Summer Holiday

Content warning: a little swearing, a lot of graphic m/m sex, no violence.
Music: You'll see.
Dedicated to: DecemberGirl, founder of the Throttle fanclub, Godess of the Survivor's Log and creator of the infamous Anakin 'Mac' MacCloud and the adorable Rex.
Author's Notes: TaDa! Here it is! As far as I know, this is the first piece of Biker Mice slash ever. I feel like Columbus: 'This is a small step for a slasher, but a giant leap for slash fandom.' Or was that Neil Armstrong? I can never remember. **chuckle**
The locations decribed in this story really exist. I've been there. Some of the events are totally made up. The scene in the plane, for example. And the one in the Louvre; Yes, I did go to Paris with my classmates, but no, I did not see two 6-ft-something mice making out. I'm never that lucky.
The Sailors Arms is nowhere and everywhere at once, so it's in Paris too. And you
know who the band is.
One more thing: these guys don't use condoms. They do't have to, because a)they're mice and b)they're just cartoon characters, they're not real. You
are real and there's no such thing as 6ft mice [alas!]. So remember: 'Real life persons should always use condoms.'
Disclaimer: Oops, silly me, did I say they were mine? I didn't? Good, then I didn't lie. ;-) Throttle, Modo, Vinnie, Stoker, carbine, Harley and Rimfire belong to the creators of BMFM, whoever they are. All the SL characters belong to Decembergirl. But everyone else is mine. I made no money off this and I don't think I ever will. Bummer. ;-)


Summer Holiday

Charlie stood back and admired her work. The garage was clean, all her gigs had been taken care of, the fridge was full [although that wouldn't last much longer when the guys arrived] and Limburger was relatively behaving for once. It was just too good to last.
The second she heard the phone, she knew something was wrong.

"Last Chance Garage," she picked up the phone, crossing her fingers it wouldn't be anything serious.

"Charlie?" The voice over the phone sounded crackled and distant, but it was recognisable nevertheless.

"Stoker? Where are you? What 're you doing on Earth?"
"I'm-" He broke off and laughed amazed, "I'm in Paris."
"Paris? You mean as in Paris, France?"
"City of Light, yeah."
"My spacecraft crashed here. Listen, I gotta talk to the guys."
"They're at the scoreboard. I'll get them over here. Where can they call you back."
He gave her the number and she hung up.

She picked up the radio and called the guys, who were over at the scoreboard, watching the World Championship Soccer.
"Guys? Guys!"
"Charlie! What's up, bab- Oh YES! Goal! What a beauty!"
"Throttle! You guys have to come over here, pronto."
"What? Why? Limburger up to something?"
"No, I just had a phone call from Stoker. He's on Earth, in Paris, and he needs to talk to you."
"Paris? As in Paris, France?"
"The same. So get yer cutie-butts over here."
As she hung up, she could hear Vinnie and Modo laughing at that last remark.

It took him six minutes exactly to get to the garage.
"So, what's with Stoker?"
I dunno, but you're supposed to call him back at this number." She gave Throttle the number and stood back as he made the call.

"Um, hello, um, ... Do you speak English? Oh, good. Um, I'd like to talk to Stoker, please? … Yes, I'll hold." He leaned back against the wall. "Stoke? Yeah, it's me, Throttle. What the hell are you doing in Paris, man?"
Apparently, Stoker said something funny, because Throttle snickered and said: "Yeah, right. So whaddaya need me for, then? … And ya can't tell me over the phone?"
Throttle sighed at the obviously negative answer. "Oh, okay, I'll be there as soon as I can. I'll have to get a visa, so it might take a few days. … 'Kay, seeya."

He hung up and turned to Charlie. "Hey, Charlie-girl, you have any idea where a mouse can get a visa for Europe within a few days?"
Charlie considered it a minute and said: "I think I know someone who can help you, yeah. Why? Can't he come here?"
"No, he can't get a visa an' he can't get here with his spaceship 'cause then he won't have enough fuel left to make it back to Mars. And he says he's got a message for me, for me alone and he can't tell me over the phone." He shrugged.
"Well, you go packing and tell the guys, I'll get you your visa and I'll book you a flight."
As he left, she yelled after him: "But you're paying me back, ya hear?"

