When I Think About You…
A Red Dwarf FanFiction
…I touch myself. A Rimmer/Lister fanfiction, set during 'Bodyswap'
:-:
You realise, somewhat too late, that you haven't exactly thought this through. While the mind swap has given you a body, it becomes clear only too quickly that this body is Lister's – complete with his one working taste bud and athletes foot. Not to mention the permanent sensation of having swallowed an ash tray. Then swilled it round with madras sauce. It certainly brings home to you the sensation that you can feel sick: and you do.
You combat this feeling by eating Lister's body weight in mashed potato and then aim to completely disguise the taste in your mouth with as many other foods as you can think of. It works about as well as Lister's taste receptors and, not for the first time, you wish that the last human could have been a more admirable specimen, but you remind yourself that beggars – and JMC Second Technicians – can't be choosers.
Then, just as you are considering sleep – honest to smeg real life sleep – you feel that familiar-three-million-years-ago tug in the base of your belly and you know you have to drag Lister's body to a bathroom. It surprises you just how much more confident you are this time. There are no forceps, no blindfold; after all it wasn't like you could resist seeing Lister's 'thing' last time, and you are certain you are never looking down again. The gloves remain though – while they may not technically be your hands, there is no way your brain is actually going to let you touch it.
You haven't missed urinating – it has always seemed so undignified – but you realise you have missed the routine of brushing your teeth. The mouth you are borrowing has never felt as strange as when you run the bristles over Lister's teeth. His mouth opens wider than yours does; you experiment with your reflection in the mirror. Your trademark grimace looks odd on Lister's face. You have avoided your reflection up until now, not wanting to remind yourself of whom you have become. But right now it is kind of fascinating – seeing what expressions you can make Lister's face contort into.
Suddenly self-conscious, you look behind you and check the door to the private officer's bathroom is locked. Not that it matters, you remind yourself, Lister can just walk through the door if he wants to. And then you wonder why you had never thought of that, it would have been a great prank to pull; surprising Lister during one of his bi-annual showers. The gimboid would have jumped out of his skin! Skin. Yuck. On second thoughts it is not a prank you would want to play, having no wish to see Lister's naked body. A body you are now in. Oh smeg.
Looking in the mirror, your sceptical eyebrow glares at you from Lister's face. You still have mashed potato congealing in one of his ears. Sighing, you realise you will have to face Lister's worst nightmare and go for a shower. You may even have to face your own worst nightmare and look down at some point.
Sadly you realise the rubber gloves you have once again donned are of little use to you as they hinder the removal of Lister's clothes. You resign yourself to touch instead and reluctantly remove the gloves before closing your eyes.
Lister's body feels strange in the dark; it draws you attention to pains in various joints, to the permanent state of indigestion bubbling in your borrowed belly. Torso naked, you run your hands over that belly, fearing if you were to open your eyes it would block the view of your feet. But it is oddly comforting too – like being constantly cuddled by a teddy bear. You cringe as you bare Lister's lower half to the air – leaving the socks on out of fear of self-preservation of your visual receptors.
Tripping on the way into the shower you are reminded how you can feel pain again and make the decision to open your eyes as long as they say focused on the tiles in front of you. When the shower starts you almost expect Lister's body to do a bunker and leave you behind, but you find it is just as curious and is soon leaning into the warmth of the water with you.
You have missed this, and although the grime cascading off your body is more than you have ever been used to, it is a very familiar – human – feeling to lean back against the wall and let it wash over you. You forget whose body you are in, lost in the sensation; running soapy hands over every inch of skin you can reach and deeply breathing in the surrounding steam. Your hands continue their assault downwards until Lister's fingers are stroking Lister's cock and you are brought back to a very uncomfortable reality.
You remove your hands so fast you nearly fall over and have to lean against the tiles for support. Lister's braids fall wet and heavy over your shoulder and you have never felt less like yourself. Which is understandable really, under the circumstances.
There is a Space Corp. directive tugging at the back of your memory; desperate for attention. Something about taking advantage of subordinates. But you ignore it; everything following your death has been about Lister. You're only here to keep him sane, after all. Lister-Smeg-For-Brains; the last human being. So what if you haven't exactly been keeping up your side of the bargain yet? You are doing the first thing for you in three million years. He has no idea what it is like to be able to touch again, to be able to taste. Just a couple more days of self-indulgence and you will get right back on track – surely he can't begrudge you that?
Speaking of self-indulgence…
Even before death you had been very well acquainted with your right hand, and since dying you have practically become a couple. But now you wonder if masturbating as a hologram is different – your existence is, at the end of the day, just a complicated computer programme. You have envied Lister and his real, breathing, heart-pumping body. The body you are currently inhabiting.
You look down and see Lister's hands; cappuccino in colour, shorter and thicker than yours. The description also applies to his penis, growing and begging for attention. You try to forget you are involved as you place Lister's hand back on Lister's cock and feel it pulse beneath his fingers. You stroke once, experimentally, and notice how it angles slightly to the right. He is more sensitive than you and the movement of his hand is enough to send sparks of electricity up and through your body.
Your body. You own it now as your thumb runs along the slit in the head of Lister's cock and you moan – the sound of his voice somewhere between disturbing and enthralling. You repeat the movement, then pump at the shaft and twist painfully – gloriously – at the end, finally catching Lister's eyes in the bathroom mirror; blown wide and black, mouth open, cheeks blushing. And it is this that causes you to come – so soon – seeing his face writhing in pleasure. It scares the smeg out of you.
You collapse on the floor of the shower, legs like jelly beneath you, and feel the braids of your hair tumble down and stick to the hollow of your chest. Your penis is limp, sore, but you caress it anyway; finding some comfort in the power it has over you.
You are too spent to fight your next realisation – which is how much you want to see that look on Lister's face again. Screw the smegging diet – you are spending the next two weeks jerking off in front of a mirror; learning the ways to make Lister's body react to your touch. He is still a gimboid, but now he is a gimboid who makes you horny.
And while the mind-swap is great, there are other ways you would love to be in Lister's body.