Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first guy that walks up to him is a portly middle aged man in a dapper suit.

Lister is leaning against the cold brick wall of an alleyway opening, fag hanging out his mouth as he takes his first break of the night, and he stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets to keep them warm. The Hopper he'd stolen tonight was parked just behind him, fair out the way of the road and parked in shadow even though he knows for a fact no coppers come down here anyway. It's a good scheme he's got going on, all things considered, even if the money to get off Mimas is still tight and slow coming—-at least it is coming. In varying bursts of highs and lows, sure, but still, it's better than nothing. Driving someone down the street or three blocks away still makes him dollarpounds, and doubly so since he's the only (fake) cabbie this side of the city.

Real stroke of genius, that one.

Some might say it's quite literally highway robbery, but is it really robbery if the people still get what they need to go? Lister doesn't think so. It's supporting the Little Man, is what it is. He's like the equivalent of a Mum and Pop shop with a good cause, and that cause is getting back to Earth. Really, what else was he meant to do? You need a permit to work on Mimas, and to get a permit you needed money, and to get money you had to work, which you couldn't do without the permit that costed money in order to work. It was all one big smeg-around that did his head in something terrible — he didn't even have a passport to his name (not unless he'd changed it to Emily Berkenstein during the blackout from Earth to Mimas, anyway), let alone the smegging $800 Dollarpound it costs to buy a ticket! It weren't his fault that Mimas was so stressful he couldn't help but visit the pubs to try and drink some of the distance and difficulty away, all the money he'd made seeming to go down the drain by the end of the week either by the bottom of a pint or the end of a knife.

Still, it was better than nothing. It was…okay.

Alright, maybe a little below okay, more like fine. Just fine.

Listers about halfway through his smoke and only 1/25th through his existential & financial considerations when a man wearing a deeply outdated bowler hat ambles over to him, covertly looking up and down the street. The Scouser watches him through squinted eyes.

"Good evening," The guy says kindly, a bit out of place for this side of town, but then Lister guesses that's the appeal - being out of place means you're somewhere you don't normally go. "How are you doing this fine night, if i may?"

Lister plucks the fag from his lips and blows the smoke out the corner of his mouth. "Alright. Can I help you?"

The stranger has one hand congenially tucked in his pocket while the other rests over his belly, looking a bit bashful as he glances to Lister, a blush on his cheeks. He's got a solid, trimmed beard that hides it pretty well coupled with the shadow of the hat, and the greying hair on his head is still thick and well groomed. Definitely too good for this side of town. Dubious, Lister takes another puff of his cig. The man lowers his voice conspiratorially.

"I'd quite like to spend the night with you, if that's amendable."

Lister coughs and almost spits his fag out.

He quickly grabs the cigarette from his lips and covers his mouth with the back of his hand as he splutters, bolting up from against the wall as threadbare billows of stringy smoke spill around his hand. When Lister regains the proper use of his lungs, he looks up with wide eyes and finds his expression matched on the mans faced. Lister clears his throat.

" …Yeah, I don't actually do…that. I'm not, erm, in, — that line of work, you see. Sorry."

The man pales and looks aghast, the hand over his stomach clenching in the nice fabric of his waistcoat. He even pulls his other hand from his pocket, as if to really show his guilt. "Oh good heavens, I'm so sorry! Oh god."

Listers face splits into a grin, shaking his head as he holds his cig up again but doesn't take a drag, just licks his lips. "Nah guy, don't worry. You're in the right spot for it, I don't blame you a bit, you'd just have more luck going up that way," Lister gestures up the street, grin still in place, "And asking one of the gents up there. That's the street you want, ey? All red-light an' all that."

The man still seems horribly embarrassed but takes it on the chin and apologises again, wishing Lister a good night and dutifully walking where he'd been told to go with an embarrassed stride. He seems nice enough, Lister hopes asking the wrong bloke doesn't ruin his night.

The Scouser laughs to himself as he leans back against the brick wall again, shaking his head in mirth and bringing the cig back up to his lips. It was bound to happen eventually—smeg, it's a miracle it hasn't happened sooner. Honestly, he's a bit chuffed someone thought he was worth paying for…at least, he assumes he was worth paying for, or else that was a very brazen come-on from out of nowhere. Lister wonders how much the guy would've given him; he seemed well dressed, well groomed. Nice enough. Might've forked out a pretty penny for the pleasure of his company.

Lister blows the smoke out in a fan shape.

Listen, it's not that he's above it, it just…also hadn't been his first thought. Probably would have made more money than stealing a new buggy every few nights and taxiing it around, but then Lister didn't just get in to bed with people for the hell of it - well, not usually anyway. There had to be something he liked, something human that hooked him. A pinball smile on an average face, a strange laugh you could pick out of a crowd, something he would inexplicably latch onto and go mad for. It wasn't absolutely necessary, but what was the point of doing anything at all if it weren't for the fun of it? And a good shag, above all, should be fun.

Lister takes a drag as another man walks down the opposite side of the street. He's got short crew-cut hair and a green bomber jacket, and he slows down just slightly as they both take each other in, but Lister turns his head away in clear dismissal after a brief moment. Nah, he thinks, smoke trailing from his lips, the cigarette between his fingers nearly a nub, bit boring.

Lister considers some more.

Just one can't hurt, he rationalises, Don't knock it till you try it, right? He likes sex and he likes money, it's a win-win. Plus, he's got a pretty mean right hook if he does say so himself, so if he needs to throw anyone out on their arse, he will, and gladly. Its just as Lister takes a final draw from the cigarette and tosses it onto the wet road, toeing it with his boot, that the third man he's seen since his break approaches him.

Lister glances up briefly as he grinds the orange filter into the tarmac, exhaling the last of the smoke, and then does a small double take when he realises the guy is walking straight at him and has stopped a couple feet away.

They stare at each other for a moment.

This new guys nothing like the old new guy. He's lanky, for one — tall and wrapped in a dark navy blue officer's coat with a belt that seems practically wrenched around him, hands fiddling in the pockets they're shoved down. His shoulders are nice and broad despite the stressed line of them and the way they seem to hike up around the guys ears the longer the silence goes on, and most interestingly, he's got a — a fake moustache on. A really chunky cop one that's not only entirely out of place on his narrow face, but is also slanting off to the side as if to really drive home that it doesn't belong there. The rest of his face is pinched and tight, but Lister doesn't think he's nearly as old as the first guy, and if Lister had thought that guy was red, this one was absolutely blazing. His entire face, even coveted in shadow, is bright red.

Lister slowly puts his hands back in his pockets and straightens up.

"You gonna stare all night, or are you actually gonna come an' talk to me?"

The man stutters in place in an incredible feat of human expression — like despite being the only other person in the alleyway and actively staring at Lister from a foot or so away, he didn't actually expect him to speak — and hesitantly takes a few steps closer. He keeps his head tilted down, eyes nervously flicking all over the place, and Lister can see now the obvious disparity between the jet black fake-stache and the mousey red-brown of the man's real hair, faintly backlit by a nearby streetlight. A grin tries creeping onto his lips but Lister forcibly tampers it down, lest he start laughing in the poor fella's face and give neither of them a chance to figure out what they're doing. Considering Listers the only one to have said anything so far, he doesn't know if this guys a John or not, but dressed like that? He could make an educated guess.

"You looking for something, officer?" Lister asks lightly, still a bit undecided about the whole affair himself.

The man jumps like he's been zapped and his face turns even redder if at all possible, practically burning up. He straightens up and seems to drag some false bravado over himself before sniffing haughtily and lifting his head.

"I am," He says in a way that sounds like he's putting on a 'tough guy' voice, but hasn't actually decided what that sounds like yet, "I'm looking for..company."

Lister nods. "Company, eh? What kind?"

The guy blinks.

"Uhm…the usual kind?" He sounds thrown even by his own response, like Lister had gone off script, and the macho voice dies with his apparent uncertainty. Lister shrugs.

"Some people just wanna talk, you know. Take a walk around the block and vent. Others just wanna be held, just have a good cuddle, like. And the rest, well…that's a bit more expensive, you see."

He smirks, feeling quick on his feet with the whole thing. It's not wholly a lie — sometimes people do just jump in the cab to talk, and even if they don't do it expressly for that reason, he still usually ends up as a wall for people to bounce off. He doesn't mind, honest. It can be kind of fun getting the gossip on things he's not even remotely involved in, and when it isn't fun, Lister just reminds himself he's getting paid for it and hums with as much interest as he can muster for the fourth time in a row. Either way, if he does go through with this, which has increasingly good odds the longer he entertains it, it won't really be a lie then, will it? He really will be a prostitute, or whatever title he so pleases. Strumpet could be quite fun to say, especially if he rolled the r.

The 'officer' deflates a little under the options, like he'd though this was a very one-way track — and maybe it is, Lister wouldn't know considering he hasn't actually done this before — but then it seems neither has the other man. His stranger puffs his chest up again and juts his chin out even as the moustache sits crooked on his face.

Surely he can feel it, can't he?

"The third kind," The guy says firmly in that ridiculous voice, looking at Listers forehead instead of his eyes, brows scrunched up on a red face. "Definitely the third kind. That's what I want, the — the third kind of thing."

Lister grins. "The third kind? that one?", just really making sure.

"Yup. That."

The Scouser considers the man for a moment, his weird behaviour and strange outfit, but surprisingly finds it isn't setting off any alarm bells in his head. It probably should, by all rights, but there's something so pathetic about the whole display, he can't help but entertain it. Maybe it's the intrigue — of the man, of the night, of the fact that Listers considering this at all. He eyes the shoes, the beige hem of pants sticking out the bottom of the coat, the way the guy stands like he's chained in front of a firing squad. The fake moustache that is absolutely going to fall off his face if it doesn't just slowly inch its way down to his neck like a live caterpillar first.

Lister idly nods. "What's your name?"

The man thinks for a moment.

"Todhunter. Christopher Todhunter. Superior officer."

Lister nods again, not believing it for one second.

"Not cheap," He says, rocking slightly on his heels, "Half now, half later."

The hands that had been anxiously fiddling in wool pockets suddenly fumble out of their constraints, and then 'Todhunter' is opening a brown leather wallet with Arnold J Rimmer, Bsc Ssc emblazoned on the side. Lister looks down at the black glinting road beneath his feet and pretends to scratch his nose, hiding the feral grin on his face. It's comical, is what it is. If nothing else, this'll be a good laugh.

Christopher - Arnold - Rimmer, holds a folded wad of dollarpounds out.

Lister tampers his smirk and glances up at the guy as he takes the offering, counting the cash himself.

"Is that enough?" The inconsistent macho voice is gone again, replaced with genuine nerves.

Lister stares at the money in his hands. $250 dollarpounds just right there, his for the taking, with the promise of another $250 after. Thats more than he's sometimes made in a whole week. That'll cover well over half the cost of his ticket, and if he can charge John's that much on principle, he'll be out of here faster than he can say vindaloo. Smegging hell, why didn't he think of this sooner?

"Yep," Lister croaks out, tucking the money into the interior pocket of his leather jacket, "That'll do, Rimmer, that'll do. Where d'ya wanna do this?"

His gentleman caller looks dismayed at the prospect of even more options tonight.

"I don't know, shouldn't you have somewhere? A room, perhaps?"

"Yeah, about that…technically I'm off duty," Lister looks sheepishly at him, lying through his teeth but genuinely feeling a little bad, "So me rooms not…available, to me right now. I got a Hopper just there though, plenty of space."

Rimmer looks dubious. "If you're off duty, why are you doing this? And also you expect me to — wait!"

A rigid finger gets pointed at him accusingly.

"What did you call me?"

Lister grins cheekily at him, affixing his best innocent tone. "What, officer?"

"Oh don't play coy with me, miladdo! You can't one-up old Todhunter, no sir! Where'd you even get that from, eh? How ridiculous! Rimmer! What's that even supposed to mean? Never heard something so absolutely absurd in my life — I tell you one thing, and you say the complete opposite! Shows what's what on Mimas, I tell you! "

"It's written on the side of your wallet, guy."

Rimmer freezes for a moment, hands paused in the air, and then he quickly draws in on himself like he's packing away the infinite expansion of the tirade he was on, immediately & swiftly ceased by mild opposition. He sucks his lip in, visible even under the giant moustache slowly turning vertical on his face.

"Ah. Right. Yes I guess that is on there, isn't it."

Lister can't help but laugh, a real good chuckle that has him grinning from ear to ear at the way Rimmer immediately conceded defeat, and he shakes his head.

"You're proper weird, you know that?"

Rimmers face twists up and he shuffles in place, fists balled in his officers coat, and Lister thinks calling clients weird is probably in the Prostitution 101 handbook of what not to do; it's not his fault though, he is! But at least its the kind that makes him laugh, and he's getting paid, so. Could be worse, all things considered.

"Luckily for you, I like it. Come on, big man, step this way."

Lister nods his head to the Hopper in the alley and starts ambling his way towards it, leather boots striking the asphalt in a cock-sure swagger. He never goes far from his stolen cab, all too aware that since he stole, it can be easily stolen from him too. He always keeps it in his sight during his breaks, and has had to shout a tough 'Oi!' once or twice when some smegheads went up to it with a wire, but tonight, it'll be getting a different use.

He cracks open the rear door to the mildly spacious back-seat. It's not as grand as a bed, but the leather seat is wide and the footspace is bigger than that of a cars. It's not the best, he'll admit, but then he guesses Hoppers weren't really made with this in mind, so. They've both got to take what they can get.

"You want a leg up?"

Rimmer looks at him, affronted.

"A leg up? I'm taller than you! Do yooou want a leg up?"

"Nah," Lister grins, grabbing a hold of the singular 7 inch railing welded to the side, "But if you just want an to excuse to touch me, promise I won't mind."

He swings himself up and into the cabin, leaving Rimmer stuttering on the road, and shuffles across the seat so the other man has space to follow suit. Lister watches as Rimmer grabs the hold and puts his foot in the step-up into the cabin, ducking his head as he slides into the back seat. He settles heavily on the leather, and Lister reaches over him to pull the door shut, then leans over the console of the Hopper and locks the doors from the driver's side command panel with a comforting click. With that done, the Scouser sits back on the wide leather booth and silence finally descends around them, marred only by the occasional soft scuffing of fabric on leather.

Lister inhales.

"Erm….right, let's crack on. How'd you want to do this?"

"I'm paying you," Rimmer says haughtily, his hands white-knuckling his knees, "Shouldn't you, I don't know…know?"

"Right," Lister bites the corner of his lip, deciding to treat this like any old hook-up, "Tell you what, let's start slow. Give us your hand."

He shuffles a bit closer, still a slight gap between them, and holds his hand out to Rimmer. The officer, if indeed he is one (which Lister severely doubts) looks between his face and his upturned palm a few times before reluctantly loosening the death grip on his knee and cautiously taking Listers hand. Lister brushes his thumb lightly over pointed knuckles, and then more steadily when he feels how cold Rimmers hand is despite being shoved in his pockets for 2/3rds of their conversation. Lister rubs the back of his hand more thoroughly for a moment and then locks it properly with his own, palm to palm, fingers wrapped around fingers, in an effort to warm him up.

"You're freezing, man."

Lister slides closer, his other arm propped up on the top of the back seat, folded between them, and he lies their conjoined hands on his thigh with truly no motive other than having somewhere to put it. Rimmer's eyes shut tightly for a moment before opening again.

"S'a good thing you got me here then, eh, Rimmer? I'll warm you up, doll, don't you worry 'bout that."

The endearment slips out accidentally, used to being uttered in clubs and pubs when he was on the lamb, but Rimmer makes a small, pathetic sound, one that's muffled behind tight lips, and Lister feels strangely compelled to hear it properly. He halting leans in, brushing his nose against the side of Rimmers face, the barest whisper of lips gracing chilled skin.

"Can I?"

Almost before he's even finished saying it, Rimmers nodding, so Lister presses a gentle kiss against the side of his face, then another, and then another still. Rimmer stops breathing beneath him, clutching at his hand. Lister goes slowly, treating it almost like he was flirting with a chick at the club, pressing kisses to the height of the other mans cheek then further up near the corner of his eye, back down to the hollow of his cheekbone, the scar on his jaw, feeling the corner of that comically fake moustache tickle his own face. Lister smiles into the next one, holding back an exhale that could be considered a laugh, because he's a gentleman like that.

The arm folded between them snakes along the headrest of the back seat until he's got it hooked around Rimmers shoulder, the both of them now practically pressed side to side, and he idly trails his way through the short curls at the side of Rimmers head. They're just barely long enough to start curling around his ear, and he can feel individual coils wrapping around his fingers and springing back when he moves on. Rimmers hand squeezes his and he exhales shakily, leaning into the touch.

That's a start, Lister thinks, a bit chuffed. I'm pretty alright at this sex worker stuff.

He continues pressing kisses into one side of Rimmers face, and on the other side, his hand discreetly makes its way closer to that fake shag carpet of a moustache on his upper lip. Lister cups his jaw as best he can with his arm wound round Rimmers neck, thumbing over the skin, and risks shifting up to rub just under a plush bottom lip, making Rimmer gasp lightly and open his mouth just a touch, so reactive, and then—

Lister grabs the corner of the fake moustache, the one that's tilting and sinking like the Titanic, and yanks it off in one sure peel.

Rimmer doesn't seem to know what's hit him for a moment, dark eyes that had at some point closed snapping open as the hand that had been balled up on his knee suddenly flies to his face, feeling around for the lack of hair. Listers still holding it in his other hand.

"Oi!" Rimmer says indignantly, "You can't just— rip people's moustaches off!"

"Sure I can. At least when they're stuck on, at any rate."

They both eye the cheap strip of black hanging from Listers pinched fingers before he flicks it into the footwell, Lister at the very least not sad to see it go. He looks back to Rimmer, seeing the man's face properly for the first time, unobscured by the sinking time bomb of a disguise, and grins.

"There we go," The arm around Rimmers shoulders tightens a bit and Listers hand goes back to cupping his jaw as he takes in the pleasant features of his face, "Knew you were fit under that smeg."

"You can barely see me," Rimmer says, and the Scouser doesn't know if it's a lament or a comfort, but either way he reaches blindly for the press-lights above the door and turns one on with a soft click, lighting the back cabin in a warm glow.

He really is a handsome man. Quite pretty, honestly, all delicate-like but with a strong set to his face. A narrow nose on a narrow face, but with round cheeks and a soft jaw, soft lips. His eyes have a deep set to them that seems more emotional than physical, and Lister wonders just who this bloke really is.

"There," The Scouser says for the second time in so many minutes, hushing his voice as he leans in slowly with a hand still on the press-light, the hazy atmosphere lending itself to treating this like any other shag, "I can now unequivocally say, with absolute certainty, that you are fit, Arnold J Rimmer."

He kisses the surprise off Rimmers face, pressing the light again to plunge them into semi-darkness, and brings his hand back down to the man's neck to hold and guide him. He finally let's go of the other hand entwined with his on his thigh and lightly rubs it over Rimmers arm before slipping it around his waist, using it to pull them closer. He can feel himself start to warm up in a way that has little to do with heat, though he's sure they'll be making enough of that soon enough. Listers always liked kissing, could and has spent literal hours tonguing people in pubs, whiling away the time in the sweet bliss of connection. Nothing needs to be said, nothing done, just exchanging intimacy minute by minute, literally sharing breath, and ignoring everything else.

Rimmer kisses like doesn't really know what to do, so Lister guides him best he can. He's trying, he is, it's just that his trying feels like he's tryna kiss a wall. Lister gentles him, pulling back and nipping at his lips, absorbing the positive reaction, and then ducks back in to take the lead. He grabs at the navy coat under his hands, a trim waist wrapped in the choke hold of a belt, and feels around for the buckle.

"Jacket?" Lister speaks into his lips and Rimmer nods, his body turning towards the Scouser, another hand blindly joining the search for the buckle. They manage to find and untie it in a mess of fingers and then Listers sticking a hand inside and opening up the coat, pushing the lapels away as he grabs for the man's waist again, starched cotton meting his fingers. He breaks the kiss to look down at what Rimmers wearing; a crisp beige shirt tucked into tented crisp beige pants, with a crisp beige square-end tie perfectly knotted at his collar.

It shouldn't surprise him, really. Lister tucks a smile under Rimmers jaw, electing to kiss at his neck instead of making a quip about any possible favourite colours he has.

