the fact that two strong, athletically muscular legs were poised behind him on either side, gripping the bike tightly, and that long, graceful hands were holding on to his sides. He had always felt that motorbikes were rather like sex-toys. The feeling of a warm, vibrating, almost living entity pressed between your legs certainly put thoughts in his mind; thoughts that were not helped by the addition of an equally, but differently warm body pressed against his back. He could feel the man who was not Rimmer try to shout something into his ear, but the combination of their helmets, the engine noise and the wind made it impossible to make out. Instead, Derek merely nodded, and slowed down, looking for a quiet place to stop for a few moments. He could certainly do with some leg-stretching and mind-clearing before moving on.
Derek stopped the bike near a clearing in the somewhat forested area they had been riding through. He remained seated for a while, enjoying the feel of the not-quite-Rimmer's body grinding just a little against his as the other man moved to get off. Removing his helmet and opening the top of his suit, he secured the bike, before walking over to sit next to his rescued... well, neither monster nor princess this time, on a small, grassy hill. He had to be a butler of some sort, Derek decided, taking in the clothes and body language. “You all right?” he asked, hoping the closeness of his position would not threaten the man. You never knew, with Rimmers, alternates or not.
“Yes, thank you; perfectly.” The butler stared into the twilight of the clearing, his eyes wandering from the bike, to the road, and to the dark blue sky, where stars were only just becoming visible. Derek, in turn, watched him watch.
“You never did ask who I was,” he ventured, finally.
The butler shrugged. “You said. Derek Custer.”
Derek chuckled. “Yeah, but that's not much of an explanation, is it?” The butler shrugged again, seeming to avoid Derek's face, although from time to time there was the glimmer of recognition in his peripheral vision. “You know me from somewhere, don't ya?”
There was a pause as the light grew even dimmer, and the chirp of crickets lazily began. “Yes.”
“What was my name? David Lister?” There was no reaction from the other man, who now seemed very preoccupied with his fingernails. “Spanners? Not,” Derek shuddered, “Sebastian?”
“No,” the butler said, quietly, absorbed in his own fingertips now.
“I suppose it doesn't matter.” Like the butler's name, Derek mused. He had not told him, and Derek didn't feel he really needed to know. This was just another universe; another man that was not quite his. He sighed.
“No, it doesn't.” There was a faint smile, somewhat startling to come from those near-immobile lips. And then the butler turned, look barely recognizable as worry showing on his face. “You don't drink, do you?”
Derek frowned. “Just when I feel like it, my man.” Something in way the question had been posed; the inclination of the head, the lost look in his eyes, disturbed Derek a little.
“Ah, right.” The face seemed to fall even further. “You indulge in what life has to offer, I expect?” The words, clearly meant to be light-hearted, were nothing of the kind. Derek felt an overpowering need to cheer the situation up.
“No, Sir; just the alcohol fer me. And the occasional one of these.” He flicked a cigarette from his pocket and back into it again, with a wink. “And the near-constant sexual orgies, of course.” This, to his astonishment, earned a slight blush from his conversation partner.
“Err, right. Well. That's good to hear.” The smile returned, lingering a little now, and he caught Derek's eye for just a moment. They sat there, enjoying one another, and the cool night air for a few moments more, before Derek rose suddenly.
“Right; we best get going again. Liverpool, was it you were going to?”
The butler nodded. “Liverpool.”
Derek nodded in return, wondering if his legs were moving in the right direction. He never could concentrate with those eyes on him. “Liverpool.” Come to that, why were they suddenly that much closer?
“Liverpool.”
“Yes.” Derek sat down on the bike, only half-conscious of his own hand on the zipper of his flight-suit, as the other man sat down... In front of him? No, that wasn't right; it would never be safe to ride like that.
“Yes.” The butler shrugged out of his jacket, folding it, and hanging it neatly from the handlebars behind him. Derek swallowed, sliding his own suit off as quickly as he could manage; leaving only the black silk ensemble underneath. The butler's suit was grey; a nicely dark, silvery gray, with a deep blue tie to set it off. It certainly set Derek off, as the butler's hands reached out for him, sliding underneath his jacket.