Six hours later, he was on the plane to Paris, his ears hidden under a baseball cap, his tail concealed by a long black raincoat, a scarf hiding his face. Not that anyone would've paid any attention to him if he'd just sat there without any disguise. Everyone was completely absorbed by the tv. Instead of the usual movie, they were showing the finale of the World Cup, live. All of the passengers had bet on the outcome of the match, the co-pilot kept the money.
Even the captain put the plane on auto pilot and was watching the game intently. Even though he was French, he had put his money on Brazil. "There is such a thing as too much patriotism," he had explained.
Throttle had put in five dollars on France himself. Brazil was good, he thought, but Ronaldo wasn't in a good shape and letting [or making] him play was a mistake.

Half an hour before they would arrive at the airport, the game ended with that one last beautiful goal and an announcer shouting: "La France est Champion du Monde!!!!"
Throttle collected his money and sat back until they landed.
He took a cab to the youth hostel where Stoker stayed and met his friend in the lobby.

"Hey, Stoke, how are ya?" he greeted. Stoker grinned and slapped his back.
"Not too bad for an old man," he joked, "C'me on, I already got you a bed in the same room as me. Let's go unpack yer stuff."
When they were up in the room, Throttle asked: "So, what was so important you couldn't tell me over the phone?"
"Sit down, kid, an' I'll tell ya."

Stoker sounded so serious that Throttle looked up from unpacking his stuff and said "Uh-oh. I don't like the sound of that." He sat down on the bed opposite to the one Stoker had dropped himself on and said: "Okay, talk to me."
Stoker took a deep breath and said: "Carbine asked me to tell you that … she's getting married … to Strain."
"WHAT?!?!?" Throttle exploded. "Why, that low-life, sneaky-" His voice broke before he could think of any more insults.

"I can't believe it," he said quietly, burying his face in his hands and starting to sob softly.
Stoker looked at him for a minute, then got up, sat down next to him and put his arm around him.
"Hey, come on, kid, don't let her get to ya like that."
He hugged Throttle close for a second and then got up. "Come on," he said, pulling Throttle up, "We're gonna go out, have fun and get drunk and you're gonna forget about Carbine."
"But," Throttle protested as Stoker put on his own disguise, "Won't we be noticed? I mean-"

"Bro," Stoker grinned, "This is Paris. We wouldn't be noticed if we'd walk around without disguise in broad daylight. Right now it's dark and we're disguised. Besides, I think they got something else on their minds. Have you seen the Champs Elysees?"
"Um, no."
"Well, then that'll be our first stop." And before he could think of any more objection, he was dragged out and into the subway.

The Champs Elysees were filled with people, cheering, drunk, exhilarated, happy, soccer-loving, patriotic people. And Throttle had to admit, it was contagious. He was actually enjoying himself.
The people around him were singing the Marseillaise and he tried to make out the words, so he could sing along. After five seconds, he decided it was useless and just LaLaLa-ed as loud as he could.
"Hey, bro," Stoker yelled in his direction, "Let's get outta here before I lose my hearing."

They wandered through the back streets of the city, looking for a not-too crowded bar.
Suddenly, just as Stoker was about to give up, Throttle stopped dead in his tracks. "Are you hearing what I'm hearing?" he asked.
Stoker perked up his ears [well, he would have if his ears weren't captured under some baseball cap] and listened intently. He heard the distant sounds of cheering, the 'BANG's of the fireworks, the humming of cars and underneath all that … music. Nice, loud Rock 'n' Roll.
"I think it's coming from over there," Throttle pointed.

They found the bar, located in a cellar. It was called 'The Sailors Arms' and it was nice and quiet. They ordered two beers from the barkeepster and sat down at a corner table to listen to the band.
The band existed of four young men, looking about eighteen, all of them had Liverpool accents. As they started to sing 'Sweet Georgia Brown", Throttle grinned, turned to Stoker and said: "I think I like this bar."
Stoker held up his glass and said: "Amen to that, bro, amen." They swallowed their beers in one big gulp and ordered two fresh ones. "So, you feeling better?"
"Much, thanks."
"No more mooning over Carbine?"
"Carbine? Who's Carbine?"
Stoker chuckled and said: "That's the spirit, bro."