He can feel Rimmers pulse jump beneath his lips, and the hand that had aided him in the Quest Against the Buckle is banished back to a beige thigh. Lister mumbles into his throat.

"You can touch, you know. I don't bite…much."

He lightly, ever so lightly presses his teeth right under Rimmers ear in jest, and the man moans for the first time that night, a breathy little thing almost right in his ear, and the hand he'd sent to isolation is suddenly springing to grip Listers leather jacket.

Very interesting, that.

Lister bites down with a little more force—still soft, nowhere near anything serious, and Rimmer bares his neck to him a little more, uselessly pulling on his the leathers.

Lister thinks they should probably get this show properly on the road, hes got a job to do after all, and starts drawing himself up onto the seat, much to Rimmers confusion. He slings a leg over the guys hips and starts sliding into his lap, settling heavily on crisp beige pants, and Rimmers hands fly to his waist, clutching in a death grip. He looks up at Lister and swallows, eyes wide.

"Good?" Lister mumbles as he wraps his arms around the guys neck, lifting himself up slightly and settling in closer, mindful of the roof of the Hopper.

Rimmer nods, mute, and stares at Lister like his whole world is being rocked.

"Brutal."

With that, Lister starts to rock his hips slowly, grinding in way he'll admit he's not wholly familiar with doing himself. He's fooled around with a couple blokes before, but those were mostly shuffles in a bathroom stall or a blowjob before sleeping the night off and scampering away the next morning, not getting it on for $500 Dollarpounds worth of sex in the back of a Hopper, so he's doing the best he can, alright? Imitating how chicks grind on him, kissing Rimmer senseless as he does so, hoping he's not smegging it up.

He can't feel much through the seat of his leathers - he can feel something, that's for sure, but the warmth and sensation is sort of lost on the thick fabric, so he rolls a bit into Rimmers stomach too, giving himself something extra to press against. It's not exactly difficult to get hard when you've a decent guy beneath you acting all shy-like, and he's not doing too bad if the breathless, hitching sighs being kissed into his mouth are anything to go by, the fingers clutching at his waist making the leather of his jacket crease.

The hips beneath his hesitantly push up, rolling with him, and even though it doesn't really do much for Lister himself, he's got the feeling old Arnie has some real complex issues in that brain of his, so he purposefully moans into the next kiss to encourage him. It seems to do the trick as Rimmer thrusts up to meet him more enthusiastically on the next grind, moaning softly between kisses as he starts pulling Lister further into his lap, guiding him more bodily where he needs it, bolstered by the reaction.

"That's it," Lister mumbles into warm skin, trailing open-mouth kisses across Rimmers cheek as the man breathes harshly in his ear, "Show me where you need me, doll."

Another slip of the tongue and Rimmer is suddenly arching under him, going taught against the worn leather seats in the back of the Hopper as he grinds tightly up against Listers leather-clad arse, face screwing up with the sputtering 'gagh!' sound wrenched from his lips. He rides it out for a moment, holding them both aloft, before dropping back onto the seat in a huff, and then they sit there in silence as he catches his breath.

"…did you just-"

"Smegging smeg, smeg!"

Rimmer turns his face away towards the window, angling it down like he could somehow hide despite being pinned by Lister, and the Scouser can see that his eyes are wound tightly shut, lips twisted in a frown no one should have on their face immediately after coming. He'll be the first to admit he didn't quite expect that, but if he were being honest…he's a bit chuffed, really. A good stroke to the ego when he hasn't even taken off the guys kecks yet but he's already creamed himself.

"Hey, hey, s'alright," Lister brushes Rimmers temple with a hand, and he didn't expect a shag he's being paid for to feel so— tender. Maybe it's the money that makes him more considerate. "You're alright, yeah? I want to make you feel good, ey Arnie? And that felt good, didn't it?"

Rimmer doesn't respond in any way for a moment, and Lister feels for the first time that night vaguely unsure about how to proceed, but then he's jerkily nodding his head and inhaling sharply through his nose, affixing that false bravado over himself.

"You're right. That's why I'm here. That's why I - I paid you. Am paying you."

Listers belly tightens in an unpleasant way for a reason he doesn't know, but he acts like he's heard those words a lot as the seasoned prostitute he supposedly is.

"Exactly. Now do you want more, or have had you had enough? It's all good by me."

He quickly tacks that last bit on, already getting a sense for the type of paths Rimmers mind walks. Lister sits stock still in his lap and waits.

It only takes a few seconds before Rimmer glances back up at him,inhaling deeply with a determined look on his face. Its intriguing, if nothing else, the way he swings between false bravado and utter humiliation - gets smacked down only to bounce right back up in a fit of forced confidence, tightening the bolts up on his armour to hide the shame beneath. What a strange guy, like an open book that's desperately trying to shut itself.

"More. Definitely more."

"You sure?"

"Yup. Completely and utterly. Absolutely."

Lister squints at him but concedes, wondering if Rimmer's like this with every lay.

"Alright…c'mere then."

He brings Rimmer into a slow kiss, returning them to more familiar ground, and gently tries to get back into the swing of things. His cock is still mostly soft, buts he's not too worried cause he knows once they really get into it, it won't take him long at all, so he just starts lightly grinding on Rimmer again, testing the waters.

He is, somehow, still hard underneath Lister.

"Smeg, just how many times can you go?"

That might be another thing in the Prostitution 101 handbook of what not to do: incredulously ask your John how many times he can come after blowing a load in his pants, but Listers genuinely taken aback. Sure he can go a few rounds himself, but his prick needs a bloody break in between. Rimmer seems ready to go straight to the next one.

"I-I don't know! I haven't counted," Comes the high pitched reply.

Lister snorts. "Yes you have, everyone has. C'mon, what is it? Two? Three?"

Rimmers face is practically smoking with how beet-red it is, but still, he holds his chin aloft in a facsimile of confidence and mumbles a response.

"What was that?" Lister leans in closer.

"Four."

"Four? Smeg that's hot."

Lister kisses him harshly, cutting off whatever ridiculous remark Rimmer was about to make, and decides to switch things up. He uncoils an arm from around Rimmers neck and sticks it in between them instead, shifting his hips back a bit so he can reach under himself and grab Rimmer through his pants. The effect is immediate; Rimmer moans loudly into his mouth, a deliciously shocked thing Lister swallows down as he feels him up through his beige slacks. He gently massages him through the cotton, pressing his palm softly against the head and making Rimmer jerk up into his hand. Lister own cock jumps in response. The Scouser backs off pretty quickly, aware now just how fine of a line they walk, though maybe with one orgasm already under his belt Rimmer might last a little longer now.

He licks his lips.

"Can I suck you off?"

Rimmer gapes at him like a fish out of water, soundless, and then starts nodding concerningly fast, his lithe hands fumbling uselessly with his own belt in a pathetic way that seems inherent to the man. Lister calmly puts his own over the frantic fingers, stilling them, and with a little botched finesse manages to sink off the seat and end up crammed between surprisingly sturdy thighs. He's caged in, but it's not unbearably claustrophobic—the footwell is still bigger than that of a cars, meaning while it's not an easy fit, it is still a fit, and they're right next to the Hopper door anyway so he can swing that open for some space if he really wants. The navy blue officers coat is still parted down the middle and frames Rimmers body quite nicely from down here, the dark line sandwiching the tan stripe of his uniform.

Lister gently moves Rimmers hand away from his buckle and places it on the nape of his own neck, brushing his locs aside, then moves Rimmers other hand to his leather-clad shoulder. He undoes the twill belt himself, gently pulling it loose of the clasp and letting it sit open as he teases a beige fly down an equally beige zip. Rimmer's holding his breath above him. There's a small damp patch on the fabric, lined up perfectly with the unceasing tent of beige pants, and then Listers reaching in to perfectly white boxers and wrapping a hand around Rimmers prick, skin to skin for the first time that night.

He's wet, is the first thing Lister thinks, and the thought sends a hot flash straight down his gut and through his cock, making it perk up against his leathers. The hands on him tighten and Rimmers boots anxiously shuffle on the carpeted floor next to Listers knees as he makes a choked sound.

Lister draws him out, looking at the pink glistening mess of a twitching cock in his hand, still covered in its own spend.

What the smeg, he thinks as he leans forward, getting to work on cleaning Rimmer up, I've put worse in me mouth.

His tongue cradles the tip first, and that's about all the warning Rimmer gets before Listers taking him in further, bobbing down on his perfectly average, pretty cock, trying to be mindful of his teeth. Rimmer shouts, and Lister only goes down the once — pausing when he's got a solid mouthful and waiting for Rimmer to ease back from the line he knows he's just thrown him dangerously close to. The hands at his nape and shoulder are clutching hard to him, and it's in absolute contrast to Listers own hands which are splayed casually over sharp hips, holding him still. Lister makes them sit there, warming Rimmer as he tries not to rock his own hips, and though there's not much to grind against in the footwell anyway, he desperately, desperately wants to. Lister inhales through his nose and gently exhales, closing his eyes as he sinks a little lower, nose practically nestled in the thatch of curls at the base of Rimmers prick. He's warm and wet and thick on Listers tongue, and the hands on him tighten and then forcibly loosen. He can hear Rimmer making a concerted effort to breathe normally above him.

Good enough, Lister thinks, and starts slowly bobbing his head. He pulls back, right back until he can suck gently on the tip, and then bobs down again. It's saltier than it usually is, but he chalks that up to the previous orgasm still coating Rimmers cock, and the taste lessens and changes as he bobs up and down, making lurid wet sounds in the back of the Hopper. Conversely, above him Rimmer is making high pitched noises that seem like they should be mildly annoying, but are instead for some reason really revving Listers engine as his own hips buck into the footwell. The hand on his neck slithers up to the back of his head and then, quite inconsiderately if you ask Lister, Rimmer starts pushing his head as he blows him.

Listen. Listers not gonna take the high road and say he's never done it— he has. But most chicks, save one or two, don't really appreciate it out of the blue, and when Lister was in their position himself, he finally understood why. He's not totally against it on principle, it's just not exactly ideal when he's also crammed in the footspace of a Hopper, and Rimmer could have eased him into just a little bit. Wouldn't have killed him, now would it.

Even so, Lister makes an effort to relax his throat, to time his breathing as Rimmer moves him up and down, hips rocking as far as Lister allows him, setting at least some reasonable pace. He chokes every now and then, a sound which is echoed by Rimmer above him, and Listers hips keep lifting up into nothing so he snakes a hand down to the front of his own pants, moaning around his mouthful when he grabs at himself through his leathers. Rimmers hips buck up into his face, nearly throwing him off, and he doesn't even have the decency to say anything other than-

"Are you— ? Oh smeg."

Lister opens his eyes and looks up as best he can, just barely catching Rimmers stare as it flicks frantically from Listers face to the hand he's slipped between his own legs, mouth slack. No I'm feeling around for pennies down there, he thinks, but hums the affirmative as best he can, enjoying the feeling of putting on a show when he can still feel Rimmers eyes burning holes in his head.

Lister starts fiddling with his zip, the sound of it nearly drowned out by his own wet sucking and Rimmers increasingly incomprehensible babble revolving around smeg and Io, and then Listers blessedly sticking a hand down there properly and bucking up into his own rough palm. He massages himself, moaning around Rimmer again and redoubling his efforts as the man's thighs start to squeeze his shoulders, hips jumping off the back seat as frantic fingers hold him down for longer and longer. He knows Rimmers close when the words stop coming, when there's just feverish, hiccuped breathing and his knees have climbed up nearly onto Listers shoulders and stayed there. The Scouser decides to push him over himself instead of getting surprised by it, having the feeling that Rimmer won't warn him, and so on another down stroke he simply just stays there, refusing to come back up even as fingers scrabble at the tight coils of his hair. He can feel Rimmer at the back of his throat, the hands clinging to his head, the knobbly knees raised and practically bending the other man in half, and then he hollows his cheeks, giving a last almighty suck for the ages, and Rimmers gone.

He doubles over Lister, clutching desperately at the whole of his head as his hips buck wildly up, though there's only so far he can go in the confines he's made for himself. Lister swallows it all as he shakes above him, continuing to palm himself as he throbs in his own hand. Rimmers making those high pitched should-be-annoying noises again, and he's doing one of Listers favourite things to happen in a shag: gently rocking himself even past completion like he can't bear to let go, can't bear to stop just yet. It's one of his favourite things to do, to push it just a little extra, wrapped up in the pleasure of sex, just feeling the white hot spark of overstimulation call to him, and he loves it when his partners do it too, like they can't get enough of the feeling, enough of him.

He lets Rimmer ride it out and then eventually slowly eases off when the jittering man uncurls from over him, and Lister sits up in the footwell as they both catch their breath. Rimmers cock, even shinier than when he'd first pulled it out, only softens a little bit, still making a valiant attempt to remain at attention. Lister can't help but lean forward and press kisses along the shaft, revelling in the shocked gasp Rimmer makes above him and the hands pushing his head—closer or away, even Rimmer doesn't seem to know.

He's still got his own hand down his pants so Lister lies his head in the crook of Rimmers hip, practically breathing on his prick as he fists his own, drawing it out of his boxers. He closes his eyes, breathing raggedly as he jacks himself off, and the loud slick sound of his fist replaces the slick sound of his mouth. Rimmer goes silent above him for a moment but then he's awkwardly trying to lean over in the cramped space and kiss Lister, grabbing his face and angling it up even though it must be throwing his back out to do so. Listers immediately proven right when Rimmer quickly breaks the kiss.

"Ow, ow, alright, I can't do that. We need to, um, we need—"

Lister crawls out of the footwell as elegantly as he can manage, which isn't much, and drops heavily on the other end of the back seat, leaning himself against the door and then sliding down the booth so he's sprawled out as much as he can be in the back of the Hopper. His cocks almost comically stuck out of his pants, but then so is Rimmers so who really cares, and either way Rimmers eyes are glued to it with some sort of look on his face that screams of desperation.

"C'mere, Rimmer," Lister says, one leg bent up on the seat, thighs open in the perfect invitation for Rimmer to come and lie on top of him, "One more for good luck, ey?"

Rimmer swallows thickly and then scrambles to get on top of him, somehow almost slipping despite being seated in the back of a buggy. He hesitates when he's crowded over Lister, holding himself up like he doesn't actually know where to go from there, so Lister puts his hands on Rimmers waist and draws him in, settling him against his solid body until their cocks lie nestled together. Rimmer inhales sharply and Lister puts one of his hands on the back of his neck.

"There we go, eh? How's that," He doesn't really want a response, instead choosing to pull Rimmer in for another kiss, adding a bit of tongue in there for fun. Lister rolls his hips up and sighs into the warm mouth above him, rocking with more certainty on the next go as Rimmer follows his lead, almost as if remembering that he could in fact participate and not just passively have things happen to him. The hand Lister had put on his waist rubs across the small of his back once or twice, over fine navy wool, and then he's wiggling his fingers under the coat, reaching down to grab a handful of Rimmers arse and squeezing. Rimmer squeaks into his mouth, hips stuttering, and Lister uses his grip to guide him into a steady rocking motion, rolling his own hips up to meet him. They're still kissing, but it's broken up by stints of just panting into each other's mouth, sloppy and lazy but somehow still rushed. Rimmers got one arm bracing himself on the back seat, and the other is fisted at Listers hip, fingers just barely tucked up under his shirt and pressing warm against his stomach. Lister feels a bit like randy teenager all over again, rocking some car side to side while he's still mostly buttoned up, but there's something so hot about it—the way there's barely any space between them, hands roaming and grabbing, the shock of their pricks grinding together, still framed by their open trousers. Lister's boot on the leather, using the leverage to really thrust up, moaning lowly as the steady heat in his gut builds.

"Come on, big man," Lister says into Rimmers mouth, and it's a tough decision but he slides his hand away from Rimmers arse to instead sneak between them, pulling a moan from them both as he tries to wrap his hand around their combined lengths, "Make me come in me kecks, ey? Come on, Rimmer, you're doing so well, that's it."

Soft encouragement seems to be the key to Rimmers entire person-hood and he nods senselessly into Listers neck, making these strange whimpering sob sounds that again, should probably put Lister off, but he can't really care when Rimmer starts jackhammering into his fist and pressing tentative kisses to his throat, like he can't really focus on doing the two things at once but is trying anyway. Lister speeds his fist up in reward, wet and hot and loud between them, and he can feel that stirring in his belly draw tighter and tighter, pulling more soft sounds and half bitten off words from his lips.

Listers belly tightens, his hand flying over their cocks, and he curls as much as he can under the weigh of Rimmer over him, hand still gripping the curls at the back of his head. He's close, he's so close he can practically reach out and touch it, and he doesn't know if it's him or Rimmer muttering nonsense but it doesn't really matter because it feels so good and—

Lister goes taught, still grinding up against Rimmers dick in his own fist as he feels himself spend between them, pulsing and jumping in his own hand. After the build up it feels so so good to finally release, and he holds Rimmer close, revelling in that too much feeling as he slowly pumps the both of them, electric shocks making his thighs tense.

Rimmer goes near immediately after, pushing himself through the slick of Listers come covering the channel of his hand, and then he drops unceremoniously on top of Lister, letting the arm bracing him go slack. He's not a light guy so Lister exhales roughly, but he doesn't mind, honest, so he let's him stay there. He likes this part of sex a lot too.

There's nothing else happening in the street, no other noise of the night save the two of them trying to catch their own breath, and Lister haltingly pulls his hand out from between them, holding it aloft for a moment before wiping it on his leg. He'll deal with it later.

It's kind of nice, actually, having someone lying on top of him. Listers had a couple shags since ending up on Mimas, caught a couple eyes and disappeared somewhere dark when he was drowning his misery in a pub. But again, since Mimas was so insufferably miserable, it was kind of hard to go out on the lamb when you're weighed down by being thousands of miles from home and dead broke, so sue him if he enjoyed actually having someone to cling to for a bit. Especially with the prospect of actually being able to go home not seeming so hopeless.

Lister loosens the fist in Rimmers hair and slides it down instead to wrap around his shoulders, feeling the other man breathe more steadily into his neck.

They're silent for another moment.

"…Do I have to pay extra for the cuddling?"

Lister chuckles, patting the officers coat beneath his hand in reassurance.

"Nah, I like you. Cuddling's free tonight, doll."

Rimmer briefly tenses underneath him but then relaxes, and they return to silence for a few more minutes before its broken again.

"Will you be here again? Tomorrow, I mean."

Lister barely makes it out, smushed into his jacket as it is like Rimmer wants him to hear it but also really doesn't.

The Scouser thinks about it.

"I could be. Why, you want another go-round? Like me that much, ey?"

"You were tolerable, don't get it twisted," Rimmer huffs into his jacket, "Averagely sufficient. Predictably okay."

Lister pulls a face at the roof of the Hopper.

"Gee thanks, Rimmer. You really know how to make a guy feel special, don't you. What's next, you're gonna say I'm not all that good looking either and you just had to settle for passable?"

There's something meaner on the tip of his tongue, a fiery hot next you're gonna say I'm the one that should be paying people for sex, but he swallows it down. Rimmer, who seems to realise he's put his foot in his mouth and might not get another shot, is stock still on top of him.

"I-I mean, I just meant - I didn't - oh, smeg, I've cocked this up."

He sounds so resigned, like it was bound to happen, an inevitability pre-written since the dawn of time that it would all come to his being a smeghead, and Lister willingly, consciously, graciously decides to take pity on him—not that it's hard to do, considering the general state of the guy. He pats him on the shoulder, sighing.

"You're alright, Rimmer."

They're silent again, though slightly more stifled and less relaxed, but in a quickly emerging pattern Rimmer breaks it.

"I do," He starts quietly, face still smushed against Listers jacket, "Want another go-round, that is. Tomorrow. If I can. If you will."

Lister lets him stew in his stress, tense over him, as he thinks it over. It's not so bad; it's actually pretty good, all things considered. He won't have the chance to squander all his hard earned cash if he knows he's getting his ticket ride home tomorrow, will be able to resist the joy-sapping oppressive atmosphere of Mimas with the knowledge he'll soon be giving it the old two finger salute in the rear view mirror, and he's already shagged Rimmer, so he won't have to sus out some new bloke. Better the devil you know, and all that.

Even if the devil he knows is an odd fella who wears fake moustaches and says stupid things. Whatever, when he's being shagged the guy can't speak anyway, so it won't matter.

"Alright," Lister says at last, "You're on."

