Categories > TV > Red Dwarf
Triple Thick
In honor of Halloween, the scariest thing I could think of to write. A gapfiller for Emohawk, slightly AU.
?Blocked
Ace shifted his hands into position around Duane's neck. Do it quickly! his mind said, but some part of him hesitated. It wasn't the good old Arnie J. part of him that had been sucked out, he reflected; that part would kill the Cat with less excuse than what faced them. It was some kind, gentle, caring part of him that had been very firmly locked away. Some part of him he had judged, early in life, to be a little too... well, gay. The part that wanted to cry at sappy movies. The part of him that felt sorry for Bambi - the part that had been shoved aside by the rest of him rooting for the hunter.
"What's next, sir?" Duane asked, brightly, looking out into the midsection with utter trust.
Ace sighed and dropped his hands. "I can't do it," he groaned. "It'd be like garroting Bambi."
"Garroting, sir?" Duane asked, turning his head, staring at Ace with his big, brown, innocent eyes - looking, indeed, a lot like a deer frozen in the headlights of an oncoming semi truck.
"Nothing, nothing." Ace rubbed the bridge of his nose with two fingers. Smeg, what to do? The Emohawk was in the midsection /somewhere/. Well, if he couldn't kill Duane, he'd have to find some other way to get the beast. Something else heroic that would get rid of the blighter and also sacrifice himself in a needlessly noble and messy manner. Perhaps he could lock Duane in the airlock and set off a neutron pulse in the midsection? Ace's rumination was interrupted by Duane's sniffling.
"What's wrong, chappy?" Ace asked, patting Duane on the shoulder. The action dislodged a minor snowstorm of dandruff from his scratchy cardigan. The man smelled strongly of medicated shampoo and cheap aftershave.
"I don't want to die a virgin," Duane sniffled. "I always carried a triple-thick condom just in case, but nobody ever asked! I would give women the number to my hostel..."
Ace shook his head, patting Duane more firmly on the shoulder. "Sex isn't all it's cracked up to be, Duane. A godawful mess, to tell you the truth. You're far better off without it."
"I'd like to judge for myself," Duane muttered, sucking his lower lip in under his buck teeth and staring sullenly at the ground. Suddenly, he looked up, his face brightening. "Could you help me out, sir? Isn't that what heroes do?"
The part of Ace that would have said No smegging way, you disgusting smegging twat! had been sucked away by the Emohawk, and so he stood there, oddly devoid of feeling. How did he feel about that request? Well, he would much rather have had it from Lister, he decided. With his snidiness and negativity gone, he could see their sniping for what it was; the affection and desire that Arnie J. had suppressed, that had only escaped in fits and spurts before, was quite clear to him. However, he could not let Lister in to where the Emohawk was. No, that was out of the question. And that being the case - well, it would be wrong to deny Duane a little bit of happiness, wouldn't it? Happiness he would likely never experience anywhere else.
"Righto, old chum," Ace replied.
Duane's teeth did make kissing a bit of a different experience. They stuck out almost as far as his tongue did, and Ace had to slither his tongue underneath them; their unevenness was almost serrated, and Ace learned quite quickly that he had to anticipate Duane's uncoordinated movements in order to keep his tongue from being scraped raw. But Duane seemed quite appreciative of the effort, grinding his polyester trousers up against Ace's velour. His hands grasped various bits of Ace as if not sure what to do with them - which he likely wasn't, Ace reflected. He pulled off his jacket and shirt, then almost yelped as Duane tried to lick a nipple and nearly bit it off. "Erm, maybe not quite like /that/, old chum," he said, warily.
Fortunately, the refrigerator in the kitchen had plenty of butter, as the triple-thick condom was unlubricated. As reinforced as it was, it felt less like a penis and more like a shapeless rubber dildo - or so Ace assumed. He had not had a penis up his bum before, after all. It was disconcerting to be called "Sir" while being pummeled with no particular rhythm, interspersed with high-pitched whines; but it was a good deed, after all, and that was exciting enough for Ace. He grasped his own cock and began to stroke, enjoying the thought of the pleasure he was giving to Duane - probably the only pleasure the man had received in his life, aside from the time the psychologist had helped him stop wetting the bed.
