#mike spanner

[finalatomicbuster]

Bruno and Mike Spanner for Mandate, July 1976 Photography by Target Studios

[thescorpioking1983]

[vietsoul]

Big Max aka. Mike Spanner Grease Monkeys, 1979 - Colt Studios, dir. Rip Colt

[hawkinsschoolcounselor]

Mike declaring his "love" for El is what Henry has been waiting for.

Will, the well-intentioned selfless idiot that he is, has accidentally set in motion Henry's best chance to finally achieve his goals of...world domination? What exactly is he after, anyway?

El was on her way to becoming a stronger person. She faced her demons. She accepted her past mistakes that led to Henry's massacre, confronted Dr. Brenner and rejected his manipulations once and for all, and stopped seeing herself as Mike's idealized superhero girlfriend. It seemed that she was set to move past all of her biggest insecurities, which would allow her to face Henry without any mental weaknesses for him to exploit.

Then Will saw Mike moping about El. He couldn't handle Mike talking badly about himself. He wanted to let Mike know how he sees him, but, of course, he felt it wouldn't mean anything coming from him. So, he put El's name on everything, not even noticing how Mike's initial excited reaction at seeing the painting was dulled at Will crediting El with it. Nevertheless, Mike was overcome with emotion at someone seeing him exactly the way he always wished he would be seen. And, because of Will, he thinks it's how El sees him.

It remains curious that Mike and El never had an emotional conversation after they reunited. Yes, there was initially no time for that since they had to get back on the road to escape Sullivan. However, even with their need to plan what they needed to do to save Max, they could have talked. They were in that van fairly long considering it was daytime when El was rescued and night when they reached Surfer Boy Pizza. Perhaps they didn't want to talk in front of everyone else, though that didn't stop Will. They didn't really get a chance at that until everyone else was preparing for El's saltwater bath.

What may well have been a gentle breakup or, at the very least, an honest conversation about their relationship issues, instead was interrupted by Argyle. Indeed, Mike seemed eager to goof off with his blackout glasses and then seemed nervous when El took his hands with that "we need to talk" look. That conversation was their only chance to have a real talk, but they had no chance, and El was soon in the pizza freezer trying to save Max.

This brings us to the second part of Will's well-intentioned mistake. El is in danger. Henry managed to get the upper hand. El appeared to be dying. In an effort to give her strength, Will prompts Mike to talk to her. He's the heart. Mike had been hesitating, but he tells her he loves her. It's a bit unclear just what sort of effect this had on El, whether it helped or distracted her. However, she does eventually steel herself and, seeing that Max was about to be killed, summons the strength to fight back. Max is partially saved, but we never see Mike and El talk afterwards.

El is naturally rattled by Max's fate. She lost, and Max suffered for it. However, she makes no apparent attempts to find comfort or reassurance in Mike. Aside from the hospital room, she was quiet, going off on her own. The strong, determined, self-assured young woman she was growing into has fallen back into insecurity.

Meanwhile, Will has sacrificed his greatest desire for what he thinks will give Mike and El happiness. That will be Henry's opportunity.

Make no mistake: Henry knows that Will loves Mike. He had Will integrated into the hive mind. Brain scans showed that Will's mind was almost entirely taken over. He knows Will's every secret, and he also knows that Mike was the one who finally broke through to him in the shed. Mike trusts Will completely, and Will is able to sense Henry's presence.

Mike is the fly in the ointment, the spanner in the works. He's been far more of a problem for Henry than he even realizes. Mike is a problem for him. Will is a problem for him. Mike and Will together would be an even bigger problem.

In order to win, Henry needs three things to happen. First, isolate El. She is the only one who is capable of facing him one-on-one. She is stronger when she has something to fight for, something driving her to overcome the odds. If she doubts herself, he has a chance. He needs to take away her support system by either killing them or separating her from them.

Second, Mike needs to be taken out of the picture. Will was right. Mike is the leader, the heart. He knows how to rally an group of ordinary kids, now teens, to do things that should be well out of their abilities. Mike is caring, brave, and intelligent, but also very insecure. If he can get Mike doubting himself, then he won't be able to support El, Will, or anyone else.

Finally, Will has always been special to Henry. We don't yet know why, exactly, but Henry targeted Will from the start. Even after Will was rescued, Henry tried again a year later to bring Will into his control. It could be that he hates losing that much, or it could be that Will has some yet to be revealed asset that Henry needs. Their mental connection, at the very least, is a huge liability for Henry, but it has also been an asset for him in the past.

It seems to reason that any plan of Henry's needs to address these three, and I think it fits with what we know so far.

