Fic: Bootlicker
Fic: Bootlicker
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister
Rating: R
Summary: Rimmer's always been something of a bootlicker, but when he starts fantasizing about Lister's boots, he gets worried. Boot porn. Pre-series, with a coda that takes place after Series X.
Notes: More of a vignette, really. Many thanks to horselizard/fecklesheckleshacklesschmeckles for beta reading.
It was normal, he told himself, that he sometimes had the urge to lower himself to hands and knees and lick those shiny black boots worn by Todhunter or Robertson, or even that Kochanski tart that Lister was always going on about. They were his superior officers. It was only natural that he would want to abase himself before them, prove his respect for their authority. Odd then, perhaps, that he'd never had the urge in relation to Captain Hollister, but he didn't dwell on that.
It was all perfectly normal.
Perfectly normal, that is until he started to fantasize about Lister. Lister, his grubby, smeggy goit of a bunkmate. Lister, who ranked even lower amongst the crew than he did. Lister, who took every opportunity to undermine his authority. Lister, who never even bothered to polish his regulation boots, the git. And yet Rimmer found he wanted to lick every inch of those scuffed things, until they gleamed the way they were supposed to.
(At least he hadn't descended to fantasizing about those horrific Day-Glo orange monstrosities Lister had picked up on Titan, he comforted himself.)
If he had stopped there, he might have been able to tell himself that he only wanted to clean the filthy boots (with his tongue, his mind rudely insisted), but he hadn't. Once his tongue felt raw, and his jaw began to ache, and the black leather was shining with his saliva, he'd move up, plying his tongue in long stripes, up strong calves and sturdy brown thighs, Lister's skin warm and spicy under his tongue. He wondered idly why Lister would be wearing boots with no trousers, but couldn't be bothered to be thinking of that at a time like this. He would reach the edge of those threadbare cotton boxers, still moving ever upwards, but Lister's hand would grip his hair, pulling him to meet his mouth, pressing inside for the taste of leather still on Rimmer's tongue …
He came violently, biting down on his fist to muffle the sounds. Sticky, breathing hard in the stillness of the darkened room, he listened. Above him, Lister snorted a little and turned over, his snoring resuming almost immediately, almost reassuring. What had he been thinking? Lister was disgusting. It would never happen again.
Except of course, how it did.
---
Many years later (more than three million, in fact), Lister will pass his mechanical engineering course, making him the highest rank on board Red Dwarf.
Rimmer, reading at the console table, will be surprised when his now-superior-officer enters the bunkroom, wearing boxers and boots (gleaming, he will notice), and little else. Where exactly had Lister picked up on that fantasy, he will wonder, embarrassed, grateful and turned on in equal measure.
"Well, Rimsy," Lister will grin, parking himself in front of the startled man, "Shouldn't you be cleaning these for me?"
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister
Rating: R
Summary: Rimmer's always been something of a bootlicker, but when he starts fantasizing about Lister's boots, he gets worried. Boot porn. Pre-series, with a coda that takes place after Series X.
Notes: More of a vignette, really. Many thanks to horselizard/fecklesheckleshacklesschmeckles for beta reading.
It was normal, he told himself, that he sometimes had the urge to lower himself to hands and knees and lick those shiny black boots worn by Todhunter or Robertson, or even that Kochanski tart that Lister was always going on about. They were his superior officers. It was only natural that he would want to abase himself before them, prove his respect for their authority. Odd then, perhaps, that he'd never had the urge in relation to Captain Hollister, but he didn't dwell on that.
It was all perfectly normal.
Perfectly normal, that is until he started to fantasize about Lister. Lister, his grubby, smeggy goit of a bunkmate. Lister, who ranked even lower amongst the crew than he did. Lister, who took every opportunity to undermine his authority. Lister, who never even bothered to polish his regulation boots, the git. And yet Rimmer found he wanted to lick every inch of those scuffed things, until they gleamed the way they were supposed to.
(At least he hadn't descended to fantasizing about those horrific Day-Glo orange monstrosities Lister had picked up on Titan, he comforted himself.)
If he had stopped there, he might have been able to tell himself that he only wanted to clean the filthy boots (with his tongue, his mind rudely insisted), but he hadn't. Once his tongue felt raw, and his jaw began to ache, and the black leather was shining with his saliva, he'd move up, plying his tongue in long stripes, up strong calves and sturdy brown thighs, Lister's skin warm and spicy under his tongue. He wondered idly why Lister would be wearing boots with no trousers, but couldn't be bothered to be thinking of that at a time like this. He would reach the edge of those threadbare cotton boxers, still moving ever upwards, but Lister's hand would grip his hair, pulling him to meet his mouth, pressing inside for the taste of leather still on Rimmer's tongue …
He came violently, biting down on his fist to muffle the sounds. Sticky, breathing hard in the stillness of the darkened room, he listened. Above him, Lister snorted a little and turned over, his snoring resuming almost immediately, almost reassuring. What had he been thinking? Lister was disgusting. It would never happen again.
Except of course, how it did.
---
Many years later (more than three million, in fact), Lister will pass his mechanical engineering course, making him the highest rank on board Red Dwarf.
Rimmer, reading at the console table, will be surprised when his now-superior-officer enters the bunkroom, wearing boxers and boots (gleaming, he will notice), and little else. Where exactly had Lister picked up on that fantasy, he will wonder, embarrassed, grateful and turned on in equal measure.
"Well, Rimsy," Lister will grin, parking himself in front of the startled man, "Shouldn't you be cleaning these for me?"