Red Dwarf fic: "Smokin' Aces" - PG-13
Title: "Smokin' Aces"
Rating: PG-13
Chars: Lister, one-sided L/R slash
Disclaimer: Oh, I don't have a financial stake in any of these. If I could get my mind off Grant/Naylor creations and work on mine, maybe I could worry about someone writing fanfic about THEM. /dreams big
Spoilers: "Dimension Jump" "Emohawk" & "Rimmerworld" - set after the latter.
A/N: This is a little sexy humor (I hope) I came up with after metalkatt (also my beta) and I watched some Ace episodes again. Others here have more ably observed the good kind of tensions between any Ace and Lister, with plots and everything - this is just a mood piece as Lister contemplates what it is he really wants - and gets a rather startling revelation.
That smeghead. That asshole. That complete and utter shitweasel of a coward!
Lister fumed as he paced Starbug’s midsection, wondering for the forty-second time why he’d bothered to go after Rimmer. He’d hung them all out to dry - where Lister came from, a guy didn’t do that to his family, blood, adopted, or otherwise. A guy stuck by them, helped them out of jams, out of-
Well, smeg. Now he was hungry. He belatedly realized he’d waved off Kryten’s offer of a meal earlier, after they’d rescued Rimmer from his engineered hellhole of a planetoid. Scouting the small kitchenette, he was disappointed - but not surprised - not to find any jam whatsoever. (There was jam on Red Dwarf, stones of it; the possibility of it being used at any time, in fact, is what had kept the toaster from committing digital suicide.) He did find carefully dried, recycled coffee grounds, which he measured from with a sigh and began perking some colored water. In the fridge was an uneaten roast chicken they’d found in the royal kitchen, where Rimmer had grudgingly insisted they beam in before taking off, to steal food. Lister still didn’t know how the hologram had found the wherewithal to think of someone besides himself for a fucking change and come up with that idea, except that maybe he and the Cat had given him one too many murderous glances that reminded him of the old saw that everybody who could eat was only three missed meals away from anarchy.
Chicken. Seems about right, Lister thought, snorting. Using his fingers, he reached in and peeled off a couple of hunks; there’d been two they’d been able to grab, but the Cat had made off with the other, tossing and chasing it around the back section of the ship and singing like a man in love. Said stuffed feline was now in the cockpit with the door closed, presumably mentally reliving his dinner over and over while manning the controls. Stuffing a piece of cold meat in his mouth, Lister's eyes roamed the rest of the food they’d managed to filch before being spotted by the Rimmeresque sous-chef and her boss (that’ll give me nightmares for a while), forcing them to beat a vaporous retreat.
In the small pantry cabinet to his left was some fruit Kryten had insisted on swiping. Lister plucked a couple of bananas from the shelf and deposited them on the counter opposite as he waited for the coffee to finish. Too tired to walk around to the table to sit, he set up an empty mug next to the rangetop before turning his back to the counter and hopping up to slide back on it.
He knew he should give up trying to figure out Rimmer. The guy had been a head case when alive, and death hadn’t done anything to shake it out of him. He was fearful where he didn’t need to be - before, he’d been a formless hologram, unable to be injured by conventional means, and even now, Legion had pointed out he was nearly indestructible - snide when it wasn’t appropriate, and snappish for no reason lately. Especially in the last three weeks, since their escape from Lister's Gelf marriage had nearly gone pear-shaped. For a whole glorious day once they were out of danger, Rimmer had been convivial, friendly, at ease with himself and others, self-deprecating … the life of the party.
And then they’d had to throw the switch on Ace and get back Arnold. Arnold, whose expression had dissolved from an easy grin and the occasional wink into a terribly self-aware sneer. Arnold, whose posture had managed to deflate - in the same body - from lightly rolling to tense and ramrod stiff. Arnold, who had immediately rolled his eyes upward and, spotting the ginger-blond bangs hanging down, gasped and snapped them by force of thought back into dark auburn tightly-coiled curls marching along the severe part just above his left temple.