Chapter Text

It isn't until Rimmer gets back to Red Dwarf that he realises he didn't actually catch the man's name.

He's got his blue officers coat cinched tightly around himself again, hiding the mess of stains and creased fabric beneath, and the whole thing makes his face suspiciously red as he passes fellow crew, attempting to act normal in a way even he can recognise is definitely not normal, but can't seem to stop himself from doing like it's just written in his DNA to self-report.

He tries not to think about it, he really does - in part so he can make it back to his bunk without any embarrassing reactions on the way, but also because he can already feel the oncoming guilt looming in the distance like a black cloud, trumpets of war singing in the wind as it draws closer. It's a battle he's always lost and honestly never tried very hard to fight against in the first place.

Rimmer picks up the pace when he reaches his hallway and then dashes into of his bunk and throws his hand to the control panel, locking the door, before finally easing up from his rigid stance.

Safe…mostly.

He looks down at his innocuous coat.

Maybe if he removes it, there'll be nothing underneath - we'll, not nothing, obviously, but maybe nothing incriminating. Maybe if he undid the belt and took it off, his uniform would be just as crisp and starched as it was when he left. His tie perfectly in place, shirt tucked, trousers lint-rolled to perfection. Absolutely nothing underneath that would allude to anything happening at all whatsoever.

Rimmer doesn't take the coat off.

Instead he goes to the mirror above the basin on the other side of the room and turns the sink on, running his hands under cold water and splashing some onto his face. It relieves the too-hot feeling of his skin and he stares at himself in the mirror for as long as he can stand, which is about as long as it takes to accidentally catch his own eye and then hastily look away in shame. He dries his hands, and with limbs that feel like led, slowly begins untying the belt to his heavy coat.

He's lost the moustache, which was absolutely ridiculous in hindsight - he didn't know what he was thinking, honestly it's a miracle he didn't get turned away at the get-go for walking around with a giant creeper stache glued to his face. It's still on the floor of the Hopper. The Hopper he won't be seeing again tomorrow.

Rimmer pulls the belt loose and then pauses, taking in a deep breath before he slowly shrugs out of his jacket like there were a physical wound on him he needed to dance around. He can't help but look down at the damage - the damage he kids himself might not be there, all just a delusion of his sick fantasy - but it's no use. His shirt is rumpled and hastily tucked into soiled pants, wet stains marking the beige fabric, his tie hanging at an angle with the knot pulled loose. He looks a wreck, and he feels-

He feels good, and that's bad.

Rimmer folds the long coat over his arm and tosses it on his bunk before slowly fiddling with his belt for the second time that night, unwittingly remembering how the man had put his much warmer, kinder palms over his to stay him. How he'd looked between the open buckle and fly when he'd glanced up at him from the footwell, between Rimmers knees, mouth on his—

Rimmer forces the thought away along with the feelings that come with it, forcibly stifling the quiet voice asking if sex was supposed to feel like that—supposed to be enjoyable and not just tolerable. Something to grit your teeth through just for the sake of saying you'd done it.

Hes harsher with the rest of his clothes, resolutely ignoring the mix of semen on his pants and the bottom of his shirt as he pulls at them, allowing himself only the mild comfort that he had at least managed to get someone else off too, even if his part was largely useless and it wasn't even his own hand that gottem them off; the strange conflict of his brain that even he didn't understand was fighting against the knowledge of what he'd done, but also somehow finding a way to spin it into an accomplishment in a feat that was, singularly and quintessentially, Rimmer. He forces himself out of his standard issue uniform until he's just in his underthings and carries them over to the laundry basket, red-faced as he dumps the mess in. Rimmer hesitates a moment above the laundry then sticks his hand in and shuffles the clothing around, paranoid like someone would come in and grab his trousers and take it straight to the captain, going "Look, look what he did!" while lauding them down the corridor. That would be the last thing he needs, and with his luck, somehow entirely plausible.

Rimmer gathers his things for a shower, feeling tense and weird in a myriad of physical and emotional layers, and goes through his old reliable routine of immediately regretting everything he's ever done ever and feeling he didn't deserve any of the good but should forever live shamefully with the bad.

Rimmer puts his robe on and tries valiantly to ignore the feeling that everyone he passes somehow knows what he did, and is judging him for it.

Rimmers not going back tonight.

He'd made his decision before going to bed and is still sticking it with it today. He's not going back, no sir, no way, not in a million years, not even with cherries on top. When he decides something, that's it, he won't be swayed. Rimmers not going, and that's final. End of story.

...but if he just so happens to think about it every minute of the day, well that's just because he's so deadset on not going. He's just really making sure, really proving that he doesn't even want to. And if he keeps glancing at the clock, well that's just because he's a diligent employee and he didn't get promoted to second technician for being a lazy layabout! He's got jobs to see, a ship to do, people to run…or something to that affect.

If he puts on his coat around the same time he did last night and decides to go for a lovely stroll, that's just his right as a person. They're on shore leave after all, why shouldn't he soak up the sights?

Rimmer walks in the opposite direction he did last night, because he's not going back to the Hopper. He's not going back to the incredible sex he'd had, which really wasn't a hard bar to reach all things considered, because he'd already had his fun. He'd gotten it out of his system, so he's going to walk down the opposite block of buildings because he's not going back.

Rimmer checks his watch.

It's fine, if he was going back - which he isn't - he'd be ten minutes early. He looks up at the street again, and it's crowded unlike the other one, lined with pubs and dodgy food joints. Most of the crew are here, making this sullen corner of Mimas lively again for a brief bit. Rimmer hikes his ears up around his shoulders. He walks further down the street, the picture of normalcy, and thinks about the weather.

He checks his watch again

It's fine. This is about the time he'd approached the man last night, seeing him stomp out his cigarette with an intimidating boot, all leather and patches and grunge up until you got to the round, warm cast of his face. He'd been stood on a corner, which Rimmer thought was a touch too on the nose and stereotypical, but he'd approached nonetheless, half expecting to get told no and half expecting to get sockered in the jaw. Rimmer couldn't tell you what he'd been thinking at the time, except that maybe he hadn't been thinking at all.

He crosses the road and ignores a couple shouts of his less than favourable nicknames. He walks back up the street, coat wrapped tightly around himself, and pretends to look over various food menus as he goes, dawdling about like he has all the time in the world, because he does. It's fine if Rimmer can feel the minutes ticking by like physical weights on his shoulder, he hasn't got anywhere to be anyway, and speaking of places not to be, if he were to go and meetup with the stranger now - which he, again, isn't - he'd officially be fifteen minutes late.

Fine. Absolutely, totally fine. Tickety-boo.

Rimmers brisk walk up the street and subsequent turning to the direction of his stranger has absolutely no bearing on that at all, and when he retraces his steps back to the quieter, darker block of buildings, well. That's just because he's a rational person that doesn't want to stray too far from the ship. Rimmer walks slowly, normally, casually. The man might not even be there, honestly. Could have just said sweet nothing's to him so he'd piss off. Could even be shacked up with another guy right now.

Rimmer sticks to the shadows, hands tucked securely in his pockets, fingers fiddling even in their confines. His step falters as he gets to the building he'd walked past last night, the one where he'd turned left and seen the man standing there near a faltering streetlight. Rimmer sucks a breath in and walks before he can talk himself out of it.

He looks dead ahead up until he gets to the edge of the building, and then turns left.

Rimmer stops.

Smeg. He's there. He's actually there. Leaning against the brick wall this time, arms and legs crossed with a leather deerstalker on his head, locs pulled over his shoulder, half of his face covered entirely in shadow as he waits. He's looking off to the side of the road, expression unreadable this far away, but then he turns his head and sees Rimmer and a shock goes right through the technician at being noticed.

The man stands up from the wall and sends him a friendly wave.

Rimmer feels stuck to the ground.

He looks up and down the street, like there would possibly be any cars here this time of night, and then forces his leaden legs to work, to carry him over to the other side of the road. He briefly stops the same distance away as he did last night, but then comes closer, drawn in again by some unnameable thing.

The man smiles at him, beatific, and Rimmers stomach does something strange. People don't usually smile when they see him.

"No stache this time? You run out of them little ones on the cardboard pack?"

Rimmers face heats up at the reminder of his idiocy which, at the time, had made absolute sense to him.

"Afraid not. There's only one left and it's called The Trucker, but it's ridiculously huge and has handlebars so I thought hm, best not."

The guy laughs at that and Rimmer fights down a self-satisfied smirk to little success. Maybe he's just humouring the man about to pay him, but Rimmer tries not think about any of that at all.

"Fair play, save that one for a special occasion, I say."

Rimmer nods sagely, but doesn't really know what to do now. Do they just…hop to it? Will it happen in the same fashion as last night? Should he say something about it first? Wait, actually, he has got something to say—

"I didn't catch your name."

Last night when you blew me in the back of a Hopper goes unspoken. The guy looks at him for a moment, considering, and Rimmer doesn't hold the eye contact for long but instead bounces to look at his deerstalker, the glinting badges pinned to it and the lone cigarette tucked into the flipped-up rim, the other one lying smoked and stubbed on the road. Even though he's dressed quite literally from head to toe in leathers, his face is still warm and kind, lips plush, eyes dark. Rimmer thinks of the backseat.

"Lister," The man says, a quirk to his lips.

Rimmer squints at him.

"Real name or stage name?"

"Real."

"I feel like you shouldn't be telling me that."

"Hey, you asked, guy-"

"Oi! Jackoff!"

Panic immediately flashes up Rimmers spine and his heart honest to God stops in his chest, freezing there like some dead, shrivelled thing.

Someones caught him.

Rimmer can feel ice in his veins - literal ice stopping his blood cold, making his limbs feel heavy and weak, and his absolute fear must show entirely too easily on his face because Listers brows furrow in front of him and then he's glancing behind Rimmers back.

Rimmer doesn't need to turn around to see who it is, and he doesn't have to wait long in dreaded anticipation before a massive hand is landing on his shoulder with an oof, shaking him, and Swanson is grinning at the both of them from beside his frozen form.

"What's this, then, Arnold? Paying for a bit of company tonight, hey? God, how much are you shelling out for that," Swanson turns to Lister, adopting an honest facade which is undermined by the pure glee on his face, "Whatever it is, it's not enough - in fact, no moneys worth it, so I'd just jog on mate."

Rimmer hears a snicker behind him; Swanson's cronie no doubt, the other half of the whole idiot that makes the Dumb Duo. He still feels riveted to the spot, but in typical Rimmer fashion, he can already feel the oncoming barrage of absolute smeg he's about to spew which will undoubtedly make his situation much worse. It's like watching a car crash in slow motion, even from his perspective, and he can practically see himself pulling out a gun and aiming it at his own foot as he opens his mouth to choke out some wild, panic induced cover story about busting illegal underground miniature donkey racing mafias on Mimas, when Lister beats him to it.

"And who the fuck are you?"

Its so succinct, so inhospitable and annoyed as Lister just stares at Swanson like he's gum on the bottom of his boot.

"The guy that's trying to help you out," Swanson says loudly, like Lister was thick and should be thanking him instead of swearing at him. His hand leaves Rimmers shoulder. "Now why don't you get out of here and work some other corner, sweetheart."

Rimmer feels cold dread in his chest and like his stomach is trying to suck itself into a black hole. Any sensible, rational person would take that thinly veiled threat and leave, especially when faced with the odds of two-to-one with a guy as tall as Swanson and his lackey. He won't blame Lister - he won't - because if his legs could move, he'd absolutely do the same thing—

"You what? You wanna rumble, smegpot? That it? You think you're tough? Come on," Lister grabs the lone cigarette from his cap and eats it then rips his deerstalker right off his head and throws it on to the tarmac road as he chews, quickly going for the zipper of his jacket next. "Come at me, then, ey? The smegging both of youse, you twats!"

He throws his leather jacket down, nearly ripping it off himself just to illustrate how ready and willing he is to fight, and then squares up, bringing his fists to hover in front of his face. He's wearing a bright red shirt with some gaudy sports team logo on the front, and even though it's oversized and baggy on his short frame, the hostile energy he's putting out more than makes up for the difference. Lister slips into an easy stance, shuffling from foot to foot, crouching in on himself to protect his chest, and his eyes are pinned on Swanson.

Swanson, who took a couple steps back when Lister was demented enough to eat a cigarette unprompted, falters.

"Uhhh…"

"What, you got cold feet?" Lister jeers, still geared for a fight, the softness of a face Rimmer had seen pressed between his thighs now cut by the shadows of the night, "Come on then, tough guy, gimme a fight! I'll knock your smegging eyes clean out!"

Lister sounds demanding now and he starts making his way over to Swanson and his cronies like if they won't come to him then he'll go to them, and Rimmer can't help but turn his head to watch as Lister rushes them, heavy boots thudding on the road. His crew mates hastily back up, apparently not actually looking for a fight when it was with an all-too willing participant who looked like they knew what they were doing. They mutter something to each other as they shuffle back, staring at Rimmers odd stranger, and then slink off back up the road as they fix their jackets and tug at their collars, self-soothing. The duo turn to glance behind before they disappear in the shadows. Lister stands in the street and taunts them, face hard as he watches them take the corner and go.

Silence settles in their wake and after a moment or so Lister seems to ease up, shoulders dropping as he turns to look at Rimmer.

"You right, man?"

He sounds perfectly normal again as he walks past the stock still statue Rimmer has become and picks his jacket up off the road, putting it on and then slapping his deerstalker against his thigh a couple times before shoving it back on his head. He swishes his tongue around in his mouth and spits out the crumpled up wet mess of a chewed up cigarette, and the sight is equally as disgusting as it is erotic, much to Rimmers devastation. Lister looks back up at him in his continued, not wholly voluntary, silence.

"Rimmer, man, you good?"

Rimmer nods, and it feels as jerky as it probably looks. Lister squints.

"Did you wanna get out of here?"

He nods again. Lister looks concerned but also nods, tipping his head back to the Hopper behind him.

"Get in the front."

It takes half of the admittedly short trip for Rimmer to defrost, and the first thing he says is—

"Were you really going to fight them?"

Lister glances at him, brows raised. "Oh ey, it talks! Thought you'd gone silent for good there, man, thanks for joining us."

Rimmer just stares at him, feeling horrifically envious of Listers ability to stand his ground in conflict and also deeply annoyed by it and just a tiny bit grateful and the littlest, ittiest bit terribly turned on. He ignores that last one and scratches it out. Lister glances at him in the silence, finally catching up with what he'd said.

"Hm? Oh, nah probably not. I mean if it came down to it, sure, I've had worse odds than that, but it always scares em shitless, eh? That's how you can tell when you're in for a real fight, cause they don't get spooked by you being proper mental, they just match it. When someone's all bark, they turn tail quick when you bite."

"Much experience with 'biting', then, have you?"

"Ey you'd know," Lister winks, and Rimmer acutely remembers the scrape of his teeth against his neck and promptly changes topics.

"Where are we even going?"

He looks out the windows of the Hopper, buildings rushing past as the long legs of the craft stride down the road, towering in the dark street. He's not been in very many Hoppers he'll admit, so it's bit of a strange experience, but Lister seems to have no qualms navigating the buggy around less than stellar suburbs, so he lets it be.

"Theres a club just round the corner up here, got a bar and some private booths. Could do with a drink me self, after that."

"You still don't have your room?"

"Wha?" Lister glances at him sidelong as the Hopper slows down outside an inconspicuously conspicuous club.

"Your room? It wasn't available last night either."

"Oh— oh, right, no yeah, I'm off the clock again, is all. Same as last time."

The Hopper lowers itself to the ground as much as it can with a hiss of the suspension coils in its legs, and Listers cracking his door open and swinging a leg out.

"Let's get on, shall we?"

Rimmer, remembering he'd never actually gotten around to asking why Lister was going along with any of this if he was on break, scrabbles out the car to follow him. He wants to ask, especially now that he's been made an exception for twice, which simply doesn't happen to him, but he also doesn't want to look a gift horse in the mouth and risk ruining this—ruining things is Rimmers forte, after all, and he knows he's lucky enough to have gotten this far, even by having to pay for it.

Ultimately Rimmer decides to keep his mouth shut in an attempt to delay jeopardising this until hopefully after he's had his brains shagged out.

Lister swaggers up to the pub and shoulders the door, walking in like he owns the place and holding it open as Rimmer creeps in behind him. It's hazy inside, red leather booths and dark wood tables, low music coming from some indistinct place. It's not filled to the brim but it's still lively, thankfully not seeming to house anyone else from the Dwarf, and Rimmer sticks to Lister like a particularly annoying thistle, shadowing him with his coat pulled tight around his frame. Lister walks up to the central bar in the middle of the place and nods at the bartender.

"Lager, thanks mate, and a…" He looks over his shoulder at Rimmer, expectant.

It's the first time Rimmers actually able to see Listers face properly - not obscured by back alley shadows or overhead lights in the back of a Hopper, or indeed his own anxiety blurring everything until he can't see straight - and Rimmers again caught by just how inviting it is on the backdrop of scuffed leather that makes up Listers larger-than-life appearance. Round cheeks fit for grinning, wide dark eyes, plush lips and the dimple in his chin beneath them all coalescing to form an earnest expression of interest aimed directly at him, one that doesn't have layers of contempt or exasperation marring it.

Rimmer suddenly and desperately wants to be kissed senseless by this man, again, like he hadn't realised how badly he wanted it until he was back within reach.

"Lager. Also." Rimmer says on instinct, mindlessly agreeing, and then immediately wants to brain himself on the corner of the bar because he hates lager.

Lister eyes him unusually but turns back to the bartender. "Make that two then."

He pulls a couple notes out of his back pocket, which doesn't seem an at all safe place to store money, and puts them on the bar when the drinks are ready, trading it for the cold pints of Lager with an appreciative Cheers to the bartneder. He nods his head to the back of the pub where there's a short flight of stairs leading to an interior balcony.

"This way," Lister says and starts walking off, leaving Rimmer with no choice but to follow.

"Are you right with those?" Rimmer asks dubiously, not really wanting to hold one himself but doubtful of Listers ability to successfully hold both and not spill them. Lister huffs.

"Yeah man, 'course. Pretty sure I could carry like, at least four full pints if I really had to. Maybe a fifth if I balanced it on me forehead. Wouldn't be able to see where I was going, mind, but I once knew a guy who could sense the layout of any pub based on energy alone, you know. We use to blindfold him, spin him 'round, and watch him go—"

Rimmer stares in confusion at the man now leading his way up the stairs, a drop yet to be spilled even as he ambles his way along, following some unknown path Rimmer dares not stray from. This feels distinctly un-sexy and off-script, yet it also feels like the closest he's ever been to a regular human interaction. Just a normal night out—that's what people did, isn't it? Went out to the pub with their mates, had manly drinks like Lager and stupid debates about how many pints you could feasibly carry. That's what this was, if he deluded himself enough.

Regular mates don't get off together in the back of Hoppers, Rimmer reminds himself sourly, face twisting with his own bitterness. And if they did, they certainly wouldn't pay for it.

Lister shoulders another door open at the top of the stairs and peers inside the room, presumably finding it empty, and walks inside. The interior balcony is lined with doors and saloon style gates offering various degrees of visibility in a way that makes Rimmer extremely dubious of the establishments virtue, but he cedes that he is currently in said establishment with a man of the night, so. Does he really have any ground to stand on?

Rimmer hesitantly follows Lister into the room and sees its only a small thing, maybe 1/3rd the size of his bunk on the ship, and it's furnished with a slim, circular oak table thats tucked up against a half-circle red leather booth, providing plenty of space despite the size. Lister nods his head to the round booth.

"Right, in you get."

Rimmer flares his nostrils.

"Why me first?"

"Well when I've put the drinks down I'll put a sign up on the door saying occupied, but if someone comes in, would you rather you face them or me?"

Rimmer hastily slides into the booth, audibly noting how comfortable the leather is and how nice it is with the table between him and the door. Lister rolls his eyes but smiles and puts the pints down, heading to a panel near the door.

"Yeah, thought so."

Rimmer shuffles in his officers coat and sets his shoulders back, "I could throw anyone out on their sorry rears any day, Miladdo, it's just I'd rather not get all worked up in my spare time, is all. It's difficult being an officer, you know. So many people depend on me."

Lister puts his hand to the panel and the small glass window in the centre of the door turns opaque red. "I'm sure they do, big man. Must be very tough."