“I'm not him,” Derek mumbled, noting the feral look in the eyes approaching him.
“I'm not who you are looking for either,” came the hushed reply, as a tongue nearly as agile as his own licked the underside of Derek's chin, “but that doesn't seem to stop you.”
“No,” Derek admitted, feeling hands on his chest, his arms, sliding clothes off, caressing skin. Hands batted away at his as he tried to return the favor; his blurry mind barely registering the removal, folding and neat putting aside of various garments that in all its neatness still managed to seem urgent and frantic, as silk brushed against silk. And when he was allowed, finally finally, to leap across and slide his tongue down the other man's chest, he could have sworn he heard a faint, choked sound that was almost a sob.
Strong, lean hands held him tight by the buttocks, pulling him towards its owner, urging him closer still, and Derek obliged, licking harder as he approached his goal. And when he did, reaching underneath neat, starched underpants, sliding his hands against firm thighs, there really did come sobs; soft, crying, plaintive. Derek stopped, worried, but was pushed back to his task again quite firmly. It had been far, far too long, and he swallowed the erection presented to him whole, sliding up and down at a pace he knew would make any Rimmer come within nanoseconds, but somehow this one didn't. This was new, and not a little bit exciting, and Derek laughed happily in between mouthfuls; relishing this difference.
Soon, however, he found himself pushed backwards with a growl, hands pushing at his own underwear, pulling it down and descending upon his own erection with a fervor that near startled him, or would have if he'd had any mental processing power left after the assault on his senses this was. The bike, not dead as much as dormant, the possibility of movement, strength and power almost tangible under that cool, red skin, pushed at his back as an eager mouth sucked at his front, and it very nearly ended there, for Derek at least. The only thing keeping him from orgasm was sheer force of will, and the pride he took in always letting his partner's pleasure come first. Be that as it may, from that moment on, everything was a tangle of lips and hands and limbs sliding, grinding against limbs; eyes rarely meeting eyes before that final surge of pleasure that seemed to come to them both at the same time. And so, all too soon, it was over.
They dressed in silence, and re-mounted. The term stuck in Derek's mind as something funny, and he giggled quietly as they settled on the bike and rode off. Trees, then houses and billboards rushed past them as they neared their destination, the stars out in force above them now. The butler's breath warmed Derek's neck as he seemed to hug him tighter mile by mile. Now and then lips would brush against that little spot of skin between jacket and helmet, but Derek didn't shudder. When they reached the outskirts of the city center, he found a reasonably empty parking-lot, depositing his passenger like so much dirty laundry. It didn't usually go like this, he mused. There was generally bickering, followed by hours of pain-staking cajoling and persuasion, something he had honed to rather an artform. Then the sex, and if they had time, some more of it later on. There were never sobs; never quiet, peaceful rides in the dark, never quiet moments in forest clearings. Sighing, Derek shook the butler's hand without getting off himself. Well, his ever-punning mind reminded him, once a night was fair enough, really. “Hope the ambassador's cronies weren't too hard on ya, old boy!”
The butler smiled. “Oh, I expect I'll survive. My employer is picking me up in a few hours time. She would have assumed I had escaped on my own; I'll never hear the end of this.”
Derek nodded. “Not new to this adventuring business then, are ye?”
An unexpected giggle, eerily like his own, escaped the butler. “Hardly.” He tilted his head, as though looking at Derek from another angle might yield further information. “If I ask you where you're going, will I regret it?”
“If I tell ya I'm going to my interdimensional time-travelling space-ship, will ye believe me?”
The butler shrugged. “Probably not. Why? Is it the sort of thing you would be likely to say?” There was a glimmer of something in his eyes, and Derek grinned broadly in return.
“Nah. I'll just be off then.” Revving the engine, he gave a relaxed salute. “Be seeing ya, gorgeous.”
By the time the bemused butler even had time to consider a reply, the other man was long gone. He remained there, for a while, waiting for his pager to give those five, accustomed rings, watching the disappearing dot that was this man called Derek Custer. “Have a smooth ride,” he mumbled, into the horizon.