To be fair, Lister had to admit Ace’s hair was reminiscent of something he’d once found in Kryten’s vacuum bag during maintenance, which the Cat had immediately grabbed and raced off clutching while caterwauling - a kittenhood toy well-worn and shredded. But also to be fair, it was the man’s only flaw, so far as Lister could ever make out.
What a guy.
Twice Ace had saved Lister’s life - all their lives. Sure, he’d been the one to damage Starbug the first time, but he’d also stuck around to fix their ship and Cat’s leg. With surgery, no less! Not meatball field surgery, but proper medi-bay tabletop surgery. AFTER hanging upside down in screaming, pelting rain to repair shuttle engines; BEFORE fixing up his own damaged left arm.
What a guy!
The percolator was cheerfully bubbling, and Lister’s thoughts were matching its mood a little more as he switched off the range and poured recycled coffee into the cup forward from his hip. Setting the pot back, he quickly peeled a banana and wolfed it down in a half-dozen bites, chewing and thinking some more on Ace. Just three weeks ago, he’d saved them again, prepared to blast himself and the emohawk into space, or leap on a grenade, just to spare Lister’s life.
No, not Lister - Davey-boy. Dave. Ace called him by his first name. Rimmer never did that. Yes, he called Rimmer Rimmer, but what else was he going to call him? Arnold? It sounded like an insurance salesman or math teacher. “Dave” was much cooler than that and should be used more often, he thought - something Ace instinctively knew. Well, what time he wasn’t calling his buddy Dave “Skipper” or “Spanners” or “Old Love” or the like. Point was, Ace recognized that Dave was a person, a fellow guy who needed buddies and easy clowning, and someone around who would be more capable than him every so often in a crisis. Someone like Ace, who’d shown up twice now, out of nowhere, to save the day.
What a guy!
Ace was a confident fellow, manly yet unafraid to show affection or friendship. A man after Lister’s own heart, with sensibilities to match. He was a fussier dresser - what normal guy knew Cuban heels from rubber soles? - but when you were that good-looking and confident in yourself, you could get away with it. And he was good-looking. Even with the overtinted hair, he exuded charm and charisma and male beauty. And fairly dripped sex.
Lister paused at that, feeling a brief stab of homosexual panic - then, he shrugged it off.
He was an enlightened guy. He’d heard of the Kinsey Scale. And he wasn’t exactly in a position to judge from a bevy of female beauties at this point in his existence, now was he? So there was no reason that he couldn’t admit to himself, alone in the dim light of deep space, that Ace was what his old barhopping mate Tonya would’ve called “a helluva hunk.” Tall, broad-shouldered, long-legged, with a weighty stride and devil-may-care air. The bronze flight suit didn’t do anything for his legs, but the jacket did emphasize his shoulders and the oddly-fussy fur collar’s V framed his diamond-shaped face. The smiles and laughs and crinkling of skin around deep-set greenish eyes, coupled with a deep, mild voice made Dave smile goofily as he stared off into the landscape of the top shelf of the pantry cabinet, not even seeing the dust Kryten had missed.
Absently, he peeled the second banana as he kept his eyes ahead, remembering Ace in a far more flattering blue, slinging around a bazookoid and giving orders to keep everybody back out of trouble. Snug, soft, deep blue material picked up shadows in Starbug’s lighting, outlining a tightly rounded, muscled ass, long calves encased in black leather, long arms tailored in fitted blue sateen. The toss of Ace’s head to dislodge hair, the hint of a smirk that might have promised a fist-bumping friend-with-benefits; hell, even the way the man sucked in on a cheroot and silkily blew out fragrant smoke suggested barely contained sensuality.
He was halfway down the banana, savoring the flavor on the middle of his tongue, before he realized he was eating it with a great deal of feeling. Sensing a bloom of heat in his face, he chewed, holding up the rest of the uneaten fruit and shaking his head at his own thoughts, chuckling softly. Well, I said I was enlightened, he reminded himself. Guess I’m just more “enlightened” than I thought, eh?