The undoubtedly clever retort on Rimmers tongue, temporarily halted by the use of big man and the ensuing memories from last night being blasted into his brain, promptly goes to its undignified death when Lister sidles up next to him on the couch and swings an arm over the back, cool as you like. It's an absolute cliche, down to a T stereotype, no.1 tip for How to Date in Highschool, and yet…for some reason, some horrific reason, it seems to be working on Rimmer.

Maybe it's the way Lister does it; effortlessly sliding into the circular booth and landing himself right next to Rimmer, so close he could press their thighs together if he wanted to, grabbing for his lager not a moment later as he splays his hand across the back, accomplishing two things at once - creating an immediately intimate space between them and chugging half his drink. It's so nonchalant in a way Rimmer knows he would have a stroke trying to replicate, like asking him why he did it would simply merit the response of why not? And Rimmer almost can't believe him, pulling such a juvenile act, but moreso he can't believe himself and the rush of heat to his face and crotch, the way Listers arm even implied behind his shoulders burns him like a brand. He should be better than this.

Lister doesn't seemed bothered about any of it at all and happily sips away at his lager, oblivious to the strife he's caused.

"So," The Scouser starts, licking his lips, "How's your day been?"

Rimmer kisses him before he loses his nerve.

There's a pint of lager between them and his hands are balled up into stressed fists on his thighs, but still, in an act of brain-screaming heart-thumping incredibly delicate and easily dismayed bravery, Rimmer leans over and kisses Lister. It's messy and tastes of cigarettes and lager; a bit too forceful and off-centre, more left leaning than he'd hoped, but Rimmer also refuses to accept that he did it wrong and so stays there in his shame and unwavering refusal to acknowledge it. Lister shuffles the pint between them until it safely reaches the table and then pulls away, much to Rimmers soul crushing horror, but soon enough he's kissing him again from a better angle, correctly aligned this time, and then theyre kissing kissing in the private booth of a pub on Mimas.

Listers other arm drops from the backrest to sit properly around Rimmers shoulders, drawing him closer as his other hand snakes around his waist, and Rimmer truly does feel like two teenagers necking in the back of a cinema now but he doesn't really care, because he never actually got to experience that and By God he'll take it while he can. He tries to relax a little, to loosen up and follow Listers lead as he leisurely kisses Rimmer, making his lips tingle with the sensation. They barely stop to breathe, just pulling scant inches apart and then meeting again over and over, Lister nipping gently at his lips and Rimmer trying to copy it, hoping he's not making too much of an idiot of himself in the process.

Lister pulls back after a few minutes as Rimmer goes in for another kiss, and his eyes snap open when he meets nothing but air, but Lister just smiles at him and it's not mean, just amused, so Rimmer tries not to immediately lose his tentative confidence. He gets a quick peck to the lips in reassurance before the Scousers grabbing up his lager from the table and slamming the rest of it like it were as easy as breathing, which is mildly concerning.

Lister puts the empty glass back on the table before putting his hand on Rimmers waist again, drawing them closer so it's not just their thighs pressed together but their whole sides firmly tucked like puzzle pieces. He resumes his leisurely making out, like it really was just that simple to dip in and out of it, and Rimmer can't really find it within himself to get incensed about being put on pause to finish a drink when Listers hand is rhythmically groping at his waist and then slowly walking itself down his coat to his very interested cock.

Lister doesn't go for the buckle like last night but rather creeps his hand under the flaps of the coat, tenting it illicitly as he palms over Rimmers erection through his pants, and the sight of his moving palm under the woollen blue coat is so dirty Rimmer almost can't bear to look at it, face aflame.

"This right?" Lister mumbles into his neck, sucking at the skin as he fondles Rimmer beneath his coat, and Rimmer can feel the fur of his deerstalker brush against his jaw.

"Yes, smeg yes."

"Brutal."

Its almost said as an afterthought, breathed between hard kisses as the hand working him over his pants grows heavier, firmly feeling him up and rubbing at the head, making Rimmers legs move restlessly under the table as he swears. He tentatively puts his own hand on Listers thigh, and when he isn't immediately pushed back or smacked, Rimmer makes a valiant effort to relax his fingers on the black leather and soak up the rare feeling of another person pressed against him. The fabric is smooth but textured under his palm, well worn from daily use, and Lister doesn't seem to mind when his fingers spread out and grip his inner thigh—if anything he tries shuffling closer, the hand on his pants now fiddling with his twill belt.

The coat flaps get displaced slightly as Lister pulls the buckle loose and undoes his fly, but if Rimmer thought the sight of a hand groping under his coat was dirty before, its absolutely laughable in the face of his straining red cock being eased out of his drawers, standing proudly at attention between the parted fabric of beige cotton and navy wool. It feels even naughtier than if he were just naked, like the fabric layers concealing the rest of him heightened the lewd shock of his prick being exposed in the warm air of the pub. It was indecent, and that made Rimmers blood rush.

Lister curls a loose fist around him and slowly starts to pump, still lavishing open kisses across his neck and jaw, and Rimmers hand squeezes his thigh, tentatively starting its own adventure. His face feels horribly hot for a multitude of reasons - being wanked off in a pub chief among them - but the fact that he feels the need, the desire to touch Lister back like he could derive just as much pleasure from it as the act of being touched, was such a strange and tantalising idea that he can't help but follow it. Twitching, pale fingers nervously drag their way up a leather inseam until Rimmer thinks oh bollocks and just goes for it, much like the kiss, and firmly puts his hand over tented leather.

Lister gasps quietly into his neck and the hand around Rimmers cock tightens briefly on its way up, fingers choking just under the head, and it pulls an embarrassing sound from Rimmer as his own palm squeezes at the leather beneath it in a feedback loop of pleasure.

Rimmer looks down briefly at the sight they make and almost can't stand the visceral rush that goes through him, forcibly suppressing the humiliating reaction as his hips stutter and his throat constricts. Listers leather patch-clad arm works up and down as Rimmers cock disappears over and over again in his fist, trails of precome glistening off the back of his knuckles, and the obscene sight is framed by layers of parted fabric and soon-to-be wet spots. His own hand sat in Listers lap is fumbling with the solid outline of a prick - the first time he's touched any but his own, even over the clothes - and he's sure he's not doing it right but Lister doesn't seem to care, gently rolling his hips anyway as he works Rimmer like it's the most casual thing in the world. The bump of his deerstalker is alarmingly hot as he bites gently at Rimmers neck and presses against him like he's trying to get on top of him again, and in trying to avoid the embarrassing repeat of creaming himself immediately in his slacks like last night, Rimmer splutters out a warning.

"Lister," He starts, surprised and then immediately dismayed at how breathy he sounds, "I-I can't, I'm going to—I'm, we have to—stop."

Which might've been one of the worst things he could have said, Rimmer realises, when Lister abruptly halts and pulls back, disorientating the both of them. The Scouser stares at him, great big earnest eyes and spit-slick lips glinting in the dull light.

"Ey? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I didn't mean— I'm just going to," Rimmer makes a vague gesture with the hand not still on Listers crotch, "You know, is all. Thought I'd save myself the embarrassment this time."

Listers stares at him, perplexed, still practically wound around him. "…Isn't that," He repeats Rimmers crude gesture, "The point, like? I want you to come, Rimmer, don't you?"

Rimmer thinks if someone put a cigarette against his face, the sheer heat coming off him would be able to light it in a flash.

"Well—yes, technically, I suppose. I just…well it's not very impressive, is it."

Lister continues to stare at him with that perplexed expression for a moment longer before huffing and loosening up again against him.

"Do you want me to stop?" He asks, and Rimmer immediately protests with an urgency that flies right past pathetic and straight into new, uncharted territory. He can feel a grin being pressed into his neck as Lister winds around him again and wraps a hand around his still-eager prick, thumbing over the head as he speaks into the warm skin of Rimmers jaw.

"Right, then you're gonna come. And then you'll come again, won't you, Rimmer? Cause you're good like that, yeah?"

Rimmer shouldn't have bothered stopping him in the first place, because there was absolutely no hope of holding anything off after that. His cock jumps in Listers hand, eyes screwing shut as he fervently nods and accidentally grabs on for dear life to Listers leather-clad erection, absorbing the swears muttered into his neck as Lister uses his free hand to feel up whatever parts of Rimmer he can reach.

It's strange, to feel actively wanted by someone, and he's almost entirely forgotten the weight of his wallet in his coat that will undoubtedly be lighter returning to Red Dwarf than it was when he left it.

It only takes a couple more strokes before Rimmers thighs are tensing and his breath is catching, body at odds with what it wants to do as his balls tighten; turning his head towards Lister like he wants to kiss him but not quite getting there, hips thrusting into a warm hand as the tension in his belly suddenly builds and then spills over, and Rimmer doesn't know if he's bucking into the pleasure or away from it as he shoots off. Lister makes the choices for him in the end and muffles him with a filthy kiss, sticking his tongue in his mouth while it's slack, and he works Rimmer over tight and fast as ropes of come land over his hand and the navy wool of Rimmers coat, the wet, almost pornographic schlik! sound ringing out in the room over and over again. Listers biting at his lips, almost panting himself like Rimmers getting off was working him up something fierce - probably untrue but Rimmer will take it and run with it while he can - and then he's mercifully slowling down, hand still wrapped around the Ionians leaking prick but easing his orgasm to an end as Rimmers thighs shake with it.

"There we go," Lister mutters warmly against his lips, "See how good that was?"

Rimmer can barely string a thought together so he just kisses Lister again, or more accurately kisses at Lister until the man takes pity on him and captures his lips. It feels indescribable to have someone so close to him, to hold him and bring him off and then still continue to touch him like it isn't some great, unthinkable burden. Like Rimmer was actually a person too. He sits himself up a bit, emboldened by some feeling he doesn't think he's ever experienced in his life, and suddenly he's leaning over Lister and kissing him against the red leather of the booth as feels around for the fly of the Scousers leathers, washed with a new, desperate need to get his hands on another human now.

Lister huffs into his mouth in what might be a laugh but he lets Rimmer hunch over him anyway, pushing him back into the booth as he jerkily pulls at the zip and snakes his way inside with a false confidence and zero clues as to where he's going. Rimmer kisses Lister through the mishaps, mind half gone with an orgasm tucked under his belt and a warm body under his hands, but what remaining brain functions there are hope that the snogging distracts from the incompetence. He knows he's found his prize when his hands touch something hard and warm, palm skimming across a weeping head, and Lister makes a little sound into his mouth that immediately gets swallowed up.

Rimmer hones into the small success like a beacon and clumsily wraps his hand around Listers prick, his own still perked up between the flaps of his officers coat in sympathy as his other hand grips firmly at the leather of Listers jacket, trying to draw him in closer even though they're practically sat on eachothers laps at this point. He pulls Lister out of his chaps and starts stroking with a firm grasp, getting used to the unusual angle and the fact that he can't actually feel himself what he's doing. It feels like his hand takes even longer to travel up and down than it does on his own cock, but Rimmer doesn't have time to get self conscious when Lister breaks the kiss to pant into the warm air, hands holding him close.

"Oh fuck," The Scouser moans against his cheek, and Rimmer echoes the sound, understanding for the first time how someone else's pleasure can rock through you like it were your own. He thinks he's doing a good job since he hasn't been told off yet, and that thought sends a zing up his spine he's not wholly ready to unpack yet. Rimmer decides to take a leaf from Listers book and, in another act of trying to copy and replicate, starts pressing wet kisses to Listers jaw, trailing up to under his ear and then down his neck.

"Fuck, Rimmer, that's it," Lister encourages, tilting his head up to give him a better angle, and Rimmer can feel the brush of his locs against his cheek as he goes. He can feel Listers throat work under him as he mutters praise, each and every uttered word melting Rimmers brain, and he feels emboldened by the success and the odd protection that having his face hidden in Listers neck gives him, physically obstructing him from being able to look down at Rimmer.

Sheltered from being perceived, Rimmer makes a request.

"Can you…can you say the thing again."

Lister continues rocking under him. "What thing?"

"The—the thing, the name…"

"I've called you a few names, doll."

Rimmer stifles his moan in the warm skin under his lips and he mindlessly tries grinding against the thigh pressed against him, breathing hotly into the space he's made for himself.

"Oh that, ey?" Lister chuffs, amused, but it's cut by the bresthiness of his voice. "Yeah, I can do that. C'mere, doll."

There's no real space to get closer so Rimmer isn't sure what to do, but then a hand closes around his stiff prick for a second time that night and he can only think a revelatory 'Ah, that' before he abandons the kissing to just press his face against blush-warmed skin, lost in the feelings. On the rush of immediately being given what he'd asked for without question or mockery - an exceedingly rare occurance - Rimmer allows himself to slip more surely into the strange sensations good sex affords him. He can't get enough of the intimacy and it feels rampant compared to last night, like he needed the warm-up, the assurance that this was good, that he'd feel good, that Lister was good. He knows, distantly and for the moment, uncaringly, that when he's doing the walk of shame back to his bunk he'll have done a complete 180° on all this. He'll be ripping his hair out with shame, that someone had seen him like this—that he'd been stupid enough to let them—and all the myriad of ways it could have gone wrong.

But for now Rimmer contents himself with the knowledge that it doesn't matter anyway, because he'll never see Lister again after tonight. They'll do this and he'll go back to Red Dwarf and they'll undock and leave Mimas and all of it will just be a distant, fraught memory. Never to be revisited or replicated again.

He ignores the uncomfortable lump forming in his throat.

Rimmer redoubles his efforts and affords a glance down at his hard work, moaning into Listers neck when he's met with the unbelievably obscene sight of a ruddy cock peeking through his fist, hot and hard and wet as precome eases the slide. Another flash of hot want goes through him, and he lets the rough hand working him over and the firm grip on his officers coat embolden him as Rimmer leans down and tentatively licks at the weeping head.

The reaction is immediate and Lister arcs up into him, swearing as he's finally allowed to tilt his head down to look, and as mortifying & erotic as it is to have his head in another man's lap, Rimmers most grateful for it being another place to hide when he can feel Listers eyes on the back of his head.

He keeps working Lister but presses little kitten licks to the head of his cock, getting used to the taste and sensations as he experiments with putting his mouth just over the head and gently sucking. The hand on his coat flies to Rimmers hair but doesn't urge him on, instead just burying itself in the mass of curls and cupping the back of his head. Listers other hand is still in his lap, pressed between Rimmers stomach and thighs now that he's bent over on the seat, but Listers still got a good grip on him and even though he can't wank him off at that angle, the rhythmic groping and massaging has Rimmer humming around the meagre mouthful he's taken upon himself to blow.

"Smeg, Rimmer, just like that, doing so good."

Lister pats the back of his head, rocking gently into Rimmers fist and just the very cusp of his mouth. Rimmer can feel his thighs jolting restlessly beneath his other hand, the one clutched desperately to warm leather, and he realises Listers making a concerted effort to meet him where he's at and be gentle about it, a stream of praise for what has to be the weakest attempt at a blowjob ever spilling from plush lips. It startles a confusing burst of emotions in Rimmers chest, a consideration he doesn't even know where to start with, and so to shake himself out of it he bobs down when he knows he isn't ready and predictably chokes, pulling back up as his throat spasms. Lister curls over him at the pleasure and swears, but then he's gently tugging on Rimmers hair and helping him back up.

"Hey, hey you don't have to do that," Lister starts, accent thick as it hugs the words, and Rimmer stares up at him from his lap, lips shining. "Smeg…just c'mere, doll."

He's dragged into another kiss and belatedly remembers to stroke a couple times before Rimmers hand just comes to a standstill, lost in making out with Lister, and then they're just two blokes sat in a pub holding each other's pricks.

Lister pulls back but continues to pepper Rimmer with kisses, snatching a few more as he releases the man to fish around in his jacket pockets. When he seems to find what he's looking for, he draws back and rattles two foil packets between his fingers.

"I thought, maybe if you wanted to…?"

Rimmer stares at them and swallows, mouth going dry.

"Uhm…for whom?"

Lister briefly looks between the packets and Rimmer. "Well…I'm easy like, you know. No biggie. Probably gonna have to do it over the table, though."

Rimmer blanks out at that for a number of reasons; 1. The imminent possibility of getting his end away and having full blown sex, 2. That sex possibly, just maybe entailing him getting a cock up the arse, 3. That sex possibly just maybe entailing putting his cock up someone's arse, and 4. Doing all that over a table.

He breathes shallowly, considering.

Rimmer can't pass up on this, he absolutely can't, but as confusingly erotic as the idea of being bent over a table and-- and buggered is, it also makes his heart jump in a decidedly unfun way that's wracked with nerves and fear. What if it hurts? What if he doesn't like it? What if someone comes in?

No, no Lister definitely has more experience in that department than him, and therefore should be the one being buggered. That's just the most logical way to approach this - take the easy road, the one well travelled by probably countless other men. Leave being shagged to the professionals, he says. Leave the rest of it for another time…or more likely, absolutely never.

Not to be touched with a ten foot pole.

Not even to be thought about.

Definitely not fantasised about, no siree.

"I-I want to top," Rimmer says abruptly, and Lister shrugs in feigned nonchalance, licking his lips.

"Yeah, alright. Brutal."

The Scouser eyes the packets with something like trepidation, but then he's chucking them on the table and fiddling with his leathers.

"Do you just want to, uh, watch…or do you want to help?"

"Help," Rimmer says firmly after a moment, because he knows for a fact that if he's left to his own devices in these circumstances, he'll throw himself out of the nearest window if he doesn't just suddenly seize up and die of embarrassment first. He has no smegging clue how to help, but it has be better than sitting around twiddling his thumbs with his cock out while Lister does the do.

"'Kay."

Lister shuffles over to him and swings a leg over his lap in a mimicry of last night, but this time he shuffles his leathers down over the swell of his arse until they constrict around his thighs, unable to be rolled further down for the spread of his legs. It's mind numbingly hot and Rimmer closes his eyes briefly as breathes deeply through his nose, wrangling control of himself before returning to the task at hand. He carefully puts his hands on Listers hips, like despite having him in his mouth a handful of minutes before, this was where the line got drawn.

Lister grabs at the table behind him and picks up one of the packets, tearing it open. He smears what must be lube on his own fingers and then reaches behind himself, and Rimmer feels a hot bolt go through him that's further fanned by the immediate crashing of lips on his.

Lister kisses him desperately as he does something on Rimmers lap, like he needs the distraction, and Rimmer happily meets him on the safe ground that kissing provides. His head is tilted up to meet the man on his lap and it's a novel experience having look up at all, really, but Rimmer doesn't mind when Listers breath hitches against his lips and his hips roll over him. Listers still got that annoyingly attractive deerstalker stuck on his head and the locs pulled over his shoulder hang between them as he cranes his neck and concentrates, stealing kisses every now and then between deep, intentional breaths.

"Oh fuck," Lister curses as he rocks his hips, face twisting and biting his lip. He lets it go moments later to breathe deeply in and out again, and Rimmer gets a front row seat to the all the minute details of his expressions as Lister fingers himself—the sweat building on his brow, the twitch of his eyebrows, the pull of his lips in something that slides between discomfort and intrigue.

Rimmer realises a moment later with hot-flushed humiliation that he's accidentally mirroring the faces being made in front of him, like he's that obsessed he can't help but reflect what he sees, and he promptly snaps himself out of it. Thank God Listers eyes are closed.

One of Rimmers hands clutched on a leather hip is suddenly being pulled away and coated with cool slick, and he can barely catch up with the change in participation when Listers mumbling hotly into the scant space between their faces.

"Go slow," He says, guiding Rimmers hand down until his fingers are dipping between round cheeks and smooth skin meets his palm. Rimmers eyes nearly bug out of his head when he comes into contact with Listers hole, but then he's being captured in a kiss and a warm hand over his guides his fingers inside and smeg-

Listers so hot and warm he can't help but moan into the Scousers mouth, sounding desperate and pathetic and wet behind the ears which is all true but irritates him no less. Listers mouth is slack while Rimmer kisses at it, panting, but he moans and makes an effort to kiss back when Rimmer cautiously starts pumping his fingers, gentle like he might genuinely kill Lister if he smegs it up.

With Rimmers luck, it's entirely possible.

"Yeah, that's it Rimmer," Listers brows are furrowed as he mumbles, sweat and concentration painting his face as he rocks equally cautiously back onto the fingers inside him - Rimmers fingers inside him. He feels awfully tight around them, which on the one hand makes Rimmers straining erection jerk against his coat in an embarrassing show of interest, but also makes him idly wonder what else Lister got up to that day.