Its been said she knocked 'em dead in any ol' town
Since she came, why it's a shame how she knocked 'em down.


Seven beers later, their spirits were up even more and they were laughing at everything. As the band set in a slow, Throttle suddenly had a brilliant idea.
"Hey, Stoke, wanna dance?"
"What? With whom?"
"With me, of course."
"Me? Dance? With you?" Stoker repeated.
"Well, yeah."
Stoker thought abut it for a second, sure that there was some reason why he couldn't possibly dance with Throttle, but he couldn't think of one. Eventually, he gave up and shrugged. "Yeah, okay."

They got to the dance floor and started dancing. It was a little clumsy in the beginning, due to their drunkenness, but they soon got the hang of it. Or rather, of each other. The only way they could stay upright was to cling to each other tightly.

As the song carried on, Throttle suddenly felt something nudging his hip. He dipped his shades and asked, in a husky voice: "Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"

As Stoker opened his mouth as if to say something, a particular line of the song struck Throttle.

Why wait any longer for the one you love,
When he's standing right in front of you?


In his drunken haze, it made perfect sense to him and suddenly, without consciously realising it, he leant over to kiss him, and the world came to a shrieking halt.

When they finally came up for air, Stoker whispered: "Hey, kid, whaddaya say we take this show back to the hostel, huh?" Throttle just nodded and followed him outside.
Neither of them saw the barkeepster smirking at the band leader, or heard her say: "Told ya so."

Hours later, the sun came up over Paris, as it had done so many times before. All over the city, people were waking up, going to sleep and nursing hangovers.
In the Youth Hostel, Stoker lay awake, arms wrapped around Throttle, his pupil, his friend, his lover.
And somewhere in the distance, a band played on.

Tonight you're mine, so sweetly,
You give your love, completely
Tonight the light of love is in your eyes,
But will you love me tomorrow?


Morning in Paris, the city awakes
To the bells of Notre Dame …

At least that was what it sounded like.
Throttle examined the pounding sound in his ears for a few seconds, then concluded it was just his heartbeat.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty, wake up, will ya?"
Ouch. Light. Light was not good.
Ouch, ouch, double ouch.

"Ah, Aurora's finally awake."
"Aurora, my boy, is the dawn. It is also the real name of the Sleeping Beauty, whose record you seemed to want to break."
"You are way too complicated this early. Come back when I'm ready for the morning." He ducked back under the covers.

"Aw, come on, bro. You're in Paris. Wake up and smell the croissants!"
Now, that got his attention. "Croissants?" he asked, eyes peeping out from under the covers.
Stoker grinned down at him, already dressed except for his boots and apparently more then ready to take on the world. "Knew that would get you to wake up. Now, why don't you get dressed, so we can go for breakfast?"

Getting up, slowly as to not hurt his head any more then it already did, Throttle asked: "Hey, Stoke, tell me something. You had at least as much to drink as me, last night. So how come you don't seem to suffer from it?"
Stoker just grinned again, shrugged and answered "I dunno. Maybe I just have better stamina then you."

Throttle thought about that for a second, then looked at Stoker with a sly grin on his face. "Oh yeeeaaaah? So why don't you prove that, huh?"
"Wha-" Before he could finish his question, Stoker was pulled back onto the bed, which screeched in protest at such violence.

Stoker suddenly found himself sprawled all over Throttle. "So," he joked, "What's a nice mouse like you doin' in a bed like this?"
"You should know, you put me here."
"I did, didn't I? Well, now that I have you, what should I do with you?"
"Maybe you should take off these clothes. They're blocking your blood circulation. You can't think straight."

Throttle started undoing Stokers belt, fumbling. "Damn," he swore, "What is this, a chasity belt?"
Stoker chuckled and started to help, but Throttle grabbed his hands and switched their positions in one swift movement, moving Stokers arms up over his head.
"Stay," he said with a gleam in his eyes. "You just lie back and relax, old man, and let me do all the work."
"Be my guest," Stoker said, making a show of settling in, folding his hands behind his head and closing his eyes.

He felt hands undoing his belt and crawling under his shirt. His shirt was shoved up over his chest and arms, which he obediently stretched out to help.
The shirt ended up across the room and a mouth was pressed on his. For long minutes, they explored each others mouths, tongues duelling.