Just giving himself permission to fantasize brought the memory of those fingers into sharp mental focus. Curled around the small cigar, gripping a gun, delicately lacing a needle through torn flesh, tightly gripping his own hand and wrapping around the sides of his palm. The lips, occasionally touched by the tip of a quick pink tongue, were next; he realized he’d probably stared at those lips quite a long time for the day Ace stayed on board after the emohawk’s destruction, playing cards and copiloting and helping Dave with some basic dashboard maintenance, swapping jokes and stories about senior officers in the Corps. Ace’s eyes had fixed on his repeatedly, unafraid to watch and concentrate as Dave talked, unintentionally mesmerizing and warming. The way they narrowed and widened, the way the pupils shifted during conversation, nearly made Dave choke with the memory - oh, wait, that was just another bite of banana going down.
The rest of the banana disappeared at some point down his throat, the lukewarm coffee sliding down soon after. In a pleasant daze, Lister hopped off the counter and switched off the light, floating back to his sleeping quarters. He whistled softly, cheerfully, secure in the knowledge he had a new fantasy that could make him happy at any time, that he could pull out at random to peek at when he was bored or restless or horny. And nobody else had to know!
A couple of thoughts flitted through his mind in rapid succession as he palmed the door open to his sleeping quarters.
He spotted Rimmer in the lower bunk, asleep, his back to the room - the sateen jacket was gone, as were the boots, but he was still wearing his customary blue velour trousers.
In the middle of wondering why he hadn’t changed for bed, it hit Lister: Deep blue. Snug. A nice, tight ass. No, a tightass, he reminded himself. It’s Rimmer, for Chrissake! A nice, tight ass that belonged to Rimmer and would still fit pretty well into Lister’s hands.
Dave’s hands. Dave’s. Arnold’s ass. In Dave’s hands. He was Dave. Ace was Arnold. Smeg it all!
Sighing, Dave turned away from the door and let it shut as he shuffled away back toward the kitchen. He was in need of more coffee. And maybe another banana. Definitely some chicken.
Rimmer? Bloody, smegging Rimmer was what made his gears grind?
ARNOLD?!
Well … at least he had better hair than Ace.
Rating: PG-13
Chars: Lister, one-sided L/R slash
Disclaimer: Oh, I don't have a financial stake in any of these. If I could get my mind off Grant/Naylor creations and work on mine, maybe I could worry about someone writing fanfic about THEM. /dreams big
Spoilers: "Dimension Jump" "Emohawk" & "Rimmerworld" - set after the latter.
A/N: This is a little sexy humor (I hope) I came up with after metalkatt (also my beta) and I watched some Ace episodes again. Others here have more ably observed the good kind of tensions between any Ace and Lister, with plots and everything - this is just a mood piece as Lister contemplates what it is he really wants - and gets a rather startling revelation.
That smeghead. That asshole. That complete and utter shitweasel of a coward!
Lister fumed as he paced Starbug’s midsection, wondering for the forty-second time why he’d bothered to go after Rimmer. He’d hung them all out to dry - where Lister came from, a guy didn’t do that to his family, blood, adopted, or otherwise. A guy stuck by them, helped them out of jams, out of-
Well, smeg. Now he was hungry. He belatedly realized he’d waved off Kryten’s offer of a meal earlier, after they’d rescued Rimmer from his engineered hellhole of a planetoid. Scouting the small kitchenette, he was disappointed - but not surprised - not to find any jam whatsoever. (There was jam on Red Dwarf, stones of it; the possibility of it being used at any time, in fact, is what had kept the toaster from committing digital suicide.) He did find carefully dried, recycled coffee grounds, which he measured from with a sigh and began perking some colored water. In the fridge was an uneaten roast chicken they’d found in the royal kitchen, where Rimmer had grudgingly insisted they beam in before taking off, to steal food. Lister still didn’t know how the hologram had found the wherewithal to think of someone besides himself for a fucking change and come up with that idea, except that maybe he and the Cat had given him one too many murderous glances that reminded him of the old saw that everybody who could eat was only three missed meals away from anarchy.