Now, Rimmers no expert on gay sex, or indeed sex work of any kind, just to clear that up first and foremost, but surely…surely he should be looser. What else has Lister been doing all day? He's—he's a prostitute, for smegs sake, surely not all of his customers are coming in to ride themselves silly on Listers knob. Maybe one or two, but all of them? that's just absurd…

Rimmer glances down at the dark, angry head of a thick cock bobbing in his lap, framed by parted leather and the tight curls of a happy trail leading up to a soft belly. Want kicks sharply in his gut.

...alright, so maybe they were. But his point still stands.

Rimmer works the two fingers inside Lister up to the second knuckle, sloppily kissing him as he eases them in to the third, fully engulfed. He's making hitched, breathy sounds in between bitten off curses, encouraging Rimmer as he haltingly grinds onto his hand, and if Rimmer didn't know better, he'd think this was Listers first time doing it.

But he does know better, so he takes the put on show with a grain of salt.

"One more," Lister says, so Rimmer pushes a third finger up against the other two and starts pressing it in. "Right, right, and erm…curl them."

He doesn't sound too confident in it but Rimmer does as he says, deferring to expertise, and curls his fingers agasint surprisingly sensitive walls. He feels a bit silly as his fingers aimlessly follow instruction, but then when he adjusts to get a better angle and presses up into a small bump—

"Smeg!"

Lister curls over him and his knees dig into Rimmers thighs, squeezing him hard as he jolts. Rimmer goes to pull his hand away, terrified he's done something wrong, but Listers own hand flies to cover his and keeps him there.

"Keep going, keep—Rimmer, again."

Rimmer stares, slack jawed as he curls his fingers again and again, brushing that spot, and Lister rocks heavily back onto his hand, face drawn up in pleasure as he tightens around his fingers in a novel experience. Rimmer would worry about the very real possibility of slobbering all over the place with his mouth hanging wide open like a fly trap as it is, but frankly he's so painfully tuned in to whatevers happening with Lister that someone could set fire to his crotch right this very minute and he doesn't think it'd make a whiff of difference to him.

"Oh holy smeg," Lister moans into the side of his face, arm wrapping around Rimmers neck as he rolls back into the dazed thrusting of his hand, "Okay, okay—fuck—y'gonna make me come, Rimmer, and we haven't even gotten to the table yet."

Rimmer flushes with the praise and slips his fingers out at Listers urging, freeing the man up to shakily get his legs back under himself and stand. Still holding Rimmers hand in his, Lister draws them around to the open side of the booth and then drops himself on the table with a solid thunk. He's got his arms braced under him, legs spread just the smallest amount with his leathers bunched and cupping under his arse, the bulky leather of his jacket fraught with pins and tags and patches spread out over the table, and he's looking straight over his shoulder at Rimmer in a way that should, by all accounts, kill him dead with how sexy it is.

It surprises Rimmer how manly Lister still looks when bent over the table; it sounds silly when he thinks it—obviously he looks manly since he is, after all, shagging a man—but it's true. The scuff of his black leathers, the glint of metal on his hat, the buckled up boots planted firmly on the ground, locs fanned over his back and tucked between his shoulder and jaw. His wide dark eyes staring at Rimmer wantonly as bitten lips part, the look of his perfect face wrapped in a veneer of toughness. Absolute contradiction to all the thing Rimmer should want.

"You just gonna stare at me, or are you actually gonna come and give it to me, big man?"

Listers face splits into a grin at the familiar words, all gerbil-esq and cute, playful in a way Rimmer has never experienced with another person. It makes his lips twitch in a smile before he schools his features—something easy to do when he's now faced with the actual task of buggering someone and not being a complete and total let down about it.

Rimmer sidles his way up behind Lister, taking the second foil packet proffered to him by a warm hand that had snatched it up off the table. He undoes the buckle of his coat for the first time that night so it splays around him and then tears open the packet, staring at it in intimidation for before rolling the condom over his aching prick in the way he thinks its meant to be done. Rimmer puts the foil trash in his pocket, a habit born of not knowing where the nearest bin is, and nervously rests his hands on the warm hips bent in front of him.

"So, um, I just…put it in then, do I?"

Rimmer cringes. He should have gone through with braining himself earlier in the bar—what on Io was that? 'I just put it in then, do I? Just here? Marvellous. Absolutely fab. Tickety boo. Ta ta, cheerio, pip pip' …Twat.

Lister chuckles, though it sounds a bit uneasy.

"Erm, yeah, guess so. Just go gentle, ey?"

The stupid questions almost put him off, Rimmer thinks morosely, and resolves not to make even more of an idiot out of himself. He takes a deep breath, wrapping a hand around his cock, and nudges it between Listers cheeks until the head catches.

Lister tenses for a moment beneath him but then takes a deep breath and slowly releases it, which is when Rimmer takes his cue to start pushing. His brain short circuits, stalling as he bites his lips near bloody in a desperate attempt to stave of the dizzying rush to his cock. His mind, which up until this point had been screaming at him to not smeg this up, is suddenly silenced by the wet heat engulfing the head of his prick when it pops past the ring of muscle, eased by lube and latex. If Rimmer had even one brain cell to rub against the empty cavern of his mind, he might have briefly thought about how he's probably bruising Lister with how tightly he's clutching at his hips, plush skin marred by fraught fingers. But, as it stands, Rimmer can only think to do his absolute best not to spend right on the spot as a chorus of holy smeg's wind themselves around his head.

He jerkily thrust in, feeding himself only a couple inches or so at a time, and with every push further into that heat he slowly stops being capable of standing up straight. Rimmer folds over Listers back, almost pressing his forehead to the middle of his shoulders as he pants desperately, brows pulling and nostrils flaring as he tries to get through at least seating himself— though even that thought is a dangerous one, and sends a white hot bolt through his body as Rimmer seizes up, fighting his oncoming orgasm back tooth and nail.

Lister is biting the leather arm of his jacket below him, eyes screwed shut as he makes muffled sounds, but he doesn't sound pained or like it's bad, so Rimmer tries to not let it freak him out. Listers so tight around him, hot walls clenching in a dazzling spark of pleasure when Rimmer finally bottoms out, and, in what he later realises was a mistake, looks down at their joined hips.

The angle is all messed up with his head pressed to Listers jacket, looking practically upside down between them, but it doesn't stop the raw shock of intense lust that shoots from his spine to the base of his groin when he looks at his beige uniform pressed against well worn leather, the hitch of Listers jacket and shirt exposing the dimples right above his arse, unable to even see where he disappears into the other man. His own coat acts like a sort of barrier around them, especially hunched over as he is, and Rimmer never stood a chance since the first moment he set eyes on Lister, but it was a nice delusion while it lasted.

Rimmer tenses up and holds Lister tightly to his chest as his cock spasms and his hips buck in short, contained thrusts, orgasm racing up his spine in a sudden rush of white heat. He gets a moan for his troubles, Listers mouth leaving the dents it's made in his jacket to huff into the crook of his elbow instead, making small sounds as Rimmer thrusts and thrusts and thrusts, drawing it out as long as he can stand. It feels too incredible to stop, even when Rimmer finds he can't actually breathe as he grinds in a strange staccato, mouth open and useless. He only manages to still himself when he's buried as far as he can get and physically crumples over Lister, face pressed to his jacket as he finally heaves in oxygen in what's probably a deeply unattractive display.

They stay like that for a while, and it's got to be uncomfortable for Lister but Rimmer really can't bring himself to support his own weigh so he stays folded over against the Scouser, prick still hard in the slowly loosening grip of Listers arse. He's squeezing rhythmically around Rimmer every handful of seconds, few and far between, and it makes his spent cock perk up again for a third time.

"Jesus Smegging Christ," Rimmer huffs, face still squished as he attempts getting his arms under himself again. He braces his forearms on the table, caging Listers chest, and only draws his head up until its just his forehead still pressed to painted leather, harsh pants hitting the jacket and fanning back on to his face.

"You're telling me, guy," Lister says, equally breathless, and Rimmer can both hear and feel him speak, pressed as he is against him. He doesn't think he's ever had this much prolonged contact with another person under any circumstances, ever. "You got another one in you?"

Rimmer moans and nods senselessly against Listers back.

"C'mon then, ey? Let's see it, Arnie."

With another embarrassing whine, Rimmer bolsters himself and starts thrusting again, slow and short as he works his sensitive prick through his own spend, mind dazed at the thought. He feels a bit like a dog, just mindlessly grinding and panting, so Rimmer closes his eyes and licks his lips and concentrates—really concentrates—on trying to find that mysterious spot again that had made Lister light up earlier.

He feels a bit stupid after a few minutes and a lot like he's using his cock as a joystick, but then he thrusts in properly and Lister jolts under him, groaning into the table in a sudden shock of pleasure.

"There, Rimmer, again—"

Rimmer doesn't need to be told twice and soon he's fucking into Lister at an angle that makes the other man moan against the table and ball his fists up, writhing against sturdy oak. Rimmers eyes open and shut in an endless cycle—they close in the face of overwhelming sensation, the hot walls around him relentlessly squeezing, the sound of Listers voice as it catches and loops on uttered 'oh smeg' s and 'fuck, fuck's. But then they snap open again when Rimmer thinks he can't possibly risk missing any part of this; Listers hips rocking back fervently to meet him, the line of his shoulders braced against the table, the proximity of him as Rimmer makes him feel good and the evidence therein. Even just watching the back of Listers head where the rim of his deerstalker sits and his locs sprawl out of is noteworthy.

Rimmer drives himself deeper into Lister, feeling another orgasm creeping up on him, held off only temporarily by the last, and he pleads with every God in the known universe to please please please make Lister come before he does. He's had enough premature ejaculations in so many days to last him a lifetime, so if no one minds he'd really like someone else to come first for a change, please and thank you, much appreciated, hugs and kisses, signed A. J. Rimmer, Bsc Ssc.

Rimmer throws himself into it for the next couple of minutes, hoping against all hope he can last as he fucks into Lister and draws louder and louder sounds from the man, the warm leather-clad body beneath his with a smeggy carton shirt on it twisting and grinding as they pant together. Lister pulls himself up onto his forearms, really rocking back to meet Rimmers thrusts now, and Rimmers chin ends up hooked over his shoulder as they fill the pub air with heat and noise.

Rimmer is walking a dangerous line now, insincere prayers unanswered as his hips lose rhythm, so he desperately takes matters into his own hands - quite literally - and does the age old reach around. It shouldn't still be shocking, not with his cock currently in another man's arse, but wrapping his fingers around a hot, hard length is still just as electrifying as as it was earlier. A new lewd sound rings out in the air as he works Lister over to the best of his limited ability with quick, wet strokes, and it only takes a few passes before Listers tensing up around him, locking unsteadily as he jerks forward into Rimmers hand and then back onto his cock with a shouted "Rimmer!", cursing and huffing as he goes, a bow pulled taught below him.

Rimmer mercifully goes with him, task accomplished by the barest hair of a single thread, and comes again in the spent condom while Lister grips him like a vice, hot and pulsing and feeling like he's trying to rip Rimmers soul out through his body. He'll willingly give it at this rate, what with the sharp rush of an intense orgasm mellowing out into a honey heat that has him lazily grinding, sparks of overstimulation making his prick jerk and his balls tighten anew.

He's mindless, genuinely mindless as he lies over the top of Lister, anything and everything that could possibly be said going in one ear and out the other. Rimmer can't even bring himself to sit up, can't bring himself to move as he stays in that embracing warmth despite the discomfort, breathing harshly in the now well familiar back of a leather jacket.

They stay like that for minutes, hours, maybe even days. Rimmers panted breaths echoing around his own head in the absence of his mind and blessedly, any thoughts.

Lister might be speaking to him now, something being said, but Rimmer has no clue what, if anything at all, is being spoken. There's a hand on his hip that's angled weirdly, and then Listers pulling off his cock and Rimmers sad to feel him go. He's left adrift for a moment before gentle hands are taking the condom off and then he's just kind of standing around with a cooling, wet prick exposed to the air, but again its only for a moment before those hands are tucking him away and carefully doing up his fly. Rimmer idly thinks his shirt is tucked in all wrong, but at least it is tucked in so the thought leaves him as soon as it comes.

He's sitting down before he knows it, back on the red booth with a sturdy body next to him and an arm thrown back around his shoulder, and Rimmer can feel himself leaning into it and folding his awkward body into the spaces provided: head laid on a shoulder, his own wedged beneath an armpit, arms cradled, legs nearly crossed over Listers lap.

When Rimmer finally comes to, Listers drinking the forgotten pint of warm Lager on the table.

He's got a look on his face, a contemplative one that has him staring into nothing across the other side of the room with the rim of the pint glass pressed to his bottom lip, but then he shakes his head and grins before taking another swig, and that seems to be that.

Rimmer wishes it were that simple. Any minute now his brain is going to realise that its stopped being shut up and go absolutely spare on him…but for the time being, while he still feels boneless and blissed out, Rimmer thinks he'll just try enjoying this.

He sighs through his nose in a rush of contentment and Lister glances down at him as best he can.

"Back with me, Arnie? Went walk abouts for a minute there, thought I broke you."

"You did." Rimmer does something adjacent to nestling into the crook of Listers shoulder.

"Oh ey? Sorry mate, " Lister laughs.

"No, its—it's… Is that my pint?"

"Hm? Oh, yeah, s'pose so…d'you want it back? There's still some left."

Rimmer closes his eyes and his fingers start to fidget in his lap, neuroses creeping back in with world-renowned speed.

"No, no you have it…"

His limbs seem to go rigid, like they've remembered where they're meant to be and it's decidedly not being half spread out over another person, but he also doesn't want to bring attention to his immediate and unrempatant awareness so he stays where he is. Blessedly, his body still feels too physically lax to be as tense as it normally is, so he thinks he might get away with it.

Rimmer looks down at his twisting fingers, wishing he was stood facing the wall with a cement block on his head when a question he didn't authorise himself asking slips past his lips.

"Was that…any good?"

Lister pauses the Lager halfway to his lips, then puts the glass back down on the table, unsipped.

"Good? You're a little minx, Rimmer. Acting all shy like last night just to pull this on me? Smegging brutal, man. You smashed it."

Rimmer looks up at him from his shoulder, a dubious little inkling of pathetic hope fluttering in his chest. He keeps his voice suspicious.

"Really?"

Lister lets go of the glass to hold his hand up. "Scouts honour, cross me heart and hope to die. You're a good lay, Rimmer."

He picks the Lager up again and pauses when it gets to his lips, shaking his head almost in disbelief.

"And that thing you do where you just keep going after you've come, smeg…properly hot, mate."

Rimmer chokes on nothing while Lister skulls the rest of the pint, and he feels very pleased but also deeply mortified at the same time by the praise. They sit like that for a while longer, tucked together in a way Rimmer doesn't want to pull away from but also steadily feels more emasculated by, and he doesn't want to contend with the rest of the world but he's also sure Lister doesn't have all night, so this has to end one way or another. Rimmer would rather leave on his own terms than suffer the humiliation of being asked to go, so before he's really ready, he forces himself to sit up ramrod straight from the worryingly comfortable cut of Listers body and look dead ahead at the other wall. He smacks his hands on his knees.

"Rightio," Rimmer says with false bravado, an octave higher than necessary, "Probably done here, then, I should say. Best we get a move on I think."

Lister shuffles on the leather, playing with the empty pint on the table. "Already?"

"Well we haven't got all night, miladdo. Places to do, things to be. I'm sure you've got…business to attend to. Later. Right?"

Lister is silent beside him for a long moment, still pressed against the leather seat, but then he also slowly sits up.

"…Right." Lister echoes in a sullen tone, and then he's following Rimmer out of the booth and back into the main pub area, the red window on the door turning clear again with their departure.

They shuffle awkwardly down the stairs, a completely different wrong-footed feeling souring Rimmers stomach than the anxiously excited one he'd had going in, and the cool air of the night does little to aid it.

"Come on," Lister says lowly, crossing the street to the Hopper, "I'll take you back."

"Yes please," Rimmer responds, like they're making polite conversation. Which is what this is now, he guesses. Small talk.

...or no talk at all, as they climb into the buggy and take off. The quiet hum of the motor and the mechanical press of hydraulics is the only sound between them as the streets race past once again, eaten up in the giant footsteps of the Hopper. Rimmer looks out the window, hands twisting in his lap as he searches desperately for something to say that isn't completely goitish.

He comes up with nothing.

Lister doesn't seem angry, at least, in the quick glances Rimmer risks sneaking at him. He just seems…put out, maybe. Like he expected something. Rimmer tends to let people down in that regard.

The Hopper slows down and Rimmer realises they're back at the street corner they met on. Lister doesn't make a move to get out, but he does talk for the first time since getting in.

"Guess this is where I leave you."

"Yes, yep, this would be the place."

They sit in silence.

"…Right, guess I'll just be off then, shall I. I'll just—yep."

Screw going back to the ship, Rimmers going to find a bin he can crawl into and die.

He cracks open the Hopper door but then pauses, remembering his part of the deal, and starts fumbling around in his coat. Rimmers face flushes something hot and shameful as the only sound between them is the shuffling of fabric and the papery rustle of dollarpound notes, made at least ten times more awkward by their premature goodbyes, and he stiffly holds a waded up bundle of money out towards Lister. The man looks between him and the crumpled stack for an excruciating, long moment before gently taking it, relieving Rimmer of this humiliation ritual and letting him bound out the car a moment later and slam the door shut entirely too loudly.

Rimmer crosses to the other side of the buggy and checks the road for cars, hands fisted tightly in his officers jacket, and then he's making his escape across an empty street lit only by the dim glint of shoddy streetlights. He forces himself to walk away, soothing the incessant screaming in his mind by telling it he'll be off shore of Mimas by this time tomorrow night, so everything's fine. Everything's fine.

His stomach, for some reason, only seems to sour more.

When Rimmer gets to the corner of the building, almost out of sight, he risks a glance back.

The Hoppers still there, unmoved, and Listers shadowed face is watching him from the cabin.

Rimmer looks away and scurries off.

Chapter Text

"Whaddya mean it's not me?" Lister balks.

"That is not you."

"I-it could be! You don't know."

"It isn't, and I do know."

Lister stares balefully at the passport in his hand, the one that belongs to an Emily Berkenstein who admittedly, looks nothing like him. He leans on the counter of the Mimas Central Shuttle Station Lounge and licks his lips.

"You know, there's all kinds of medical stuff here on Mimas—hair transplants, skin grafts, you name it, they do it. Just got caught up in it all, didn't I? Wanted a new lease on life, that's it."

"Right, and that 'new lease on life' included an accent change from Australian to Liverpuddlian?"

"Oi! I don't like your tone," Lister squints at the attendant, straightening up, "…but it could do."

The woman clicks some buttons on the abstract keyboard in front of her and levels him with the same uninterested look that had made its way into their conversation about five minutes ago, when she first discovered Listers passport was a dud. Lister worries his lip. "Fine, fine…how long then to get a new one?"

"Between two to three weeks."

"Three weeks? I can't last another three smegging weeks, It'll kill me! Isn't there anything else?"

She raises her brow. "For intergalactic space travel? No."

Lister looks around the terminal like a solution would jump out at him, but unfortunately there's only the slow queuing of other customers and the occasional, barely audible announcement of flight times and delays. He looks back to the attendant.

"Can't you help a guy out? I don't know how I got here, I just wanna go home, I have the money— but I won't in three weeks! Surely you know what it's like out there, you live here for smegs sake. Is there nothing you can do?"

The woman sighs gently and tilts her head, hands resting on the keyboard. "There's nothing I personally can do about the wait time for a passport, but filing for one now means that you will have one for the future regardless of financial status, right? That time will pass anyway since you can't go anywhere, so at the end of three weeks you either have nothing or you have a working passport," She picks some flyers up from around her desk and a scrap of paper, handing them over to Lister.

"These are for agencies that you can apply to for help—they're stretched thin as is, but they might be willing to put you up for a week or two if you really will keep the money for a ticket and get out of there. On that paper you'll find the port of some recently docked ships that are leaving sometime this afternoon; I don't know if they're hiring, but they're mostly labouring ships so I doubt they'll say no to an extra pair of hands. No clue where they're headed but it's off Mimas, at least."