Throttle broke the kiss, breathing heavily, and started to stroke Stoker's chest, placing feather light kisses here and there, slowly moving south.
Stoker grunted when Throttle had to stop his caresses for a short while in order to take of his pants.
Throttle chuckled lightly and said: "That'll teach you never to get dressed before I get outta bed."
"Alright, alright, point taken."

Finally, his pants were out and went the same way as his shirt. His briefs quickly followed.
Hands strayed over Stokers legs, slowly moving up, torturously ignoring the part of him that screamed the hardest for attention. He was trembling all over by the time Throttle moved up again to look in his eyes.
"So, how 'bout breakfast?"

"You …" Stoker hissed in an incerdulous tone.
"Me …" Throttle replied in the same tone. Then, seeing the threatening look on Stokers face, he continued: "Alright, alright, I'll get on with it. But if I ever hear one word outta you 'bout the impatience of youth, …"
Then, before Stoker can give a witty answer, Throttle pressed his lips against his and started moving.

They move slowly at first, tenderly, stroking each other with their whole bodies. Then, as the pressure built, they moved faster and faster, more frantically with each move, until they froze simultaneously, their seed mingling on their stomachs.

Throttle collapsed next to Stoker, who sad, panting: "Take it easy on the bed, will ya?"
"Shaddup," Throttle answered lovingly, throwing one arm around Stoker and pulling him close for another kiss. They lay there for a few minutes, just cuddling and kissing, until Stoker broke the embrace and said: "We better grab a shower."
Throttle grinned broadly and said: "Gladly."
"One by one, bro. If I don't get some breakfast soon, I'll collapse. And you wouldn't want that to happen, now would you?"
"Alright, but I get to shower first."

Half an hour later, they were downstairs, having breakfast at an old, oak table.
"So," Stoker said, "What are we going to do today?"
Throttle swallowed the last mouthful of his breakfast and said: "Same thing we do every day. Try to take over the world."
Stoker sighed and said: "Let me rephrase that. What do you wanna go see today?"
"You," came the answer, spoken in that husky tone that made Stokers inside turn weak.
"I'm flattered," he said flatly. "Now, can you please, just for once, answer me seriously?"

"Serious. Okay, I can do serious. Lemme see. I wanna go to the Eiffel Tower. All the way up." Ignoring Stokers groan and muttered remark about his old body, he continued: "I wanna go visit QuasiModo. I wanna see the catacombs. I wanna-"
"The cata-what?"
"The catacombs. They're caves and tunnels under the ground, where they used to bury dead people. They're still practically filled with bones and skulls."
"An' you wanna go see that?"
"Oh, man, I can't believe this. I came all the way from the caves of Mars, just to visit caves here." Stoker shook his head in disbelief"

"Ah, c'me on, bro, humour me on this. I promise I'll make it worth your effort," Throttle said, dipping his shades.
"Don't do that."
"Do what? This?" He repeated the gesture.
"Yeah, that."
"Why not?"
"'Cause I can't say 'no' to you when you do that."
"Oh, in that case, …" He smiled sweetly, dipped his shades and, in his most pleading voice, said: "Puleaeaease?"

Stoker squeezed his eyes shut and lower his head into his hands. "Why me?"
He lifted his head, looked at the ceiling and asked: "What did I do to deserve this?"
He sighed. "Fine, we'll go. But you better make it worth it," he said, pointing at Throttle and putting on his best stern Freedom Fighter Trainer expression.
"I will. Trust me."
"You know, coming from you, those are the two scariest words in the English language."
They decided to begin with the Eiffel Tower. Since there were no stairs to the third floor, they took the elevator all the way up.
They just stood there for a while, enjoying the view.

"You know," Stoker said, sounding pensive, "If I ignore the blue sky, this could've been Brimstone. Or Brier-Rose. Or any large city on Mars. They're all gone now." He sighed gravely.
Throttle put an arm around the other mouse's shoulders. "Someday, Stoke, there'll be new cities. Maybe not in our lives, maybe not even in our childrens', but someday there's gonna be cities again on Mars."
Stoker just sighed again and shook his head. "Hey, this is supposed to be a vacation! C'me on, I got something ta show ya."
Throttle took a good look at Stokers sly smile and decided that was not a good sign. "What?" he asked suspiciously.