Chicken. Seems about right, Lister thought, snorting. Using his fingers, he reached in and peeled off a couple of hunks; there’d been two they’d been able to grab, but the Cat had made off with the other, tossing and chasing it around the back section of the ship and singing like a man in love. Said stuffed feline was now in the cockpit with the door closed, presumably mentally reliving his dinner over and over while manning the controls. Stuffing a piece of cold meat in his mouth, Lister's eyes roamed the rest of the food they’d managed to filch before being spotted by the Rimmeresque sous-chef and her boss (that’ll give me nightmares for a while), forcing them to beat a vaporous retreat.
In the small pantry cabinet to his left was some fruit Kryten had insisted on swiping. Lister plucked a couple of bananas from the shelf and deposited them on the counter opposite as he waited for the coffee to finish. Too tired to walk around to the table to sit, he set up an empty mug next to the rangetop before turning his back to the counter and hopping up to slide back on it.
He knew he should give up trying to figure out Rimmer. The guy had been a head case when alive, and death hadn’t done anything to shake it out of him. He was fearful where he didn’t need to be - before, he’d been a formless hologram, unable to be injured by conventional means, and even now, Legion had pointed out he was nearly indestructible - snide when it wasn’t appropriate, and snappish for no reason lately. Especially in the last three weeks, since their escape from Lister's Gelf marriage had nearly gone pear-shaped. For a whole glorious day once they were out of danger, Rimmer had been convivial, friendly, at ease with himself and others, self-deprecating … the life of the party.
And then they’d had to throw the switch on Ace and get back Arnold. Arnold, whose expression had dissolved from an easy grin and the occasional wink into a terribly self-aware sneer. Arnold, whose posture had managed to deflate - in the same body - from lightly rolling to tense and ramrod stiff. Arnold, who had immediately rolled his eyes upward and, spotting the ginger-blond bangs hanging down, gasped and snapped them by force of thought back into dark auburn tightly-coiled curls marching along the severe part just above his left temple.
To be fair, Lister had to admit Ace’s hair was reminiscent of something he’d once found in Kryten’s vacuum bag during maintenance, which the Cat had immediately grabbed and raced off clutching while caterwauling - a kittenhood toy well-worn and shredded. But also to be fair, it was the man’s only flaw, so far as Lister could ever make out.
What a guy.
Twice Ace had saved Lister’s life - all their lives. Sure, he’d been the one to damage Starbug the first time, but he’d also stuck around to fix their ship and Cat’s leg. With surgery, no less! Not meatball field surgery, but proper medi-bay tabletop surgery. AFTER hanging upside down in screaming, pelting rain to repair shuttle engines; BEFORE fixing up his own damaged left arm.
What a guy!
The percolator was cheerfully bubbling, and Lister’s thoughts were matching its mood a little more as he switched off the range and poured recycled coffee into the cup forward from his hip. Setting the pot back, he quickly peeled a banana and wolfed it down in a half-dozen bites, chewing and thinking some more on Ace. Just three weeks ago, he’d saved them again, prepared to blast himself and the emohawk into space, or leap on a grenade, just to spare Lister’s life.
No, not Lister - Davey-boy. Dave. Ace called him by his first name. Rimmer never did that. Yes, he called Rimmer Rimmer, but what else was he going to call him? Arnold? It sounded like an insurance salesman or math teacher. “Dave” was much cooler than that and should be used more often, he thought - something Ace instinctively knew. Well, what time he wasn’t calling his buddy Dave “Skipper” or “Spanners” or “Old Love” or the like. Point was, Ace recognized that Dave was a person, a fellow guy who needed buddies and easy clowning, and someone around who would be more capable than him every so often in a crisis. Someone like Ace, who’d shown up twice now, out of nowhere, to save the day.
What a guy!
Ace was a confident fellow, manly yet unafraid to show affection or friendship. A man after Lister’s own heart, with sensibilities to match. He was a fussier dresser - what normal guy knew Cuban heels from rubber soles? - but when you were that good-looking and confident in yourself, you could get away with it. And he was good-looking. Even with the overtinted hair, he exuded charm and charisma and male beauty. And fairly dripped sex.