Lister stares at the shiny brochures in his hands and slips them into the breast pocket of his thin jacket, keeping the scrap of paper with scribbled directions and printed ship names on it in his palm. He nods at the attendant, giving her a grateful smile even though he's still bummed out about having to stay on this God awful planet for any longer than he has to. It's not really that he thought the plan would work, but still. A man can hope.

"Thanks, really," He mutters with a tip of his deetstalker, turning to leave the terminal, bereft but at least not entirely without a plan.

Lister looks down at the paper, skimming the list. The ship names are mostly all dull grey and metal blue with different arrangements of acronyms stamped beside them, penned in port numbers along the mysterious letters like the attendant had scribbled them herself as a reminder. At the bottom of the list is a bright red blocky script that catches his eye with the letters JMC printed next to it.

Red Dwarf, Mining Ship.

The Space Corps crewmates on the poster smile unnervingly at Lister from behind the stuffy man sat at a gleaming desk in front of him. Coldicott strikes something from the form with a withered sigh and then holds the papers out, picking up the phone on his desk and stabbing random buttons with his other hand.

"If you'd just like to read this though and sign what I've indicated."

Lister takes the clipboard from him and skims the document, eager to get on with it.

This was smegging brilliant - why hadn't he thought of this before? Forget the rest, this was how you did it: join the Space Corps, sign up for an earthbound ship, and once you get planet-side—thank you and goodnight! Sod off, never to be seen again!

He can practically see it stamped on his file now; Lister, David, AWOL.

It puts a grin on his face.

Lister signs the form and pockets the pen Coldicott gave him, chain and all, and hands the papers back. Coldicott puts them on his desk as he briefs the signatures, hanging the phone up without even saying goodbye like no one was actually on the other end. He turns to Lister.

"Okay, so the situation is this; there are fourteen ships in dock, but no vacancies for anyone with your…abilities."

Lister nods. "Right…what are my abilities?"

"You haven't got any," Coldicott breezes past, "You'll have to enter at third technician level."

"…Technician?"

"That's right."

"Techniiicciiiaaann," Lister sings, grinning at his new swanky title, "I'm a bleeding techniicciiaan, don't you know?"

Coldicott methodically thumbs the sharp point of his fancy pen and looks at Lister like he's mental.

"Right…yes...as soon as something crops up, we'll let you know. Leave your address."

"Address?" The Scouser repeats, thinking, then scribbles the directions 'luggage locker 4179, Mimas Central Shuttle Station' onto a scrap of paper. Coldicott takes it and stares at it for a moment before sighing and putting it with his form.

"Okay, thank you. That's all."

"Brutal," Lister stands and holds his hand out. Coldicott reluctantly takes it.

Lister flings his jacket over his shoulder and struts out of the building, nodding to the receptionist as he shows himself out. It wasn't exactly the get hired on the spot moment he'd been hoping for, but it was still something to add to his increasing list of backup plans and plans for the backup plans. At least his name was on paper for being picked, and that was a step closer to going home than he was earlier, so it wasn't all bad.

Still, Lister muses as he makes his way back to the Mimas Central Shuttle Station, preparing to hunker down for the long haul, not exactly great, is it?

He's still stuck here, very much not looking at Mimas from a rear view mirror but rather with his feet still planted firmly planet-side. All of his accumulated belongings stuffed in a dufflebag and thrown in a locker, useless passport tucked in the back pocket of his green cargo pants. He pats himself down for a pack of fags and lights one up as he ambles down the street, people and cars passing by in their own little worlds. It could almost be Earth, if Lister squinted his eyes and tilted his head and ignored the oppressive atmosphere Mimas seemed to innately exude.

He sighs.

At least he's got a bit of spare cash to see him through to the end of the week, if he can avoid any pubs or getting mugged, and that's on top of his ticket cost. Rimmer—whether he knew it or not—had handed over an extra $£100 dollarpounds last night in the Hopper. Lister likes to think he would've given it back had he known, but at the time he was feeling a bit out of sorts and just took the money without question; Rimmer could've just as easily shorted him $£100 and Lister wouldn't have known until half an hour later, when he'd finished aimlessly cruising the Hopper around and parked it near Mimas Station for the night, turning in. He'd taken the money straight back to his locker where the rest of his meagre funds were, not being stupid enough to carry it around with him in the parts of Mimas he taxied, and had idly counted it up while shaking off the last of his discontent.

He'd paused when he got to the last note, staring at the stack, and had then counted it again, thinking he couldn't possibly have done it right when he ended up at a thousand and one dollarpounds. I'm tired, he'd thought, sifting through the notes again with caution. When he'd finished his recount the score was still the same: $£1,100 dollarpounds.

Lister hadn't really known what to do with it, but it'd been too late to do much about it anyway at the time so he'd stuffed it into his bag, shut the locker, and gone to sleep on a shite plastic bench like the handful of other people in the station waiting for their flights.

Now, walking down the busy lane leading to Mimas Station, Lister thinks he probably earned it. Especially after the way they left things.

Maybe that's just how it's done, he doesn't know—it was his first shag as a prostitute and he's willing to bet Rimmers first one as a John, so they were both in the deep end and it's genuinely shocking nothing went more askew than it did. In hindsight, walking away with some bruised feelings (and bruised hips, which Lister had ghosted his fingers over in a bathroom stall earlier when he'd noticed them)is the least that could've gone wrong, but still. Would've been nice to sit there for at least a little longer, another warm body tucked up against his after literally having the guy inside him. Lister had only really messed around with fingers a couple times way back when this chic he used to date introduced him to new and enlightened 23rd century ideas of sex, but he'd never gone the whole nine smegging yards, so sue him if he wanted a bit of a cuddle after.

Lister stubs his fag on the metal rim of a bin outside the station and tosses it in, waving at the motion sensors when the doors to the building don't immediately open.

It's not Rimmers fault, Lister thinks rationally, even though he still feels like he needs to blame something for the weird ending to the night, He didn't know. Lister probably could've asked for a hug, but he didn't, and Rimmer seemed eager to get out of there once he'd gotten his wits back about himself. By that point it was just kind of strange, and really what was he to say? 'Hey guy, I'm not actually a prostitute—though I do still expect that $£500 dollarpounds when we pull up (it's a long story don't ask)—and you've just bummed me for the first time and it was great but I kind of wanted a cuddle now, if I'm honest, so. There.'

How would he have pulled that off?

Whatever, it was a moot point anyway. What happened, happened, and Lister knows better for next time to put 20 minute cuddle in the contract. See? Sorted…not that he really plans on there being a next time, anyway.

Lister makes his way back to his locker, idly listening to the overhead announcements as he puts his combination in and clicks it open, taking out a few dollarpound notes to buy himself some lunch. There's not much around in the airport, surprisingly, but there is a kebab shop that smothers everything in sauce and doesn't skimp on the meat, so he buys a veggie-less chicken & doner chilli-drenched abomination and settles himself on a plastic seat in front of his locker, beginning his long vigil as he waits for the Space Corp to get back to him.

...a vigil that lasts all of 10 minutes.

He's at the bottom of his kebab—arguably the most temperamental and dangerous place to be during the meal, when you're holding what's essentially a foil wrapped bag of grease that wants to spill any minute, fighting tooth and nail as you strategically plot which part to bite next—when a postie stands in front of his locker and tries slipping something into it.

"Hey," Lister says around a mouthful of food, a glob of chilli falling onto his shirt, "That's mine, I mean, that's me."

The postie turns and frowns when he sees Lister, envelope still half jammed into a slit on the locker. "…What's your name?"

"Lister. David Lister, locker 4179." He makes a grabby motion at the letter.

The postie glances at the mail and, seeming to see his name on it, cautiously passes the envelope to Listers greasy, reaching fingers.

"Cheers man," Lister chews, balancing the ball of sauce and grease and loose meat his kebab has become in his lap as he tears at the pristine paper, yellow prints marring it. It's got the Space Corp logo printed on the front.

Smeg that was quick.

Lister pulls the letter out and skims it, catching a few words here and there before forcing himself to go from the top and read it properly.

Lister fist pumps the air and jumps from his seat, his kebab falling on the floor.

"Yeeeeeessss!"

Mimas can get smegged, Lister thinks smugly with a grin as he watches it from the view port, sneaking it that quick two fingered salute he'd promised earlier as his ship guide turns his back.

Red Dwarf, a massive brute of a mining ship that actually was red, had departed not long after Lister had boarded. Felt a bit like last call to port as people has scurried in from all over, a sea of beige suits that reminded him of Rimmers—guess Lister would have his own soon enough seeing as there was no way they could return him now, headed into space as the ship was.

Good riddance, Lister thinks, and they can't get rid of me now! Earth, here I come!

"Right, now this is the part I wanted to wait until we were space-locked to tell you about…if you want to change bunkrooms, no one would blame you. I mean, it's usually a bit of a hassle and all that, but these are, let's say, extenuating circumstances."

They're walking away from a bar Listers definitely going to get to know better called Parrots, and his guide, Peterson, a guy he could probably get on with over a drink, is leading him down grey panelled hallways.

"You'll be sharing a bunk with your superior officer—although he's not superior by much, really—and he's, well…he's a character, that's the nice way of putting it. He's in charge of Z-shift, which is the shift you're in, so unfortunately you do have to put up with that but honestly, no one really listens to him anyway, so. As long as you keep your head down and get the job done, the Captain won't really care about whatever reports he writes up."

Lister frowns. Reports? Eh?

Peterson gestures unenthusiastically up the hall as they take a bend, metal clanging sounds ringing out from further up.

"He should be just here, I think. Got the Scutters today since no one else wanted to work with him." Peterson points ahead, "Yeah, there he is. Second Technician Arnold Rimmer."

Listers mind blanks even before Peterson confirms the name, and he stares stock-still at his John lecturing a pair of knee-high machines banging at the wall with socket wrenches.

"No, no, you useless piles of rusted metal—! The other one, the other—the thing! The—oh, to hell with it."

Rimmers' stood next to a service trolley packed with tools and is shaking his head down at a clipboard, scribbling furiously as the Scutters wave their chosen weapons of rebellion in victory. Belatedly, Lister thinks he looks just as good out of the officers coat as he does in it, and then wants to laugh for no humorous reasons.

"Yes, yes, laugh it up now, you glorified pair of tongs…We'll see who has the last laugh when you get put in the trash compactor, won't we?"

"Writing the Scutters up again, are we, Arnold? Poor bastards can't even defend themselves, they don't have mouths," Peterson walks up to the trio standing around an open panel in the wall, wires exposed, and Rimmer straightens up like a string being pulled at the sound of another voice.

He looks up wildly, immediately on the defensive, and Lister knows the exact moment Rimmer spots him behind Peterson because he goes white as a sheet and snaps his clipboard clean in half.

No. Smegging. Way.

"Woah," Peterson says, letting out a small chuckle, "Didn't think you'd go that far. Throwing the report out would've been enough, Rimmer, Jesus. Way to greet the new guy."

Peterson slaps a hand on Listers shoulder and Lister doesn't even blink— can't, with the way he and Rimmer are locked in a wide eyed stare. "Speaking of, this is your new technician, David Lister. Might want to show him the ropes and give him his schedule first before scaring him off, eh? Lister, this is Rimmer."

Yeah no shit, guy.

Lister swallows roughly and is suddenly very aware of the marks on his hips.

"Erm. Hiya, Rimmer."

Peterson looks between them oddly; It might have something to do with the strained silence, with Rimmers' looking like he's one light breeze away from throwing up and falling over & Listers low voice carrying an odd tune as he greets a man he's not supposed to already know. "Right…ok then, I'll just…leave you to it. Remember what I told you about the bunks, eh mate?"

Lister nods absently. "Yeah, yep, cheers."

Peterson spares them both one last odd look and a pat to the shoulder before continuing up the hall, presumably having his own duties to attend to that don't involve chaperoning Lister around the ship and showing him the goings-on—something his superior officer could reasonably do instead.

Lister swallows again, unsure of what to say next as the seconds tick past. 'Fancy seeing you here' doesn't quite seem to cut it. He licks his lips.

"Rimmer—"

Lister barely manages to get the guys name out before Rimmers legging it up the hall, leaving the snapped clipboard on the ground and the tray of tools and socket-wrench wielding Scutters behind in a comical dash. He's frantically pressing the buttons to an elevator way up ahead, looking over his shoulder like Lister was going to jump him at any second, and when it doesn't come quick enough he swears loudly and darts off to a different door, throwing himself into it and letting it clatter shut behind him with a hollow, ringing sound.

Lister stares at the now-empty hallway, stunned, and has no clue what the smeg just happened as silence settles in the wake of Rimmers mad dash away from him.

The Scutters shake their wrenches.

It takes Lister a while to get to his bunk—their bunk?—and he has to ask a few people where it is, where he is, before he ends up on an elevator to his supposed floor, Holly the ships' computer taking up the task of chaperoning him.

Listers gripping his duffle bag with white knuckles as he stands around in the lift, staring at the doors and the changing floor numbers as it rattles upwards. He feels restless and weak at the same time, like he wants to walk around and burn the nerves off but if he unlocked his rigid knees for even a second while the elevator was still moving, he'd flip out. He sensibly decides to stay where he is.

"So you're just kind of around then, are you Hol?" Lister asks, seeking a distraction.

"You could say that. Bit like God, really, if you think about it. Less omnipotence and more intelligence, I'd say, but just as omnipresent."

"Isn't that a bit blasphemous?"

"You hear what you want to hear, Dave. If God has a problem with it, he knows where to find me. It's not like I can run anywhere—well, not literally, anyway. If we're talking about disks, then that a whole different story."

"Doesn't it get a bit much? Having a whole bunch of people asking you a ton of questions all at once? Think it'd do me head in."

The projection on the screen shrugs, even though it's just a face. "You get used to it. I've got an IQ of six thousand, remember? It's all a bit same-old same-old after a while. Not much I don't have an answer for."

Lister counts the floors, shuffling his bag again. "What, even like…the meaning of life, or something?"

"Yep."

"…Well? Go on, then."

"What?"

"Whats the meaning of life?"

"42."

Lister stares incredulously at the screen. "42? How can it be a number? You're taking the smeg."

"Nope. I've got it on pretty good authority that the meaning of life is 42. Take it or leave it, the fact remains the same."

Lister shakes his head and lets the room settle in silence again before he glances down at his boots, the nerves in his belly not wholly the elevators fault. "Can you see everywhere in the ship, Hol? Like the bunks?"

"I can, Dave, although unlike God I don't make a habit of spying on people in their private rooms. Usually I have to be summoned, unless I have an urgent message or notice."

"Right…it's just that, erm, well is Rimmer in there?"

"Right now? No."

"Oh. Ok."

Holly gives him a minute to elaborate but as the elevator climbs higher and higher, almost at his floor, the ships computer speaks up again when he realises Lister isn't going to.

"He's not all that bad, despite the neuroses. He's just terrified of making a fool of himself, which is a bit ironic, really. Self fulfilling prophecy, that one." The elevator dings as it reaches the correct floor and Holly nods to him, "If you give him a chance and make an effort, I think you two could really get on."

Getting on might've been the problem in the first place.

Still, Lister considers the words as a rush of relief floods him when the doors open and affirm that he didn't plummet to his death. He tips his deerstalker to the screen.

"Thanks, Hol. I'll keep it in mind."

With that, Lister leaves the lift and follows the signs on the walls of the grey metal corridor as they direct him towards the bunks. He counts rooms as he goes, ignoring the weird mix of trepidation and relief and excitement brewing in his belly. He doesn't really know how he feels about the whole thing—it's not bad, per se, but Rimmers response hadn't exactly instilled any confidence in him about it at all. Snapping a clip board in half and scarpering from the guy you'd shagged 24 hours ago didn't prelude itself to warm, fuzzy feelings weirdly enough.

Lister stops outside what he's pretty sure is the correct bunk and hesitantly holds his hand up to the panel next to the metallic doors, watching as it scans his hand and turns green, the doors unlocking. He releases the breath he was holding.

The room inside is…immaculate. He probably should gave guessed, considering practically everything about Rimmer, but it still looks lived in despite that. The bunk is the first thing he's drawn to, being such a prominent part of the room and closest to the door. The top bunk is unmade—his, Lister supposes—but the bottom one has tightly tucked sheets and a carefully pressed pillow. A small JMC triangle banner is pinned to the wall of the bunk as well as a boy scouts participation ribbon, two no smoking signs, and a handful of small paper cutouts featuring the name 'Arnold', which have been painstakingly clipped and tacked up: 'Arnie's the best!' 'Let's go Arnold!'

It's kind of cute, in a way.

Lister puts his duffle on the bunk above and then moves over to the sink and table, observing the lone toothbrush and it's neatly placed bottle of toothpaste. The desk has a few small stacks of paper on it and a book on historical tactical manoeuvres that looks well worn around the edges, grey mesh pen holder filled with ballpoints and highlighters next to it. Most interesting is the thick book reading Watercolour Paper on top with a case of high-quality watercolours next to it, splotches of colour littering the case telling of its frequent use. Lister brushes his fingers over the paper.

The thudding sound of someone desperately on the run thunders up the hallway and he can barely turn around before Rimmers dashing into the room and slamming his hand on the panel inside, shouting 'Close, close, smegging close!' as he heaves in air. When the doors shut Rimmer bends over and puts his hands on his knees, red-faced as he huffs and puffs, trying to catch his breath and looking like he'd run the full length of the ship and back again. It's all that rings out in the room between them as he frantically pants, slowly straightening up from his hunched over stance, clinging to the cool metal wall next to the door like a lifeline. Rimmer puts a hand to his chest as if his heart might explode and turns his shaking back to the bunk entrance.

When he opens his eyes a second later and sees Lister stood on the opposite side of the room, caught, Rimmer screams bloody murder.

"AAAAA—What are you doing in here!?"

"No need to shout, man, I'm pretty sure it's my bunk too—" Lister stares at him for a beat, "—Did you take the stairs?"

Rimmer, still clinging to the wall behind him like Lister were an alien about to launch at him and rip his chest open, pants heavily. "No. Of course not. No."

"…You did, didn't you? Rimmer that's like, fiteen flights."

Rimmer slides a hand down his face. "This can't be happening."

"Oh—cheers guy, it's nice to see you too."

"This can't be happening, it can't. Why are you here? Why are you doing this to me? Oh God," Rimmer steamrolls, easing up from the wall but only to put a hand to his stomach and lurch over like he was going to spew, "I'm going to be sick. I'm going to—oh God."

Lister thinks about what Holly said, about his own experiences with the unique vulnerability and immediate defensiveness of Rimmers behaviour, and puts his hand out. "Alright, alright, just calm down, Rimmer. Take a seat or something man before you fall over. Everythings fine."

"Nothing is fine! Oh God everyone's going to find out, I'm going to be laughed out of an airlock, I'll never recover."

"Why would anybody find out?"

"Because you're—you're—well! What if someone recognises you??"

Lister licks his lips, and drops his hand. "Rimmer, no one's gonna recognise me."

"How do you know that? This isn't the first time we've docked at Mimas, maybe you've just forgotten! You've probably seen a lot of people in your line of work, you can't remember all of them! But they'll remember! And they'll—oh God—"

"Rimmer—"

"This is just like me, I'm going to be sick, I'm actually—"

"Rimmer—"

"You'll move bunk, won't you? Of course you will, God what the smeg am I saying—"

"Rimmer! No one's gonna recognise me cause I'm not a bleeding prostitute! And I dont live on Mimas, man, I'm from Earth, so put that in your pipe and smoke it. Just calm down, guy."

"This is so ty—" Rimmer freezes against the wall, silent for a long few moments as his face does a myriad of things. "What?" He asks faintly, at last, "You're…you're not a—a—"

"No. And even if I was, wouldn't they be telling on themselves if they did know me?" Lister watches as Rimmer slowly straightens up, standing still himself like the guy were a skittish horse, "I only shagged you, Rimmer. At least only on Mimas…and for pay."

In complete Rimmer fashion, the guy abandons the nervous animal act in favour of dragging some thicker armour over himself, something defensive to hide the soft spots he's unwittingly shown. It's incredible to watch in real time; the frantic latching on to anything that might protect him, any aggressive self-loathing that can distract from his earlier display. An open book desperately trying to shut itself, Lister recalls.