El seems to largely be isolated. She's apparently in hiding, which is likely since she's essentially a fugitive from the government. This would eventually take its toll on anyone, but El is also a teenager with a lifetime of trauma. She saw her best friend die. She has to hide from hostile forces while trying to protect the world from literal monsters. Over time, the stress could make her snap. Henry just has to keep her busy and away from the others.

We know that Holly is targeted by Henry, and Karen may end up in the hospital with severe injuries. This could very well be a calculated plan by Henry to get Mike out of the way. Killing Mike would probably enrage El to the point of her becoming too big of a threat, and it would also make it difficult to bring Will back under his control. Instead, he can target Mike's family to sow enough doubt in him to force him out of the picture. At the very least, he can distract Mike from being able to support the others if he's worried about his family, instead.

This would leave Will vulnerable, as well. We have reason to believe that Will has flashbacks/visions, possibly right away in episode 1. It's reasonable to think that the others could worry about Will being a spy for Henry again. Mike would trust him, but the others might think it'd be safer for Will to be away from the action, so Henry would be unable to use him. Rejection is a fear of Will's, not only from Mike, but in general. He wouldn't take it well if his friends saw him as a tool of the enemy. If Mike were to be too caught up in his own head to reassure Will, or, worse, start to see reason to doubt Will, himself, then Will could fall into a downward spiral. Will loves Mike. Needs him. Any rejection from Mike is painful to him. He may try to pretend that he's moved on, but feelings like those don't just go away. This would give Henry an opportunity to tempt him or outright possess him again.

Of course, we know that Henry will ultimately lose. This is all just how I feel he will try to attack what I see as his biggest obstacles to victory. Any thoughts?

[radiobyers]

why mike’s sexuality can’t affect his relationships fate — no matter what his sexuality is:

an analysis of m*leven’s relationship & specifically why i believe that mike being straight still would not equate to him & eleven being endgame.

mike wants nothing more than to feel special for his differences, but el sees him — & being with him — as normal & undeniably, mike’s life has been a lot more “normal” than hers. el wants nothing more than to live a normal life but mike sees her as a “superhero”. el lies to him about her life in california to cope with bullying. she can’t control the bullies but she can escape through fantasy & make mike believe that she’s settling in.

the duffers describe mike as a kid who “escapes” through fantasy gaming. he learns to play d&d to cope with bullying because pretending to save the party from supernatural forces makes him feel stronger. in season 4, he can’t comprehend why el can’t find comfort in being a “superhero” when she’s experiencing bullying, because all he wants is to feel like a superhero. (linked: see page 13, titled: “the kids”. sentence 4 under “will byers”.)

i made a post a while ago about the above scene’s parallel, here.

el admiring things in nancy’s bedroom, calling nancy pretty & asking mike if she’s “still pretty” without nancy’s wig on, has nothing to do with mike at all. it is el trying to comprehend & take on the life of a normal girl. nancy was the first girl she had seen outside of the lab & the life the wheeler’s lived was very new to el. it is a consistent plot line that she just wants to be a regular child. it’s why her friendship with max is so good for her. max wants to partake in typical teenage girl activities & shows el how to join in.

however, el’s new interest is not something that she can enjoy with mike. season 3, episode 2 makes it clear that while el is really enjoying her time shopping with friends, mike hates every moment of his. as a matter of fact, none of mike’s interests can be shared with el either. they quite literally don’t share any common ground other than both liking presents. that sounds like an over-exaggeration but it isn’t. mike even stops playing d&d when el is around, but as soon as she moves away, he becomes passionate about it again.

they don’t watch movies together, they don’t bond over food & they don’t have any real conversations, unless they’re talking about the upside down. lucas & max see movies together, read comics & have inside jokes. dustin & suzie bond over movies, sing together & share most of the same nerdy interests. in comparison to other couples their age, mike & el don’t seem to connect. here’s an example of how differently lumax & m*leven bond from season 3, episode 5:

max & lucas are both happy to sit together, snacking & reading. mike & el are sitting beside them reading the ingredients list on a packet of m&ms. they’ve just gotten back together but instead of catching up or talking about it, they’re reading the contents label on a packet of m&ms… the directors could have given them something else to converse over, but alas, i have nothing to suggest as a replacement.

the m*leven-byler triangle

while this love triangle is complicated, will being in love with mike is not a spanner in the works. in season 4, will does not intend to break these two up, nor is he prepared to expose his feelings to mike. will isn’t an obstacle that m*leven needs to overcome. so why are his feelings so involved in the plot? foreshadowing!