Lister paused at that, feeling a brief stab of homosexual panic - then, he shrugged it off.
He was an enlightened guy. He’d heard of the Kinsey Scale. And he wasn’t exactly in a position to judge from a bevy of female beauties at this point in his existence, now was he? So there was no reason that he couldn’t admit to himself, alone in the dim light of deep space, that Ace was what his old barhopping mate Tonya would’ve called “a helluva hunk.” Tall, broad-shouldered, long-legged, with a weighty stride and devil-may-care air. The bronze flight suit didn’t do anything for his legs, but the jacket did emphasize his shoulders and the oddly-fussy fur collar’s V framed his diamond-shaped face. The smiles and laughs and crinkling of skin around deep-set greenish eyes, coupled with a deep, mild voice made Dave smile goofily as he stared off into the landscape of the top shelf of the pantry cabinet, not even seeing the dust Kryten had missed.
Absently, he peeled the second banana as he kept his eyes ahead, remembering Ace in a far more flattering blue, slinging around a bazookoid and giving orders to keep everybody back out of trouble. Snug, soft, deep blue material picked up shadows in Starbug’s lighting, outlining a tightly rounded, muscled ass, long calves encased in black leather, long arms tailored in fitted blue sateen. The toss of Ace’s head to dislodge hair, the hint of a smirk that might have promised a fist-bumping friend-with-benefits; hell, even the way the man sucked in on a cheroot and silkily blew out fragrant smoke suggested barely contained sensuality.
He was halfway down the banana, savoring the flavor on the middle of his tongue, before he realized he was eating it with a great deal of feeling. Sensing a bloom of heat in his face, he chewed, holding up the rest of the uneaten fruit and shaking his head at his own thoughts, chuckling softly. Well, I said I was enlightened, he reminded himself. Guess I’m just more “enlightened” than I thought, eh?
Just giving himself permission to fantasize brought the memory of those fingers into sharp mental focus. Curled around the small cigar, gripping a gun, delicately lacing a needle through torn flesh, tightly gripping his own hand and wrapping around the sides of his palm. The lips, occasionally touched by the tip of a quick pink tongue, were next; he realized he’d probably stared at those lips quite a long time for the day Ace stayed on board after the emohawk’s destruction, playing cards and copiloting and helping Dave with some basic dashboard maintenance, swapping jokes and stories about senior officers in the Corps. Ace’s eyes had fixed on his repeatedly, unafraid to watch and concentrate as Dave talked, unintentionally mesmerizing and warming. The way they narrowed and widened, the way the pupils shifted during conversation, nearly made Dave choke with the memory - oh, wait, that was just another bite of banana going down.
The rest of the banana disappeared at some point down his throat, the lukewarm coffee sliding down soon after. In a pleasant daze, Lister hopped off the counter and switched off the light, floating back to his sleeping quarters. He whistled softly, cheerfully, secure in the knowledge he had a new fantasy that could make him happy at any time, that he could pull out at random to peek at when he was bored or restless or horny. And nobody else had to know!
A couple of thoughts flitted through his mind in rapid succession as he palmed the door open to his sleeping quarters.
He spotted Rimmer in the lower bunk, asleep, his back to the room - the sateen jacket was gone, as were the boots, but he was still wearing his customary blue velour trousers.
In the middle of wondering why he hadn’t changed for bed, it hit Lister: Deep blue. Snug. A nice, tight ass. No, a tightass, he reminded himself. It’s Rimmer, for Chrissake! A nice, tight ass that belonged to Rimmer and would still fit pretty well into Lister’s hands.
Dave’s hands. Dave’s. Arnold’s ass. In Dave’s hands. He was Dave. Ace was Arnold. Smeg it all!
Sighing, Dave turned away from the door and let it shut as he shuffled away back toward the kitchen. He was in need of more coffee. And maybe another banana. Definitely some chicken.
Rimmer? Bloody, smegging Rimmer was what made his gears grind?
ARNOLD?!
Well … at least he had better hair than Ace.