"Oh that's great—that's wonderful, yes, please do tell me how I'm the only person you've ever charged for sex! I don't believe it. I honestly don't believe it—you know what, actually, I do—of course that happened to me! Typical Rimmer luck, I should have seen this coming from a mile away, I absolutely should have seen this! That's just sooo me. Approach the one guy that isn't a harlot and still get charged for sex, that's got me written all over it in big, bright letters— 'Arnold J Rimmer, Grade A Gimboid and Goitish Git!'"

"Woah, it's not personal Rimmer! You were the second guy to approach me, man, I said no to the other one!"

Rimmer laughs at that, high pitched and panicked. "As if that makes it better!"

"I don't get what the problem is," Lister starts, squinting at the frenzied man as he puts his hands on his hips, "No one else knows, no one's gonna know unless you keep screaming your head off about it, and so what if we shagged? That's our business, you and me."

"That's precisely it, Lister—business! I-I paid you! And now you're here!"

Lister screws up his face and shrugs his shoulders, lost. "What do you want, Rimmer? I'll give you the smegging money back if it's really all that."

"That's the—…what?"

"I only wanted it for a ticket back to Earth, guy, you can have it back if it means that much," Lister marches over to his bag thrown on the top bunk and scrounges around until he finds the healthy stack of dollarpounds, holding the bundled up roll out to Rimmer. "There. Minus the cost of a kebab."

He doesn't really want to give the money over—he did earn it fair and square after all—but if it was doing Rimmers head in that bad, he'd put the guy out of his misery and just give it back, save them both the headache since they're meant to be roommates and all that. Lister got what he wanted in the end anyway: a ride back to earth. He even has a job now to make his own money, and they've just left Mimas and probably won't be planet-side anywhere anytime soon, so. Where was Lister even going to spend it? He'll make it up easy over the 5 year journey home.

Rimmer stares at him and the cash for a long time before speaking.

"…You'd give it back? Just like that?" He asks, looking at Lister dubiously.

"Yeah man."

"Which means we'd have…done the deed…for free?"

For a guy who had just been screaming about them having sex a minute ago, the sudden embarrassment to say it is bewildering. Lister shrugs, still lost. "Yeah, I s'pose?"

"…Me? Free?" Rimmer blinks, staring at Lister like he'd grown a second head.

"That's generally how it goes, Rimmer, you don't typically charge for sex."

"Yes, but me, have you considered it's me."

Lister squints at him and drops the fistful of cash to his hip, "I feel like you're getting too hung up on that, man—Yes, I'd shag you for free. Now do you want the bloody money or not?"

"Why?" Rimmer asks, baffled.

"Why what? Why would I shag you?" The Scouser shakes his head, feeling like they're going round in circles. What was it Holly said? He thinks, Never wants to make a fool of himself first?

Well Lister didn't like making a fool of himself either, but it had never stopped him before.

"You really are a strange guy, Rimmer," Lister pauses. Here goes, he thinks, "But you're a good lay, and you're easy on the eyes, and when you're not getting stuck up in that smeghead brain of yours, you're—fun. Is that what you want to hear?"

"Fun?" Rimmer breathes.

"Yeah man. You rocked up looking for sex with a stick on 'stache and a stupid accent you couldn't keep even if your life depended on it—that's fun. It's part of what made me say yes, all interesting, like, y'know."

Rimmer's still looking at him like he's got two heads but then he straightens himself up and wipes his hands down his shirt, nervously fixing his crumpled appearance. He swallows and flattens his tie, trying to affix some superior expression to his face but failing miserably.

"I could have been crazy for all you knew, Lister, that was reckless. Could have been absolutely nuts."

Lister shrugs, unbothered. "Says the guy who propositioned a stranger in downtown Mimas—I could have been absolutely nuts, Rimmer. Worked out in the end, though, didn't it. Least I thought so."

Rimmer eyes him up and down, might even be properly looking at him for the first time that—day? Night? Afternoon? Was time still the same in space?—without the blinding haze of panic. His face is slightly softer, not as highly strung as five minutes ago—still guarded, but Lister can see now the worried crease of his brow, the quirk of his lip as he seems to roll words around in his mouth. Lister doesn't think he's given the guy a reason to be so cagey, but he suspects there's larger things at play if even the ships computer knows of this supposed reputation Rimmer has.

"You're not wearing your leathers." Rimmer mutters. apropos of nothing and following some logic Lister isn't privy to—if there's any logic at all.

Lister looks down at himself; A ratty tee, a light jacket, cargo pants, and his hat still sat on his head. A far cry from the bulky leathers he'd favoured when taxiing at all hours of the freezing night.

"Erm…no, I'm not?"

When Rimmer doesn't elaborate, Lister hedges a guess.

"Why? D'you like 'em?"

"Don't be daft," Rimmer bites out on instinct, face flushing red, but then he visibly pauses with something like begrudging regret and makes an attempt to meet Lister where he's at, reciprocating, even if it looks a bit like hes pulling teeth to do it. "…Obviously I do."

Rimmer sounds like he's bereft to hear the words come out of his own mouth and so avoids looking at Listers face, twiddling instead with non-existent threads on his uniform as he frowns down at nothing, shoulders tense but straight. That odd mix of rigid-postured-resignation like he's bolted in place and has to take whatever incoming attack there is on the chin—and there's always an attack, or at least Rimmer seems to think so.

Lister hasn't got anything planned.

"Yeah? They're in me trunk," He shrugs with a feigned casualness, nodding to the bag on the top bunk, "That all you like, Rimmer?"

Rimmer is again silent like he's contemplating his next move, trying to sus out what game they're playing and how he can win it—or at the very least not shame himself terribly in the process of losing. Lister thinks that exact thinking might be contributing to about 90% of the problems they've had so far in his total three hours on board. He tries to lend a helping hand, again, and goes for a bit of a gamble.

"Cause I told you plenty of what I liked last night, didn't I? D'you remember, doll?"

Rimmer has a physical response to that even as softly as Lister says it and the Scouser licks his lips and risks a step forward, smoothly slipping the stack of dollarpounds into his cargo pocket to be dealt with later. He thinks about their first night together when he'd acted like he was chatting up a chick in a club, slipping into the behaviour to help him find his footing in a new role. This—this is genuine.

He's chatting Rimmer up, and that's just that, no act.

"Course you do," Lister grins, taking another step, and they're close enough they could reach out and touch, if they wanted. Lister wants, remembering just how good it felt to be wrapped up in another person. "And you liked it, yeah?"

Rimmer stares owlishly at him, flushed, and nods.

"You like me, big man?"

He nods again, swallowing thickly this time and Lister echoes the motion.

"Then there you go. We're all good, aren't we. No more stressin'—just you, me, and whatever we wanna do."

Lister grazes a hand against Rimmers belt and the guy practically sways into him, fists still held resolutely to his sides even as he stares at Lister with dark eyes, expression pinched but wanton. He seems desperate for something—to believe it, to have it, to be allowed to have it—so Lister hooks his fingers in beige belt loops and looks up at him, standing so close he can see Rimmer's pupils expand and feel their boots bump.

"Y'wanna kiss me, Rimmer?"

He stares at Listers lips and nods, either incapable of speech or unwilling to incriminate himself, even still, and Lister raises his brows, a grin playing on his face. "Yeah? Well go on then, guy, I don't have all day—"

That's all it takes and Rimmers on him in a flash, hands twisting in his jacket as he sweeps down and attacks Lister in much the same fashion as last night; desperate and wild like its the only chance he'll get. Lister goes with it—meets him, even, in their most bruising kiss so far— all lips and teeth and tongue. He reaches up and cups Rimmers neck, fingers threading through the curls at the back of his head, and grins into the kiss, finally feeling settled after the past few hours of whatever transpired between them on Mimas and Red Dwarf.

The Scouser slides his hands from Rimmers neck to broad shoulders and then down beige-cotton arms until he finds purchase on a familiar twill belt, pushing and walking Rimmer backwards until there's the soft thud of his back meeting metal. Lister swallows the small sound he makes and presses himself against every inch of the guy, slowing the kiss into something more sensual as he uses his own hips to pin Rimmers to the wall and walks his fingers down to his belt—not going for the main event, but rather to pull the crisply ironed shirt he's never seen thrown on the floor from its cinched clutches. Rimmers already half-hard beneath him—unsurprising on their third go-around—and he gasps at the pressure of Listers hips just like he thought he would, hands coming up to grab at the Scousers shoulders. Lister kisses him wetly as he starts unbuttoning the shirt, slipping his tongue into Rimmers mouth and giving him a real snog when he gets to the knot of the guys stupid square end tie, loosening it to get at the final button. Lister sticks his hand in under the newly parted fabric, expecting skin, and finds—…more cotton?

"Wha- Geez, Guy, how many shirts do you have on?" Lister huffs in amusement, breaking the kiss so he can pull back and look down between them. He gets a little hot at the sight of their hips pressed together, the splay of Rimmers open shirt and loose tie revealing the soft bleach-white tee underneath. Lister brushes his fingers over it. "What are you, pass the parcel of ironed shirts? Your regulation state that, does it? 'Must wear five shirts under pain of death?'"

Rimmer glances down between them, flushed from the kissing.

"Well, as a matter of fact, y—eeeeesss." He doesn't get to finish, not really, because Listers pulling the t-shirt up and sticking his fingers under it, finding warm, blessed skin at last. Rimmers stomach tightens under his touch at the foreign feeling, but when Lister recaptures his lips and starts idly patting over the warm skin, he slowly starts to relax. Lister drags a hand up his side, feeling all the way from his hip to his ribs, and then he's sliding it around to Rimmers back and pressing curious fingers along the dip of his spine—the spine that arches into him under the touch. He rubs at the flushed expanse of skin, feeling Rimmers cock jolt against him where they're still pressed together, and Lister—ever benevolent—slides his other hand around between them until he can pull at Rimmers belt and set about getting a hand on the guy.

Rimmer jumps on board immediately and his own hands scrabble down to twitch at Listers fly, popping the lone button on his cargo shorts and hurriedly trying to free him as well. When both their cocks are exposed to the ships cool air—hard and blushed and in Rimmers case, already leaking—Lister wraps a hand around Rimmers hand and puppeteers it into grabbing the both of them, combined fingers slotted between each other wrapping around their shared lengths in a dry slide. The gasp Rimmer lets out breaks their kiss and Lister breathes heavily into his neck as he guides their hands up and down, the trail of Rimmers precome easing the slide as hot shocks of pleasure scrape up his back. Lister tightens and loosens their fists as he sees fit, grinding even now into the twitching hips below his so their cocks can rub together. Lister looks down and briefly, briefly takes his hand off of Rimmers to pull his cotton tee up, yanking it up around his ribs so he can see more of the guys skin—the most he's sees so far.

His hand only rejoins Rimmers for another few pumps before he's tugging at the beige button up splayed around a heaving torso, still not satisfied.

"Off," Lister demands, planting a couple kisses on Rimmers lips before going for his jaw, "Get it off."

"R-right, yes," Rimmers starts taking the shirt off, made all the more difficult by being bodily pressed against a solid wall, but when it's been shimmied down far enough he tugs at his cuffs and slips the thing off, holding it in his hand like he doesn't know what to do with it next. Lister grabs the damned thing and tosses it somewhere on the floor, less than interested in its fate compared to his current future. For about a fraction of a second Rimmers face twists up and he looks like he's about to disagree with that very important and correct decision, but Listers got his hand wrapped around the both of them again and with a good twist the expression gets wiped straight off his face. Lister kisses him silly for a few more seconds—can't help it, really—before he's glancing down again and swearing at the sight of Rimmers exposed skin and their pricks pressed together, heads bobbing out from their combined fist.

"Smeg you're hot," Lister breathes, hand stilling on the both of them as he brings the other up to squeeze at Rimmers arm - his surprisingly fit arm. He was dead on about those broad shoulders too—they fill out the shirt quite nicely, all lithe muscle and rounded pecs tapering down into a trim waist that's made to look all the longer from Rimmers hastily shoved-up tee and his slacks practically falling off his hips.

"C'mere, doll." He says with a renewed vigor, dropping his hand from shamelessly feeling the guy up to instead grab at Rimmers thigh until he can hoist it up and around his hip, feeling a rush of hot want go through him at his own man-handling of a bloke taller than he is. Rimmers hands are back on him again with a stuttered moan that almost sounds like his name, and Lister wastes no time pulling more noises from the guy—pumping fast and quick, the wet noises of it ringing out in the room and competing with the sound of their breathing as Lister kisses at his neck, his face, messy and careless. Rimmer tries to kiss back for some of them but mostly just locks up under him, eyes screwed shut as he mumbles random things and flushes something terrible, the leg around Listers hip hooking meaningfully behind him as Rimmer grinds up to meet him in short bursts.

The space they've created for themselves is warm and lurid, filled with wet sounds and hurried panting, and Lister will get the guy naked he will, but just—he has to—

Rimmer seizes up beneath him and goes taught, a half uttered cry on his lips as he spills between them and holds Lister close by his jacket.

Bingo.

Rimmers hips thrust jerkily into their now-wet hands, chasing the high of his orgasm even when it makes him wince and his breathing stutter. Lister works him through it, rapt, knuckles covered in come, and glancing down to see Rimmers belly streaked in fluid makes his cock jump in his hand and any remaining blood in his body rush south as if his poor prick could handle the strain on top of everything else.

'There we go,' is what Lister thinks he'll say, looking up from under the rim of his deerstalker to the handsome but odd smeghead he's bagged, but Rimmer beats him to it.

"I want you."

It's so matter-of-fact, so brain-to-mouth with no filter that it startles a genuine laugh out of Lister as he grins up at the guy, chuffed.

"Do you, ey? Go on then, how'd you want me?"

"I want—" Rimmer pauses and licks his lips. He looks to Lister—not like he doesn't know, but that he won't say—and Lister waits a moment to see if he'll finish, but when nothing else happens he decides to do what he does best and simply talk.

"Want what? Could do all sorts of stuff," Lister muses, "Got a whole room now, don't we doll? Could blow you all proper like—right here against the wall, even. Or you could blow me, and I'll talk you through it, ey? Tell you what a good job you're doing while you suck me off? That it?"

Rimmer throws his head back against the metal wall, trying to stifle a sound he's already made as he gets a death-grip on Listers shoulders, pushing up into his own release in the Scousers hand. Lister lets him work for it, holding their cocks in a loose grip but not doing much else to help him along. "Yeah, thought that'd get you. Could always return the favour and bum you over a table, eh Rimmer? See how many times you can go—bet I could make you come three times on just me fingers alone. Might even make you lay on your back so I can see it, eh? Wrapping your legs around me just like you are now. Would you like that, doll?"

Rimmers one small spark away from catching on fire in front of him as he opens and closes his mouth, wordless but grasping.

"Yes, I mean—No—I mean, yes—yes but not…I mean, yesmaybeprobablyohgod, but that's— I want—last night, I want—" He finally manages to choke out, not quite able to finish like the words would actually kill him to say, and he looks pleadingly at Lister.

Lister grins, finally having gotten somewhere.

"Oh, IIII see," He draws out, "You wanna shag me over a table again? That good, ey?"

Rimmer nods vehemently, but then pauses. "...Did you not think so? You said it was good, after, when—"

"Aye it was," Lister soothes, remembering that when he'd got past the nerves of it it had felt good—really good, especially with Rimmer plastered up his back like he couldn't get enough. "Better than I thought it'd be, honest. Was a bit nervous going in but hey, who can blame a guy. You killed it, though, no complainin' from me."

Rimmers face twists up. "Nervous? But surely you…oh god…you didn't, did you?"

"What?"

"Why didn't I think of that—you're not a smegging prostitute! Oh god, and you let me do that? Me? Lister."

"What! What are you on about, guy."

"Had you ever…you know? Before last night?"

"…No?"

"Oh god," Rimmer looks at once like its the most erotic thing he's ever heard and also like he's going to throw up or pass out about it, "And you—and I—oh god."

Lister stares at him for a long moment before shaking his head, "Should have known you'd be the type. Jesus, Rimmer, got a thing for it or what?"

"You can't just drop that on a man!" Rimmer says shrilly, "This is a perfectly reasonable response—absolutely stereotypical for what you're saying to me right now! Why on Io did you do that?"

"I don't know!" Listers shoulders hike up, defensive, "And if I recall correctly, guy, you're the one that asked who the condom was for. Equal opportunity, like, could've just as easily been you."

"No, no it definitely couldn't have."

Lister reels back. "Oh so, what? Good enough for you getting your dick wet, but God forbid the rest of us—"

"No, that's not what I'm—yes, equal opportunity, but not in a pub! Should have told me to sod off, or not asked!"

"I didn't want you to sod off," Lister says, bewildered, "And clearly I'd already accepted that being bent over and shagged was in fact, possible, since I was the one that brought the bloody condoms!"

How did we get here, Lister thinks with that same bewilderment, still holding their come-covered cocks with one hand while the other grips Rimmers thigh around his waist, watching on Rimmers face as that exact same thought crosses his mind as well.

"Alright," Rimmer concedes, "Alright, you win. Whatever. Let's just all pretend I didn't steal your virginity and move on, shall we?"

Lister rolls his eyes. "You didn't steal anything you smegger, and certainly not my 'virginity'. Long since missed that party, man, and anyways—you telling me you would've said no?"

"N-no," Rimmer flushes, taking up both arms against himself and arms in favour of 'being Listers first' in this conversation, a uniquely Rimmer approach to self-congratulation and self-flagellation, "I just…well, I probably would have thought it out a bit more strategically, is all. Plotted my course of action better."

"Right…gone out and bought some rose petals to throw on the table, then? Set some candles out until the sprinklers went off? Maybe play me some smooth jaz?" Lister needles sarcastically, not packing any real heat. He slowly fists over their cocks in a smooth stroke partly because he needs something to happen and partly as an olive branch to show he's poking fun. Rimmer stifles a gasp and frowns at him, still holding him close by bunched up fistfuls of jacket.

"Well it would've been better than falling on you like a brainless beast—which is what I did if you recall."

Lister shrugs. "Maybe I like that. All desperate, like, huffing and puffing against me. So close like you can't bear to be anywhere else."

He leans up and ghosts over Rimmers mouth, teasing a kiss to a mildly infuriating guy. "Did you think of that, big man? That maybe I like you being needy?"

Rimmer barely lets him drag out the word before he's on him again, capturing his lips, and Lister kind of likes the change from the guy who climbed into the back of a Hopper with him and had to be told it was alright to breathe the same air, to the guy who kisses him like his life depends on it. If only he'd stop putting his foot in his mouth, they might've actually gotten somewhere by now.

Somewhere with decidedly less clothes.

"Alright, I've got two conditions," Lister starts when he pulls back, slowly putting Rimmers leg back down on the floor, "One, we're doing it on a bed. Don't care which, but I want a bed."

Rimmer glances at the bunks. "I'm not having sex in the top bunk. That's how we die."

"Great, yours it is then. Two, we cuddle after—extra, even, cause you owe me from last time."

"I do?"

"Yep," Lister doesn't elaborate, just swipes his thumb over their cockheads and then leaves Rimmer pressed against the wall with his shirt ridden up to start taking off his own clothes, tossing his deerstalker onto the nearest surface and dropping his jacket and tee on the floor. He plops down onto Rimmers bunk and starts unlacing his boots, nearly smacking himself in the face as he wrangles them off and leaves them toppled over by the bed, and when he sits back up Lister spares a glance to his side and sees Rimmer shuffling on one foot and desperately trying to pull his own boot off, similarly nearly taking his own eyes out with it.

Lister grins as he slides himself back into the bunk, wiggling out of his cargo shorts as he goes and kicking them off the side with his boxers. Rimmer appears beside the bed, shoving his own pants off and stepping out of them, and it isn't enough to just watch the guy—Lister has to touch—so he reaches out and draws Rimmer closer to the bunk by his hips, stumbling blindly with his shirt over his head as goes. Lister cups muscled thighs—ones he wouldn't mind wrapped around his head or waist—, fingers resting just under a truly gropeable arse, and he stares up a long, lightly haired torso as Rimmer pulls his tee over his head and flings it somewhere, none of that concern for his perfectly ironed beige shirt earlier to be found now.

"God, you're hot," Lister says for the second time that day, but really—he is. All lithe and muscled but with strong thighs and a trim waist, a dusting of hair over his chest and a certifiable happy trail leading to an eager prick, still coated in hurriedly wiped off streaks of come. Not to mention he's got a pretty face that's currently red as the ship they're travelling in and sporting an odd twisted expression mixed somewhere between pride and doubt. "C'mere."