As though on cue, his pager began to beep.
Pairing: Derek Custer/M
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don't own Red Dwarf or any other fictional universes except those I create myself, and this is not one of them. The name "Derek Custer" belongs to Grant/Naylor, but the character inspired from it was created by
roadstergal. I am happy to be allowed to play with him. Spoilers: None; minor references to Rimmerworld and Back To Reality.
Notes: Written as a gift to
roadstergal, who suggested I post it here. Tomb Raider movieverse crossover if you want it to be, but only if you squint. ;)Derek Custer steered the sleek, red body of the Ducati 999 smoothly into the parking lot of the flood-lit mansion. The vermilion pseduo-leather of his flight-suit, normally quite suitable for riding, had been heated to an almost uncomfortable degree by the radiating heat from the exhaust pipes, which for some reason the designers had chosen to curl at just that particular angle underneath the seat. He couldn't help but wince a little as he slid off the bike, locking it with the system of invisible, self-deploying force-fields he had fitted into the spokes of either wheel. His thighs ached dully as he began to unzip himself with practiced hands, revealing a shining black silk suit, clearly tailor-made to any eye but that of an expert, who would immediately recognize the handiwork of specially trained Tritonite weaving spider-GELFs. His gloves safely deposited along with the rest of his leathers and his bright red helmet in the multi-dimensional pack that took, because of its very nature, virtually no room inside the pocket of his vest, he strode confidently towards the crowds that were already arriving. The shades, he decided, with some degree of smug satisfaction, could stay.
There were, of course, a variety of missions a dimension-jumping, time-hopping intergalactic hero was expected to take on, and an equal variety of enjoyment to be gained from them. Now and again though, Derek Custer felt the need to simply indulge himself. Truth be told, he admitted to himself as he gave the doorman a curt nod and wink (and a nigh-on impossible to notice wad of neatly folded bills straight into his pocket), more than half his missions were motivated at least in part by sheer self-indulgence. And why not, he thought as he entered the spacious ballroom? It wasn't as if he didn't preform a valuable service on ever single one of his adventures. There was always someone to rescue, something to defuse, or some crisis to avoid, end or in some rare cases, aggravate; so what did it matter if Derek's reasons for undertaking a certain mission were not always... should one say... a burning desire for justice and the triumph of good over evil?
He had a weakness. Moving among the laughing, immaculately dressed party guests, Derek considered this weakness, allowing himself to dwell on the myriad other instances where he had allowed it to influence his judgment and decisions. Frankly, in all his years of adventuring, he could not name a single instance in which doing so had resulted in any kind of harm to himself or others. Accepting a glass of champagne from a waiter who gave him a not-too-unsubtle come-hither look, he glanced towards the winding staircase at the back of the room, and smiled. Maneuvering over there was no mean feat, considering the number of guests who felt the need to sidle up to him, intent on striking up an intimate conversation, but Derek was used to this. Soon, he was half-way to the floor above, flirting and hand-kissing his way to the very top of those elegantly carved stairs.
Up here, the crowd quickly thinned to the odd couple here and there, searching for some private place in which to do the things that Derek felt he got to do all too seldom. Adventuring was a busy job, and even when you did rescue a beautiful monster from a raging princess, you all too often had to bring them back before their parents worried. Not nearly enough time for what Derek considered to be a satisfactory romp in the sack, he mused, working his way nonchalantly into the darkness of the disused hallways. Besides, young girls and beautiful monsters were a dime a dozen in this crazy universe. And while Derek enjoyed them happily, and with a healthy appetite, they were nothing compared to that one, irresistible weakness; an example of which was currently residing behind the door just in front of him. He shot an arm out gingerly, and opened it. “Mmpfh!” the tied up figure in butler's clothing inside exclaimed.
“Custer. Derek Custer,” Derek explained with a grin. “Shag now or later?” It was always, he felt, polite to ask.
“In the linen cupboard?” the figure spluttered, once Derek's dexterous fingers had freed him from the gag of fine, monogrammed handkerchiefs.