"C'me on, and I'll show you." He dragged Throttle along towards the toilets.
Stoker pushed him inside a cabin and locked the door behind them. He turned around to face Throttle [A complicated operation due to the fact that the cabin was damn small.] and grinned slyly.

"Ever heard of the 'Miles High Club'?"
"What?" That was quickly becoming his favourite word. Suddenly, it dawned on him. "No way. Oh, c'me Stoker, you can't be serious."
"I'm very serious." When Throttle still didn't look too enthusiastic, he added: "Hey, you said you'd make up with me for dragging me into those caves."

Without waiting for Throttle's answer, he kissed him, his hands stroking the growing bulge in Throttle's pants. "See? At least some part of you likes it."
Throttle grumbled something and pulled Stokers head towards his to kiss him again.

Stoker unzipped Throttles pants and let his hands wander inside. Because the cabin was so small that Throttle could not return the favour. All he could do was tighten his arms around his lover.
They kept this up for several minutes, tongues swirling, hands stroking. Just when Throttle couldn't hold on much longer, Stoker stopped. Throttle opened his eyes. He was unable to speak, but his entire face said: "Wha-?"

"Can't have you ruin my jacket, can we? Besides, we'd look ridiculous if we'd walk around like that."
He chuckled at Throttles frown, then continued: "Relax and enjoy the ride."
After which he suddenly got down on his knees and engulfed Throttle whole. The world just went blank and the next thing Throttle knew, he was leaning against the wall with a smugly grinning Stoker zipping him up.

"There, all clean again."
"Stoker, you are one bad mammajamma, you know that?" Still breathing a bit heavily, he followed Stoker outside.
"If you've enjoyed the view enough, can we go down?" Stoker asked with his most innocent face. Which was not quite innocent, by the way.
Throttle just rolled his eyes and made for the elevator, silently pledging to get back at Stoker for this.
Their next stop was the Louvre, because Throttle insisted the go see Mona Lisa.
"Why," Stoker asked, "Do you want to go see some silly-smiling woman?"
Throttle just shrugged and said: "Because. It's just one of these thing you have to have seen at least once in a lifetime."

They wandered through the halls and rooms for about an hour. Stoker had to admit, there were soe nice things in here. He liked the white marble statues. He was just admiring a particularly beautiful statue, when he felt a tail wrap around his waist and yank him in a small hallway.

"Whoa! Easy, bro, what's the rush?" He blinked to adjust his eyes to the darker environment and saw an elevator door. They were hidden from any intruding looks by two small walls.

Throttle pushed him against the wall and, grinning evilly, said: "Payback time."
The scene that played after that was a mirror image of the one on the Tower, except for two things. One: there was more room here, and two: they had a spectator.

Neither of them had noticed when a blonde girl had, unsuspecting, turned around the corner, stopping dead in her tracks when she spotted the scene before her.
After a few seconds, the amazed expression on her face slowly merged into a broad, sly grin and she ducked behind the corner again.
The two mice hadn't noticed her intrusion, just like they didn't notice the soft, regular clicks or the sound of her camera winding.

The blonde girl was walking up the stairs. The brown-haired girl next to her asked: "What are you smiling about?
"You were smiling like the cat that got the canary."
'More like the cat that got the mouse,' the girl chuckled to herself. To her companion she said: "Oh, nothing, it's .. Well, ya had to be there."
She glanced to the X-ray machine at the entrance and said: "You know, I really hope that thing didn't ruin my film rolls."
The brunette shook her head and said: "You and your photo's."
The blonde just chuckled again.

On the metro to the catacombs, Stoker was muttering to Throttle: "I still don't understand why you gotta go see these caves. I mean, okay, the Mona Lisa was art, culture, I can understand that. But this?"
"Well, there is one thing I always liked about caves. There are a lot of hidden caverns where you can hide way and do … naughty things."
Stoker stared at him for a second, then shook his head. "And I thought Vinnie was the one that was driven by his hormones," he remarked.

In a small cavern, Throttle found himself locked in a pair of muscled arms. Before he could even say "Wha-?", his mouth was being thoroughly ravished.
"But I wanted to …" he started to protest.
"So?" Stoker shrugged. "You got to choose the location, I get to take the lead. 'Sides, it's my turn."
"Oh, we're taking turns now, are we?"
"Well, in a manner of speaking."
"Then I suggest you stop speaking."
He did.