Lister urges him into the bunk with him, shuffling up against the cool wall as Rimmer crawls in and awkwardly slots their bodies together, cautious hands landing on his hips.

Those narrow fingers would line up perfectly with the fading marks if Lister looked, he's sure.

Lister pulls Rimmer into a kiss, so far the easiest way to get the guy to chill out, and further settles himself along a warm body, feeling surprisingly emotional at the head-to-toe contact. Maybe it's because it's been so long—he's been essentially alone since waking up that fateful morning on Mimas, a whole solar system away from Earth let alone Liverpool, and that hadn't really changed as the weeks had passed. He might've had the odd roll around in the hay once or twice, but it didn't usually come with being pressed naked against each other; warm skin warming skin, sharing heat and human connection. Here, now, lazily kissing and rolling half onto Rimmer, chasing the feeling of being meaningfully close to another person after so many nights holed up alone in the Hopper or on a plastic terminal chair, Lister feels the release of something he hadn't known was building up in his chest.

When Lister pulls back a new desperation to be connected in a very meaningful way with another person urges him on, but as he goes to speak, so too does Rimmer.

"Where'd you keep your—"

"Y-you are too."

They stare at each other.

"Wha'?"

Rimmer swallows. "What? What were you saying?"

"…I was asking where you keep the lube. What were you saying? I'm what, too?" Lister grins, squinting at him.

Rimmer nods, as if going 'Ah yes, i thoughts that was what you were asking…blast.'

"Hot," He says with surprising certainty, nodding at bit at his own words as if to bolster them further, "You're hot. Hot too. Fit…All of the above, really."

Listers grin turns into a genuine but feral smile and he plants another kiss on Rimmers lips, feeling probably more touched by it than he should on his current high off human contact. "Aw, aren't you sweet. Now where's your gear so I can screw you silly?"

Rimmers eyes bug for a moment and then he's quickly reaching for the pillow below his head, slipping a smooth rounded tube of half used lube out from the between pillowcase itself. Lister decides not to question it.

"Right, and you remember what to do, yeah?"

Rimmer nods, hastily popping the cap.

"Course you do. Well, go on then, doll, get to it. Make me feel good, ey?"

Truth is Listers still a bit nervous despite last night, but at least he knows how it'll feel this time and he's got a face to kiss and a chest to grab beneath him, which is more than the pub table offered, so. He's not too fussed. Lister throws a leg over Rimmers hips and climbs over him properly, knees dug into perfectly ironed sheets as he situates himself and gets comfortable, leaning down to snog Rimmer when the guy wraps his arms around him. There's the brushing of hands against his lower back as Rimmer squeezes some lube onto his fingers, Listers heart beating like crazy in his chest, and he jolts when cold digits touch the base of his spine but he just keeps kissing Rimmer, excited and nervous. He knows it'll feel good, it's still just strange is all; not exactly nothing to have something inside you, is it.

The fingers trail further down and tease at his entrance—either from Rimmers' new-found playfulness or, more likely, old-reliable uncertainty—, rubbing between his cheeks with caution, so Lister gently rocks back into the hand to silently show his encouragement, turning their kiss more sensual, and then a single slippery finger is entering him and the gasp he makes is immediately swallowed up by warm lips.

It feels just as strange as it did last night. Lister knew, in a techincal way, the details—but actually sitting in some guys lap with a foil pack of lube and his own fingers had still been intimidating when the most instruction he had were dirty mags, pornos, and the couple of times he'd let his ex do it, which was all good and well when someone experienced was helping but things certainly weren't made any easier by the two of them having no clue what to do. It's one thing having someone who knows what they're doing guide you, its another to have all the pieces of the puzzle and no smegging clue what picture it is you're making. Still, they'd gotten there in the end, and Lister had known they'd been on the right track when Rimmer had done something magical and hopefully, repeatable.

Lister focuses on relaxing and accepting the strange intrusion, breathing through it as much as he can while he's still trying to stick his tongue down another man's throat. It's gonna feel smegging weird until it doesn't, he tells himself, putting a hand on Rimmers pec so he can grab and squeeze til his hearts content while the guy opens him up. Rimmer moans into his mouth and the cold plastic of the lube bottle gets dropped next to his knee so a warm arm can wrap around his back and an even warmer palm can knead at his side. The finger in him pushes deeper, shallowly thrusting, and the angle is kind of awkward but Lister doesn't really care when he's getting all the kisses he could ever want—sore wrist is gonna be Rimmers problem but it's a price Lister thinks he's willing to pay.

"Another," Lister mumbles, wanting to get to the good bit faster. He could—and, in fact, will—ride Rimmer into this bunk like there's no tomorrow, going as fast or as slow as he wants, watching as his technical superior writhes under him and holds on for dear life. Lister's absolutely certain Rimmers gonna blow at least a few times and honestly? He hasn't stopped thinking about when Rimmer came in the condom last night and just kept going like an absolute machine, sweaty and desperate and thrusting into his own mess. Smeg, it made Lister hot all over just thinking about it, fuelling his own desperation to get them to a point where he can push Rimmer through one orgasm and straight onto the next, recreating it.

Another finger enters him, tucked alongside the first, and with the sudden rush of heat and horny overtaking Lister he rocks back onto it forcefully, cock brushing against Rimmers pressed between them.

"Oh, fu—", Rimmer jerks beneath him like he'd forgotten he had a prick at all until it was touched and the hand on his waist briefly tightens before it slides down to his arse, shamelessly groping as the thrusting fingers gain more confidence. He's panting hard like he's the one getting fingered, face scrunched up as his hand roams over as much of Listers skin as he can reach, occasionally pulling at him like he could draw him any closer, and Lister huffs a grin at the mindlessness in Rimmers actions, like he was so consumed with following direction and kissing and touching and being touched that his brain had temporarily forgotten it's neuroses, letting him do things just because he wanted to. So easy to work up, and it gave Lister ideas he'd have to come back to later.

Lister breaks the kiss, rocking steadily onto the fingers that still feel strange but more comfortable now, sliding against Rimmers prick on every odd thrust. "Right, one more an' then I'm gonna ride you through the mattress, sound good?"

Rimmer squeaks and tenses up briefly like he's trying to stave something off before nodding his head frantically and quickly adding another finger to the mix.

"Brutal," Lister sighs, impatient to get on with it, focusing on letting himself be opened up instead of getting distracted kissing plump spit-covered lips. Rimmer doesn't seem to have such concerns and bows upwards to kiss at Listers jaw and neck, roaming hand dragging over his heated skin as three long fingers work quickly inside him, pulling soft moans and hitched breaths from Lister even if they can't reach the place they did last night at this angle. Lister lets him go at it for a few more minutes, revelling in the attention, before he straightens up and reaches behind himself for Rimmers wrist.

"M' ready," He says, putting the wet hand on his hip and shuffling on his knees, "I'm ready, just—christ Rimmer let's get on with it, man, I need you."

Lister lifts himself up, and that's about all he manages before there's a sudden wetness against his skin and Rimmers going rigid beneath him with an almost accusatory cry of "Lister!". It doesn't stop Lister though, doesn't even pause him; unperturbed, he grabs Rimmers spasming cock as come paints his arse and guides it to his hole, slowly sitting back on it when the head catches and steadily exhaling through the stretch with a furrowed brow, the sound tapering off into a moan as he raises and lowers himself in small increments. Rimmer claws at whatever parts of Lister he can reach, legs kicking against the mattress while he bends this way and that, both into and away from it, garbling some nonsense as spurts of come fill Lister in a wholly new and strange way. He'd had a break last time, in the pub; had slowed to a stop, had a quick chat, and then kept going, but Lister affords none of that to him now. The idea of Rimmer fucking him through his own come for real this time makes Lister work harder to take his cock, breathing between small puffs and swears as he slowly rocks back in longer slides.

When he finally settles, skin pressed to skin, feeling full and stretched and connected, Lister finally lets the both of them adjust in a minute of panting silence. Rimmers still stiff as a board below him, the only thing moving being the frantic heaving of his chest as his face screws up, eyes resolutely shut, and Lister takes pity on him.

"Too soon?" He asks gently, and Rimmer shakes his head. "You sure?"

Rimmer licks his lips and cracks an eye open only to immediately shut it again and turn his head like the sight was too much to bear. "Yep. Absolutely positive. Tickety-boo, Listerino, carry on."

"Tickety-boo," Lister echoes with a huff, rolling his eyes at the guys strange antics, and plants his hands on Rimmers sternum as he relaxes around the familiar-unfamiliar intrusion, deciding not to carry on until Rimmer can actually look at him. He'll put him through the ringer about five minutes from now, they can wait a few more seconds.

Lister looks down at his hands instead, the spread of them over sweaty skin, and then further still to a happy trail that leads to his own pulsing cock instead of Rimmers, flushed head weeping as he sits there. He grinds slowly in a circle, testing the waters, and simultaneously feels and watches as Rimmers stomach contracts beneath him, prick jerking against his walls. It feels good—still strange, but good, and Lister likes being able to see the minute expressions on Rimmers face as he tries desperately to hold on.

Lister grinds again, purposeful, having a vague idea of where that star-inducing place had been, and lifts himself up a bit to rock down on a new angle, searching. It takes a few tries, a few minutes of gentle rocking and soft sighs, thumbs swiped over warm skin as he eases them into a slow rhythm, and then, when Lister lifts himself up and leans forward slightly, rocking back at an angle—

"Oh fuck," Lister sighs, sitting back more heavily as sharp pleasure races down his legs and makes his cock twitch, grinding on Rimmers lap and making the head of his prick rub against that spot over and over as best he can. Lister pants, making soft noises as his eyes close and his brows twists, locs writhing against his back as he chases the feeling that sends molten heat down his thighs. Rimmers hands are still clawed at his hips but the guys making a concerted effort to contribute, even if that only amounts to thrusting his hips up the tiniest amount every odd grind or so, making ragged little sounds himself like it was the most he safely do.

Lister makes a consecutive decision to do the work for him—something he'd been looking forward to, even—and picks up the pace, rocking back on the guys prick faster and faster until he's got a proper rhythm going, lifting himself up and dropping back down over and over again until it's the loudest sound in the room, contending only with his own moans and Rimmers constant litany of odd sounds and words as he's ridden into the mattress.

"Rimmer," He moans and takes his hands off the guys chest to instead cover the clawing ones at his hips, holding on just as tight as he rides Rimmer in their cramped little bunk, mindful of the roof. It's hot and wet and his cock bounces with every thrust, slapping against Rimmers stomach and sending shocks of pleasure through him that mingle and merge with the greater rush of his prostate being abused, bitten off words breaking up the panting of his chest. Rimmer grows more frantic beneath him, shifting wildly against the sheets and curling up off the mattress, and Lister barely manages to open his eyes and look at the guy before he's being held still and jackrabbited into in short, strong bursts as Rimmer comes, nearly shouting his head off as blows for the second time in so many minutes. "List—argh!"

Lister moans a sort of strangled sound at the warm rush filling him, looking down at their joined hips like he could physically see what was happening inside him, but all he sees is their interlocked hands on his hips and his own cock leaking precome down the shaft, the brown hair of Rimmers happy trail wet with it. Lister tightens around him involuntarily at the sight and the novel feeling he'd never gotten around to experiencing until now, drawing a loud moan from Rimmer who jerks and spills even more come inside him, prick seeming to pulse in time with Listers own pleasure as it spasms. Lister rocks, maybe cruelly, but he can't stop now and he knows for sure that Rimmer can keep going.

He has to rise up against the desperate pulling down of Rimmers hands and the guy follows him, sitting up like Lister was pulling a literal string attached to his heart and resting his face against his sternum, unable to even support himself as he wraps his arms around Lister to help keep himself upright. He mouths what might be words or kisses against Listers sweaty skin and the Scouser spares a hand to wrap around his shoulders, holding him close as he gets back into the rhythm that had made his spine feel like it was melting, cock rubbing against a heaving stomach. Rimmer jolts violently.

"List—Lister, List, List—er—", He breathes, broken up and brainless.

"So good, Rimmer, smeg, so good," Lister says encouragingly, soothing as he fucks himself on the guys sensitive prick, feeling and hearing the mess he made inside him as he bucks. Lister kisses sweaty curls and Rimmer tilts his face up to get more. "Just like that, doll, just—oh fuck."

He's close, he knows he's close; can feel the way his legs start to lock and squeeze around Rimmers hips even as he bounces frantically, chasing the same overwhelming sensation that's making him lock up in the first place, and Lister swears to God he can feel his bloody heartbeat in his cock it's that serious. Rimmers already pressed against himself against his chest again, hot breath panted directly against flushed skin, but Lister holds him even closer and gets rougher with his movements, the solid sound of him smacking heavily onto Rimmers lap ringing out in the room as he tucks his head against Rimmers. Lister hysterically wonders if he can actually finish like this, and the answer is looking more and more like all signs point to yes when his breath starts coming in shorter and shorter, hips losing rhythm as he finally peaks, prick aching with the intensity of it.

Lister curses something terrible in between utterances of Rimmers name as he comes, jerking back onto the cock he's practically locked inside himself with how tight he's clenching against the onslaught of hot waves and then thrusting forward against the wet mess he's made on Rimmers belly between them, drawing out his pleasure as long as he can even as the muscles of his thighs protest the position and burn, no longer dulled by the pursuit of pleasure. His eyes are squeezed shut so hard he can see stars and some of Rimmers hair is making its way into his slack mouth, but right now, for all the world, Lister doesn't care at all. He rings as many shocks out of it as he can, slowing into a leisurely grind and then a complete stop when the violent twitching becomes too much even for him. Rimmers surprisingly still hard as a nail inside him, but he's hanging onto Lister like he's the single thread keeping his sanity together so he's probably not too far off again himself.

Lister, ever the gentleman (and not just because he wants to see a fourth orgasm wrung from Rimmer), gives himself a minute to catch his breath before he's lifting up and off the guy, the both of them moaning as his wet prick slips out, a trail of come following it. Lister pushes Rimmer to lie back in the bunk and follows him down, kissing him senseless as he plants himself along the guys side and starts urging him to roll on top of Lister, face to face. Rimmer pants harshly but goes with the action, seemingly amendable to be put any which way in his current state and shuffling onto him.

"Go on then, Arnie," Lister says as he wraps his legs and arms around him, lazy and contented, "One more for goodluck, ey? Go on."

Rimmer shoves his knees under Listers thighs until his hips are high enough that he can actually enter him again, and then he wastes no time in re-burying himself in one smooth, wet slide, Listers breath catching as Rimmer goes slack-jawed and desperate above him like last night, curling over him like he did on the pub table. He burrows his arms under Lister and wraps them around him, tucking his head next to his on the pillow as he moans and pants into Listers ear, frantically fucking into him into him with ridiculously wet sounds. Despite being sensitive and about ten minutes out from another go-round, Listers cock jerks at the sheer arousal of having Rimmer go at it again, being so desperate and messy as he slides in and out. It's so smegging hot—he's genuinely gonna have to keep this guy in bed one day and see just how many times he can come until it runs dry, and even then how many times until Rimmer's begging him to stop. Lister cock pulses at the thought of Rimmer laid up in his perfectly-made bed covered in his own spend from jaw to stomach, and it genuinely borders on a painful amount of horny, not helped in the least when Rimmer bumps against his swollen prostate and makes Lister damn near jump out of his skin.

"A-ah, jesus, Rimmer!" Lister shouts, half a warning and half a moan as he involuntarily clenches around him. How Rimmer manages to bear the sensitivity, he doesn't know, but it doesn't really matter anyway cause his words seem to fall on deaf ears when Rimmer starts thrusting as shallowly and quickly as he can, moaning overly loudly in his ear but Lister doesn't really care because he's suddenly consumed by the rush of warmth filling him up again for a second time that night.

"Lister," Rimmer moans, thrusting into his own mess, stuttering and harsh but still moving all the same as a wet squelching sounds rings out between them, one Listers increasingly getting familiar with on this end of things. "List—argh!"

He feels warm and loose and tight and good and aching and happy and all manner of things all at once, nicely rounded out around the edges by the tiredness of his mind and body, even if his prick is telling him he could go again. It can wait, he thinks, I haven't had a proper bed in months, m' ready for the nap of a lifetime.

Rimmer pulls out collapses on top of him with a groan, which isn't really different from what he was already doing, but it still feels nice so Lister lets him. He ends up with a face full of shoulder and collar bone so he contents himself with pressing a few kisses there, typical post-shag etiquette, and wonders how long it'll take until the neuroses creeps back in. That was their most emotionally and physically intense shag so far, so. Hopefully it should last a couple more minutes than it did last night.

Lister lies there and absorbs the human contact, the wet mess between them whether it be sweat or come, the fact that his best fuck in a while came from a guy who in all seriousness put a fake moustache on to get laid, and it somehow worked. He laughs as a little at that and then nudges Rimmer, ready to roll over.

"Said something about a cuddle earlier, didn't I? Was dead serious, too."

Rimmer doesn't move, still breathing deeply above him.

"…Rimmer?"

Lister nudges him again and the guy twitches, but before Lister can even think 'Ah, there we go', there's an almighty snore next to his face and he realises Rimmer's asleep.

Lister turns his head and pulls back as much as he can under the dead weight to confirm that—yep, Rimmers dead asleep on top of him, completely boneless and snoring softly into his shoulder. Lister stares at the side of his squished face.

...are you kidding me.

Lister presses his lips shut and silently laughs, chest shaking with it as he rolls his eyes and rubs a hand over the guys heated back.

The absolute cheek of him…sod this for a game of soldiers, I'm getting that bloody cuddle.

Lister starts slowly shuffling himself sideways and out from under Rimmer, skilled at sneaking away up until the actual leaving part where he always seemed to step on the one squeaky floorboard or slam open the featherlight door that only needed a strong exhale to open it. Luckily, he wasn't actually going anywhere this time, so with some careful manoeuvring and easing of limbs he manages to get Rimmer tucked up against the back of the bunk—less likely to have accidentally manoeuvred him straight out of the bed that way—and he quickly leans out the bunk to pull the thin blanket off the mattress above them, catching his dufflebag with an oof! as it drops. Lister chastises it for being a 'sneaky bastard that thought it could get him this time' and dumps it on the floor next to his boots, turning to lie back in the bed before he stops and squints into the lit-up bunk.

"Erm…lights?" Lister mumbles, fearing he might accidentally summon Holly while half naked out of Rimmers bunk if he made any sort of command, but luckily the lights in the room just dim until they're left in complete darkness and he grins, twisting back into the bunk and throwing the thin standard-issue fleece blanket over them both. The bunks really not that big, but if its big enough for them to shag in he'll be damned if it's not big enough to cuddle in, so Lister plasters himself along Rimmers back, wrapping his arms around the sleeping guy, and gets comfortable. He puts his head on their one shared pillow, closing his eyes as he tucks his face against Rimmers neck, feet snaking their way between the mans calves and tangling their legs together. Rimmer snuffles into the pillow, and that's about it.

Its the most warm and content Listers felt in a long time, even if they guy fell asleep on him—literally.

A day ago, if he hadn't of had other stuff on his mind, Lister would've wondered why a guy like Rimmer was doing paying for sex in the first place—even putting aside the one-off moustache—but today, he thinks he's starting to get it. Rimmers an odd guy with too many thoughts for his own good, this walking mix of self-sabotaging fear and retaliation with some ship-renowned reputation that Lister feels he's just barely scratched the surface of, but—and there is a but— he's clearly just as desperate for human connection as anyone else, and he's so willing to have it if only you manage to convince him he's not being tricked. Lister doesn't know why he is the way he is, why he's a bit of a bastard, but when Lister had shown his cards, Rimmer had responded in turn, and maybe its their unique situation that's given him his advantage—no reputation to skew him, shagging him before he really knew the guy, not having known him long enough to hurt him—Lister doesn't know, but what he does know is that he's gonna be sharing a room with Rimmer for the next five years on their journey back to earth, and maybe since they're both a bit lonely, sticking it out together might not be so bad…especially if it comes with fantastic sex.

He's got a whole new ship full of people to make friends out of, maybe even some that have come from Earth themselves, but right now, he feels more settled than he has in months laid up in Rimmers bed cuddling the guy in the dark, finally headed home for good.

Yeah, Lister thinks, grinning into the warm skin beneath his lips and pressing a kiss there, getting an incoherent mumble in response, Not bad at all.