Derek shrugged. “If ye like. Or we could just get on with the escaping.” He winked. “Shall we?”
The figure nodded, seeming somewhat perplexed. “Look,” he mumbled, as Derek busied himself with removing the remainder of his bonds, “I'm awfully glad to have your help...”
“You are?” Derek interrupted, throwing a pillow-case to the ground to the obvious displeasure of his rescuee. The former captive's face was delightfully familiar; the close-cropped and meticulously tamed curls, the slightly heavy-lidded eyes above an impressive nose with equally impressive nostrils, the latter flaring disconcertingly. The eyes were that fleeting color somewhere between green and brown that was always impossible to entirely pinpoint, and the skin was as pale anything you'd find this side of albinism. The voice, however, was different. Not just the tone, which was confident and polite without the sometimes grating enthusiasm and imposed familiarity of Ace, but the pitch and lack of nasal qualities. This was not Ace, but not quite Arnold Rimmer either.
“Yes, I am, rather,” the not-Rimmer went on, in his oddly dulcet tones. Derek studied him for a moment, wondering what his place was in this universe. It was an odd dimension indeed. “But I'm not entirely sure about this 'shagging' business.”
At least, Derek thought, there were some similarities to all versions of Arnold Rimmer the multiverse over. Smiling reassuringly, he put one arm around the other man, supporting him out of the tight space in which he had been stuck for what must surely have been a rather tedious amount of time. “Don't worry,” he deadpanned, “we'll sort that out later.”
The Ducati hummed happily, as though delighted to have the two men ride it along the roads leading into the nearby city of Liverpool, which in this dimension lay on the North-American continent, which in turn was populated by people speaking a rather interesting dialect close to what was spoken in Australia in Derek's home-dimension. The man seated behind him spoke a clearly enunciated Received Pronunciation, however, speaking succinctly and almost reluctantly, as though slightly suspicious of Derek's motivations. These little observations into geography and linguistics kept Derek's mind busy, and away from the fact that two strong, athletically muscular legs were poised behind him on either side, gripping the bike tightly, and that long, graceful hands were holding on to his sides. He had always felt that motorbikes were rather like sex-toys. The feeling of a warm, vibrating, almost living entity pressed between your legs certainly put thoughts in his mind; thoughts that were not helped by the addition of an equally, but differently warm body pressed against his back. He could feel the man who was not Rimmer try to shout something into his ear, but the combination of their helmets, the engine noise and the wind made it impossible to make out. Instead, Derek merely nodded, and slowed down, looking for a quiet place to stop for a few moments. He could certainly do with some leg-stretching and mind-clearing before moving on.
Derek stopped the bike near a clearing in the somewhat forested area they had been riding through. He remained seated for a while, enjoying the feel of the not-quite-Rimmer's body grinding just a little against his as the other man moved to get off. Removing his helmet and opening the top of his suit, he secured the bike, before walking over to sit next to his rescued... well, neither monster nor princess this time, on a small, grassy hill. He had to be a butler of some sort, Derek decided, taking in the clothes and body language. “You all right?” he asked, hoping the closeness of his position would not threaten the man. You never knew, with Rimmers, alternates or not.
“Yes, thank you; perfectly.” The butler stared into the twilight of the clearing, his eyes wandering from the bike, to the road, and to the dark blue sky, where stars were only just becoming visible. Derek, in turn, watched him watch.
“You never did ask who I was,” he ventured, finally.
The butler shrugged. “You said. Derek Custer.”
Derek chuckled. “Yeah, but that's not much of an explanation, is it?” The butler shrugged again, seeming to avoid Derek's face, although from time to time there was the glimmer of recognition in his peripheral vision. “You know me from somewhere, don't ya?”
There was a pause as the light grew even dimmer, and the chirp of crickets lazily began. “Yes.”
“What was my name? David Lister?” There was no reaction from the other man, who now seemed very preoccupied with his fingernails. “Spanners? Not,” Derek shuddered, “Sebastian?”
“No,” the butler said, quietly, absorbed in his own fingertips now.
