reddwarfslash | Fic: The Opposite - R/L

Title: The Opposite
Rating: R, for sex and mature themes
Warnings: Mild D/s, implied dub-con
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister
Disclaimer: I do not now, nor have I ever, owned Red Dwarf. Nor do I make any money from this fannish venture.
Spoilers: Stoke me a Clipper
Beta: The ever-delightful

smaych
Notes: Written for

madlovescience.

This one wasn't anything special. Maybe that was it.

Sometimes, though he never stopped seeking them out, Rimmer got to the point where just the sight of a Listerine face or body made him retch. There were just too many; all too similar, all too different. Sometimes, he'd sit in the back of the cramped Wildfire cockpit, bury his face in his hands and just cave in on himself, blocking the world away until it was just him.

Just him, and this too-real body made of light.

Sometimes he bit his skin to see if it would bleed, though of course it never did. Chunks of hard-light flesh fell away from him in absurdly glittering chunks, self-healing along the way. At least it hurt. At least it killed time between missions of grandiose heroism.

Anyway; this Lister wasn’t any different from the rest, and yes, that probably was exactly what made Rimmer’s stomach clench when he looked at him, made him wrap his hands around that scrawny – far too skinny, this one – neck, and squeeze until he stopped resisting, stopped breathing, all his attention focused on Rimmer’s face, and then, then, Rimmer would allow him just a quick, breath of air.

The thing was; they never resisted.

He kept one hand around the Lister’s neck, just as a warning; a reminder, and allowed him to get down on his knees, watched him fumble with the fasteners on the Ace-suit’s bulky trousers. Rimmer could dissolve them in the blink of an eye, of course, but this wasn’t about convenience.

They got this ridiculous look in their eyes; that was part of it. They’d look up at Rimmer, just as they were sliding the head of his cock past those always-plump lips, and Rimmer would be forced to slap them, so they’d look away. This one did too, of course. It took two slaps to make him see sense, and concentrate on what he was doing.

Discipline. That’s what they lacked; the lot of them.

There was no real pattern to which ones Rimmer picked, but he did know this; not one of them had ever refused him. Not so much as batted an eyelid. As this one took him in, from tip to root, running thick, lazy fingers over his balls in careful little patterns, Rimmer tried to concentrate; remember what the last one had been like, and how this one was different, but all he could see was dark, filthy locks and sameness. Rimmer groaned, yanking at those dreadful, matted things, shuddering when the Lister, rather than yelping, or biting, or pulling away in disgust, simply whimpered, and kept at it, going deeper, harder.

“Pervert,” Rimmer hissed at him, spittle flying. “You… get off on this… don’t you?”

The Lister didn’t reply. Rimmer tightened the grip on his throat, and felt an echoing tightening in his groin. This shouldn’t feel good. He shouldn’t… oh, that twonking slut was looking at him again!

“Don’t you smegging look at me, you pervy… goiting…” Rimmer felt it then; that slow, inevitable slide towards towards the edge of the cliff, and then the fall – free, delirious, knowing he would crash to the ground at the end of it, but giving in and enjoying it anyway, and hating himself for it. He pulled himself out of the Lister’s mouth with an audible ‘smack’, still leaking, blue sparks falling to the floor in lieu of fluid.

He could feel moist, brown eyes on him, even as his ship left the bay.

That one hadn’t been anything special. None of them were.

That was the thing.