After lunch [They decided that Chicago had better hot dogs, but Paris had better rootbeer.], they went to the cemetery of Père-Lachaise.
"More dead people?" Stoker commented.
Throttle sighed and shook his head. "These aren't just people, bro. Jim Morisson, Chopin, Oscar Wilde, …"
"So why d' they all come to Paris to die?" Stoker wanted to know.
"I dunno," Throttle shrugged, "Most of 'em died at the end of the 19th century. Paris was the centre of the modern world back then, ya know."
"What I know is that your parents should never have let you take that Earth History class in High School."

"So this is where Oscar Wilde is buried, huh? Shame he died so young." Stoker stood a good 10 feet from the tomb, arms crossed, head slightly cocked to one side, leaning on one leg. The tomb was an enormous, hideous piece of junk.
"You ever read his work?"
"Not really, just read a lot of quotes. I liked the one about the stars."
"'All of us are in the gutter, but some of us are looking at he stars.' Reminds me of the Freedom Fighters."
"Yeah," Throttle sighed, walking over to the other side of the tomb. "Hey, look, there's something inscribed here. 'And alien tears will fill for him/Pity's long broken urn/For his mourners will be outcast men/And outcasts ever mourn'."
Stoker came up behind him, put his arms around Throttle's waist and kissed his neck.

"Stoke!" Throttle hissed, trying [not too hard ] to escape. "Are you nuts? Anybody could see us here."
"Relax, will ya? There's no-one around."
"But this is a cemetary!"
"Wel, … it's holy ground, for God's sake!"
"Hey, I wanna make love with you, not take your head."
Now how could he argue with that?

As they were walking back to the metro station, Stoker asked: "So, you got any more things you wanna go see?"
"Hm … Nope, I think I've seen it all."
"Then how 'bout we go back to the hostel and take a little siesta, huh?" He wiggled his eyebrows and his eyes had a suspicious glint in them.
"Stoke, has anyone ever told you that you're insatiable?"
"Frequently, although not recently," he grinned.
"Well, you are." Throttle sighed demonstratively. "What was that you said about being driven by your hormones?"

Throttle closed the door, threw the key-card on one of the beds, dropped himself on the other one and closed his eyes.
"I'm beat," he announced, "I wanna just lie here for a while and sleep."
"How 'bout taking off your clothes first? You're gonna get 'em all wrinkled if you sleep in them."
"Can't. Too tired."
"C'me here, I'll help you."
In a few moments, they were both naked.
"Move over, will ya?" Stoker said, pushing Throttle over on his right shoulder, facing the wall. He slipped in behind his lover, put an arm around his waist and said: "Sleep tight."

'Hmm ….' Stoker thought, slowly drifting back to consciousness. Hands roaming his body, a hot, wet mouth on his, …. This was a great way to wake up, he decided.
"Wakey, wakey, sleepy head," a voice whispered in his ear.
"It's 5 PM, Stoke, almost time for dinner. You hungry?"
"Very," he growled, suddenly fully awake, and reversed their positions.

Throttle's tail tightened around his waist, the tip stroking that sensitive spot in his lower back, while his arms were locked behind his head, pulling him close for a kiss.
At first he just enjoyed the feel of Throttles mouth against his, his warm breath tingling his face. Then he slightly opened his mouth, allowing Throttle's tongue inside his mouth, where it softly stroked his own.
Slyly it lured his tongue into Throttle's mouth, then the roles were reversed again.

When they broke apart, breathing heavily, Throttle chuckled: "All right, I see I got you to wake up. So, what do you want to do for the rest of the day?"
"Oh, I dunno. First, maybe make a little love, then go out for dinner, check out the Parisian nigh life, come back here, make some more love, …."
"Let's just take that one step at a time, shall we? What was the first thing you wanted to do?"

"Well, actually, …" Stoker said, suddenly very serious, "There was something I wanted to try, but only if you want to."
"I .. I'd like to be .. inside you." The last words were a mere whisper.
"Anything." The answer came quickly and determined.
"Throttle, I want you to be absolutely sure about this."
"Stoker," Bright red eyes looked into green ones. "I love you. I'm sure. Honest."
There was a moment of silence, then the hoarse reply came: "I love you too," followed by a sweet, passionate, loving kiss.