“I suppose it doesn't matter.” Like the butler's name, Derek mused. He had not told him, and Derek didn't feel he really needed to know. This was just another universe; another man that was not quite his. He sighed.
“No, it doesn't.” There was a faint smile, somewhat startling to come from those near-immobile lips. And then the butler turned, look barely recognizable as worry showing on his face. “You don't drink, do you?”
Derek frowned. “Just when I feel like it, my man.” Something in way the question had been posed; the inclination of the head, the lost look in his eyes, disturbed Derek a little.
“Ah, right.” The face seemed to fall even further. “You indulge in what life has to offer, I expect?” The words, clearly meant to be light-hearted, were nothing of the kind. Derek felt an overpowering need to cheer the situation up.
“No, Sir; just the alcohol fer me. And the occasional one of these.” He flicked a cigarette from his pocket and back into it again, with a wink. “And the near-constant sexual orgies, of course.” This, to his astonishment, earned a slight blush from his conversation partner.
“Err, right. Well. That's good to hear.” The smile returned, lingering a little now, and he caught Derek's eye for just a moment. They sat there, enjoying one another, and the cool night air for a few moments more, before Derek rose suddenly.
“Right; we best get going again. Liverpool, was it you were going to?”
The butler nodded. “Liverpool.”
Derek nodded in return, wondering if his legs were moving in the right direction. He never could concentrate with those eyes on him. “Liverpool.” Come to that, why were they suddenly that much closer?
“Liverpool.”
“Yes.” Derek sat down on the bike, only half-conscious of his own hand on the zipper of his flight-suit, as the other man sat down... In front of him? No, that wasn't right; it would never be safe to ride like that.
“Yes.” The butler shrugged out of his jacket, folding it, and hanging it neatly from the handlebars behind him. Derek swallowed, sliding his own suit off as quickly as he could manage; leaving only the black silk ensemble underneath. The butler's suit was grey; a nicely dark, silvery gray, with a deep blue tie to set it off. It certainly set Derek off, as the butler's hands reached out for him, sliding underneath his jacket.
“I'm not him,” Derek mumbled, noting the feral look in the eyes approaching him.
“I'm not who you are looking for either,” came the hushed reply, as a tongue nearly as agile as his own licked the underside of Derek's chin, “but that doesn't seem to stop you.”
“No,” Derek admitted, feeling hands on his chest, his arms, sliding clothes off, caressing skin. Hands batted away at his as he tried to return the favor; his blurry mind barely registering the removal, folding and neat putting aside of various garments that in all its neatness still managed to seem urgent and frantic, as silk brushed against silk. And when he was allowed, finally finally, to leap across and slide his tongue down the other man's chest, he could have sworn he heard a faint, choked sound that was almost a sob.
Strong, lean hands held him tight by the buttocks, pulling him towards its owner, urging him closer still, and Derek obliged, licking harder as he approached his goal. And when he did, reaching underneath neat, starched underpants, sliding his hands against firm thighs, there really did come sobs; soft, crying, plaintive. Derek stopped, worried, but was pushed back to his task again quite firmly. It had been far, far too long, and he swallowed the erection presented to him whole, sliding up and down at a pace he knew would make any Rimmer come within nanoseconds, but somehow this one didn't. This was new, and not a little bit exciting, and Derek laughed happily in between mouthfuls; relishing this difference.
Soon, however, he found himself pushed backwards with a growl, hands pushing at his own underwear, pulling it down and descending upon his own erection with a fervor that near startled him, or would have if he'd had any mental processing power left after the assault on his senses this was. The bike, not dead as much as dormant, the possibility of movement, strength and power almost tangible under that cool, red skin, pushed at his back as an eager mouth sucked at his front, and it very nearly ended there, for Derek at least. The only thing keeping him from orgasm was sheer force of will, and the pride he took in always letting his partner's pleasure come first. Be that as it may, from that moment on, everything was a tangle of lips and hands and limbs sliding, grinding against limbs; eyes rarely meeting eyes before that final surge of pleasure that seemed to come to them both at the same time. And so, all too soon, it was over.