It wasn't until the door blew open and Lister strode into the room, pausing with an unreadable expression on his face, that Ace realized two things.
The first was that he had not, actually, done anything about the Emohawk in the time he had locked Lister out.
The second was that an Emohawk could assume any form at all. Including that of a triple-thick condom.
"What's next, sir?" Duane asked, brightly, looking out into the midsection with utter trust.
Ace sighed and dropped his hands. "I can't do it," he groaned. "It'd be like garroting Bambi."
"Garroting, sir?" Duane asked, turning his head, staring at Ace with his big, brown, innocent eyes - looking, indeed, a lot like a deer frozen in the headlights of an oncoming semi truck.
"Nothing, nothing." Ace rubbed the bridge of his nose with two fingers. Smeg, what to do? The Emohawk was in the midsection /somewhere/. Well, if he couldn't kill Duane, he'd have to find some other way to get the beast. Something else heroic that would get rid of the blighter and also sacrifice himself in a needlessly noble and messy manner. Perhaps he could lock Duane in the airlock and set off a neutron pulse in the midsection? Ace's rumination was interrupted by Duane's sniffling.
"What's wrong, chappy?" Ace asked, patting Duane on the shoulder. The action dislodged a minor snowstorm of dandruff from his scratchy cardigan. The man smelled strongly of medicated shampoo and cheap aftershave.
"I don't want to die a virgin," Duane sniffled. "I always carried a triple-thick condom just in case, but nobody ever asked! I would give women the number to my hostel..."
Ace shook his head, patting Duane more firmly on the shoulder. "Sex isn't all it's cracked up to be, Duane. A godawful mess, to tell you the truth. You're far better off without it."
"I'd like to judge for myself," Duane muttered, sucking his lower lip in under his buck teeth and staring sullenly at the ground. Suddenly, he looked up, his face brightening. "Could you help me out, sir? Isn't that what heroes do?"
The part of Ace that would have said No smegging way, you disgusting smegging twat! had been sucked away by the Emohawk, and so he stood there, oddly devoid of feeling. How did he feel about that request? Well, he would much rather have had it from Lister, he decided. With his snidiness and negativity gone, he could see their sniping for what it was; the affection and desire that Arnie J. had suppressed, that had only escaped in fits and spurts before, was quite clear to him. However, he could not let Lister in to where the Emohawk was. No, that was out of the question. And that being the case - well, it would be wrong to deny Duane a little bit of happiness, wouldn't it? Happiness he would likely never experience anywhere else.
"Righto, old chum," Ace replied.
Duane's teeth did make kissing a bit of a different experience. They stuck out almost as far as his tongue did, and Ace had to slither his tongue underneath them; their unevenness was almost serrated, and Ace learned quite quickly that he had to anticipate Duane's uncoordinated movements in order to keep his tongue from being scraped raw. But Duane seemed quite appreciative of the effort, grinding his polyester trousers up against Ace's velour. His hands grasped various bits of Ace as if not sure what to do with them - which he likely wasn't, Ace reflected. He pulled off his jacket and shirt, then almost yelped as Duane tried to lick a nipple and nearly bit it off. "Erm, maybe not quite like /that/, old chum," he said, warily.
Fortunately, the refrigerator in the kitchen had plenty of butter, as the triple-thick condom was unlubricated. As reinforced as it was, it felt less like a penis and more like a shapeless rubber dildo - or so Ace assumed. He had not had a penis up his bum before, after all. It was disconcerting to be called "Sir" while being pummeled with no particular rhythm, interspersed with high-pitched whines; but it was a good deed, after all, and that was exciting enough for Ace. He grasped his own cock and began to stroke, enjoying the thought of the pleasure he was giving to Duane - probably the only pleasure the man had received in his life, aside from the time the psychologist had helped him stop wetting the bed.
It wasn't until the door blew open and Lister strode into the room, pausing with an unreadable expression on his face, that Ace realized two things.
The first was that he had not, actually, done anything about the Emohawk in the time he had locked Lister out.
The second was that an Emohawk could assume any form at all. Including that of a triple-thick condom.
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