"Um … you'd better lemme go for a second, love. I've got to go get something and if I don't go now, I won't be able to later."
"Okay," Throttle said, reluctantly, pouting slightly, "But come back quickly.
"You bet!"

Stoker quickly returned, carrying a small bottle of oil. At Throttle's questioning frown, he grinned: "Found it on the ground when I first got here. Someone musta left it here. Or maybe," he smiled slyly, putting the bottle down on the nightstand and returning to the bed, "It was a gift from whatsername, that Earth godess of Love."
"Right, a gift from Venus."
"Then how 'bout we pay her back for her little gift, huh?"

Since they were both already very excited, it wasn't long before Throttle gasped and whispered: "Stoke, now, please."
Stoker nodded, grabbed the bottle and put some oil on his finger. "Relax, enjoy, and please tell me if it hurts."
He inserted his oiled finger in his lover's body, slowly, allowing him to get used to the sensation.

"You okay?"
Throttle could do nothing but nod at first, then managed to get out, between two gasping breaths: "Yeah, more then okay."
"Take it easy, it's gonna get even better."
A second finger joined the first, then a third.
"You ready?" A whispered question, a confirming nod, and Stoker withdrew his fingers.

He lubricated himself with the oil and slowly entered his lover's body. He began to move, slowly at first, then faster and faster, until they were blown away by the force of their orgasms and drifted away into eternity.

A spaceship made its way through the cold, empty space. Inside, Stoker was sitting at the wheel, guiding it to Mars. On Earth, it was noon now.
Stoker was smiling broadly, remembering how he woke up the previous afternoon.

"We made our way along the river and we sat down in the grass by the Eiffel Tower. I was so happy we had met –tararara ta- It was the age of no regret, wo-ho!!!"

ABBA. Someone was singing ABBA. Loud. Off-key. Off-beat. This was torture. He'd rather face the entire Plutarkian Army on his own.

Stoker grunted, threw off the covers and stormed into the small bathroom area. He opened the curtains and smashed Throttle against the wall.
"Shut up, will ya?"
An evil grin spread across Throttle's face. "Make me."

And so he had. They'd had a great evening, went back to the pub of the night before for dinner, spent the evening there and the night in each other's arms.

That morning, he had accompanied Throttle to the airport and then left himself.
A grin spread across his face, a vision of Vinnie's face when he found out about the two of them suddenly crossing his mind.

Meanwhile, Throttle just arrived back in the Last Chance.
"Hey, bro!" Vinnie greeted him. "How was Paris?"
"Not bad. Any problems here?"
"Not really, just one of Limburger's usual scams to take over Chicago. Hardly worth wearing off my tires for."

"So, Throttle, what was it Stoker had to tell you?" Charlie asked.
"Carbine's marrying Strain," he grinned.
Charlie, Vinnie and Modo looked at him, then at each other and then back to him.
"Carbine's marrying Strain …" Vinnie started.
"And you've got a smile the size of Vinnies ego?" Charlie continued.
"I get a feeling there's something he's not telling us," Modo said to the others. "I think he's met someone else out there."

Throttle just smiled even broader. "You could put it that way."
"But who? There's no way you met anyone actually new there, it must be someone you already knew. But you don't know anyone in Paris," Modo reasoned.
"So it must've been someone who came from Mars with Stoker," Charlie thought out loud.
Throttle shook his head. "Nope, Stoke was all alone.

Charlie made a non-comprehending face. Then, suddenly, it dawned on her. "No!" she shouted, incredulous.
"Yep," Throttle said.
"What? What? What?" Vinnie demanded. "You kow who it is?"
Modo suddenly slapped his hands in front of his mouth. "You're kidding, right?"
Throttle shook his head.
"Who?" Vinnie yelled. Charlie and Modo just stared at him.

The moment it dawned on him, Throttle grabbed his camera and started taking pictures as fast as he could.
He was gonna get the most out of this moment.

"There. Finished. Satisfied?"

"Njeah, not bad."

"Now, how 'bout something with a plot?"

**sigh** "It's just never enough for you two, is it?"


"Get used to it."