They dressed in silence, and re-mounted. The term stuck in Derek's mind as something funny, and he giggled quietly as they settled on the bike and rode off. Trees, then houses and billboards rushed past them as they neared their destination, the stars out in force above them now. The butler's breath warmed Derek's neck as he seemed to hug him tighter mile by mile. Now and then lips would brush against that little spot of skin between jacket and helmet, but Derek didn't shudder. When they reached the outskirts of the city center, he found a reasonably empty parking-lot, depositing his passenger like so much dirty laundry. It didn't usually go like this, he mused. There was generally bickering, followed by hours of pain-staking cajoling and persuasion, something he had honed to rather an artform. Then the sex, and if they had time, some more of it later on. There were never sobs; never quiet, peaceful rides in the dark, never quiet moments in forest clearings. Sighing, Derek shook the butler's hand without getting off himself. Well, his ever-punning mind reminded him, once a night was fair enough, really. “Hope the ambassador's cronies weren't too hard on ya, old boy!”
The butler smiled. “Oh, I expect I'll survive. My employer is picking me up in a few hours time. She would have assumed I had escaped on my own; I'll never hear the end of this.”
Derek nodded. “Not new to this adventuring business then, are ye?”
An unexpected giggle, eerily like his own, escaped the butler. “Hardly.” He tilted his head, as though looking at Derek from another angle might yield further information. “If I ask you where you're going, will I regret it?”
“If I tell ya I'm going to my interdimensional time-travelling space-ship, will ye believe me?”
The butler shrugged. “Probably not. Why? Is it the sort of thing you would be likely to say?” There was a glimmer of something in his eyes, and Derek grinned broadly in return.
“Nah. I'll just be off then.” Revving the engine, he gave a relaxed salute. “Be seeing ya, gorgeous.”
By the time the bemused butler even had time to consider a reply, the other man was long gone. He remained there, for a while, waiting for his pager to give those five, accustomed rings, watching the disappearing dot that was this man called Derek Custer. “Have a smooth ride,” he mumbled, into the horizon.
As though on cue, his pager began to beep.
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Date: 2006-10-02 11:29 pm (UTC)Weaving spider-GELF love.
Great details of the Bond-like antics at the party. I see a cross between Craig and Clive Owen.
Adventuring was a busy job, and even when you did rescue a beautiful monster from a raging princess, you all too often had to bring them back before their parents worried.
*giggle*
Shag now or later?
Oh dear.
throwing a pillow-case to the ground to the obvious displeasure of his rescuee
Love.
The feeling of a warm, vibrating, almost living entity pressed between your legs certainly put thoughts in his mind
Oh, indeed!
This was just another universe; another man that was not quite his.
*sigh*
The whole symptoms-of-Hillary-looking-for-someone-else - love. And the echoing Liverpool.
it would never be safe to ride like that.
*snicker* It's perfectly safe to ride like that. Just don't start the bike.
The bike, not dead as much as dormant, the possibility of movement, strength and power almost tangible under that cool, red skin, pushed at his back
Yum.
depositing his passenger like so much dirty laundry
*sigh*
no subject
Date: 2006-10-03 12:22 am (UTC)I remain happy that you liked it - it was fun to write. I learned things. :)
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Date: 2006-10-03 06:15 am (UTC)The shades, he decided, with some degree of smug satisfaction, could stay
Something about that sentence is just lovely.
Mmm, folding clothes is sexy (or perhaps I'm just loosing it). That was a bit sad, but still delicious.
no subject
Date: 2006-10-03 08:13 am (UTC)I think it's the idea of Hillary doing it, especially Hillary doing it during sex. Well, it is for me, anyway. I certainly don't get off on doing housework normally!
Thank you - glad you enjoyed it. :)
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Date: 2006-10-06 06:36 am (UTC)But yes. Lovely. You managed to convey all the differences of all the different Listers and Rimmers and in betweens, and that sense of longing that seems to soak into them all. Plus, Ducatis are hot.
no subject
Date: 2006-10-10 10:03 am (UTC)Thank you. Yes, there is a certain sense of longing, isn't there? Odd how well a science fiction comedy show lends itself to romance. Glad you enjoyed it!