reddwarfslash | Vignette: "Setting the Scene" - R/L

Title: Setting the Scene
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I don't own Red Dwarf, or any of the characters thereof. I make no money from this.
Spoilers: Stoke me a Clipper
Notes: I'm working on Dear John, but I've hit a narrative snag. I offer this as a snack to nibble on meanwhile. Erm... so to speak.

All of it, Rimmer decided; it was all of it. The way he would whimper almost inaudibly, like he wasn't even aware of it, then collapse to his knees. The way he would cling to Rimmer's legs to keep himself upright; the warm, insistent breath on Rimmer's crotch, and then... and then, the soft, whispered "please..."

Rimmer would take off his belt himself, looking carefully straight ahead, knowing the sight below his waist would undo him, utterly. Then, slowly, still not looking, Rimmer would unzip his flies and pop open the top button, feeling hands tightening their grip on his upper thighs, hearing haggard, nearly wheezing breaths. Then he would look down, allowing himself the luxurious sight of gaping, full lips and wide, brown eyes staring at his cotton constrained erection like it was some sort of holy relic.

Then, almost reverently, strong hands would pull Rimmer's underpants down just far enough, and then there would be more whimpers; sighs of desperation, and then those lips and wild wetness would be on him; surrounding him gloriously, sucking him in with famished intensity.

Rimmer would come immediately of course, pulsing into that ever-giving mouth which didn't pause for an instant; still sucking and licking, and taking all of him in; all of him. Rimmer would firm again almost instantly - a trick he'd picked up after death; in life, it had taken him a good half-minute - making the dizzy waves of pleasure almost continuous. Waves they were; now a dull, comfortable background hum of pleasure, now a rising tide of want, now a cascade of aching need; all of it circling, falling over the edge again and again like herds of angry lemmings.

It could not last indefinitely though, and when, at last, Rimmer would look down and notice one hand sneaking off, freeing a solid, flushed brown member from its own confines and wrap around it urgently; that would be the end of it. A few more frantic minutes, and that warm mouth shivering, swallowing as the body it belonged to convulsed in its own climax, then lingering to lick Rimmer clean, softly. Tenderly.

The clerk's metallic fingers tapped at the desk impatiently, and Rimmer realized his mouth was gaping open, stupidly. He shut it, blinking, and cleared his throat.

"Well?" The clerk hissed. Its voice was inhuman, but bored impatience is a universal language.

Rimmer swallowed, examining his chewed down fingernails. "I'm not sure I could put it into words, actually."

Grunting, the clerk pressed a button. "Standard scenario, then. That'll be $£120 for the first hour, fifty more per extra half-hour."

Scratching his head, warm and uncomfortable under the wig, Rimmer shook his head. "I'm not sure I'm in the mood for AR, actually." To the clerk's disgusted snorts, he turned and walked back to the Wildfire.