will, a queer character, has a false understanding of mike & el’s relationship. he thinks that they’re happy & in love but they’re anything but happy in st4. however, will does not know that so he gives up hope & waits for his feelings to pass. except they can’t pass, because he’s getting mixed signals. doesn’t that situation sound awfully familiar? you’re thinking of robin & vickie.

in case you need a reminder; robin loses hope that vickie may love her back because she assumes that vickie is already happily in love with a boy. however, vickie’s boyfriend breaks up with her shortly after this so apparently they were not all that happy or in love. the foreshadowing here is that m*leven are headed in the same direction as the “happy couple” in robin’s scene.

vickie’s sexuality was not mentioned in the show at all, yet, the audience believes her to be queer from her actions. do you see how easy it was for them to break up a presumably straight couple & introduce one of those characters as queer?

however, the interesting difference between robin & will in these scenes is that robin looks devastated but will does not look heartbroken at all. in fact, he looks happy. mike however… he looks all over the place. i have no idea why mike’s expressions change so drastically, but i do know that finn wolfhard is a very expressive actor, so i’m willing to bet that he’s trying to convey a mixture of mike’s emotions here.

final note on this: if you read this far, i love you!! i could go on but this is way too long. i’d like to say that i do believe that there’s a lot of love between mike & el but ultimately, their love is not compatible. i may do a contrast post where i discuss how aligned mike & will’s hobbies/goals are because it was fun to get this out of my brain. anyway, i am 100% sure that no other character will be at fault if they aren’t endgame, because they were never built to last in the first place.

[censoring the ship name so it doesn’t show up for shippers]

[steddiebang]

I Will Die In The House That I Grew Up In | Rating: E | 146,817

Author: kwills91 on twitter and ao3 Artist: sheepsicles on twitter /communismkins on tumblr and ao3 Beta Reader: 3blackhearts on twitter and ao3

Steve Six months after their battle in the Upside Down, Steve still can’t face talking to Eddie. He’s loud, and weird, and everything Steve wants but knows he can’t have. Right now he has to focus on making sure everybody is okay. Right now he has to plan for when Vecna comes back. But a stranger shows up declaring to be from the future and changes everything. Eddie Steve’s avoiding him and he doesn’t know why. But it’s okay because he’s found the kind of friendship he never thought he’d have with the last person he’d expect. Nancy Wheeler. But when a teenage girl shows up on their doorstep, Nancy insists they move in with Steve to help him keep her safe whilst they uncover the reason she was sent back, and why Vecna has somehow shown up again twenty-five years in the future. And how is he supposed to react when she declares that her parents are none other than Eddie himself and the guy he’s been crushing on since he did that goofy little wave six months ago? And on top of all of this, Vecna returns to throw a whole spanner in the works.

Read on ao3 | art 1 & art 2

Pairings: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Nancy Wheeler/Robin Buckley, Steve Harrington & Robin Buckley, Eddie Munson & Nancy Wheeler, Will Byers/Mike Wheeler Characters: Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson, Robin Buckley, Nancy Wheeler, Wayne Munson, Jim "Chief" Hopper, Joyce Byers, Will Byers, Jonathan Byers, Mike Wheeler, Dustin Henderson, Claudia Henderson, Lucas Sinclair, Maxine "Max" Mayfield, Murray Bauman, Dmitri Antonov, Sam Owens (Stranger Things), Original Female Character(s), Kali Prasad, Henry Creel | One | Vecna Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Time Travel, Post-Season/Series 04, Eddie Munson Lives, Maxine "Max" Mayfield Lives, Forced Proximity, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Eventual Smut, Platonic Soulmates Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington, Platonic Soulmates Eddie Munson & Nancy Wheeler, together all four of them are soulmates, Mutual Pining, Found Family, POV Multiple, Steve Harrington's House is Apolcalypse HQ, Henry Creel | One | Vecna is His Own Warning, Happy Ending, Steve Harrington Has Self-Esteem Issues, that might be an understatement, Eddie Munson Has Self-Esteem Issues, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Sharing a Bed, First Kiss, Feelings Realization, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, and Eddie Munson gives them to him, First Time, Virgin Eddie Munson, vecna battle, Graphic Description, Serious Injuries, The Upside Down (Stranger Things), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Top/Bottom Versatile Eddie Munson, Top/Bottom Versatile Steve Harrington Trigger Warnings: Graphic Depictions of violence, mild drug use, parental death, almost character death (but nobody actually dies)

[raccoon-eyed-rebel]

Part 23 - Charles

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Part 22 -- Part 24

Pairing: Charles x ofc (Sloane)

Summary: The guys throw a New Years Eve party at 179th Crescent Street...

Warnings: SMUT, NSFW, 18+, MINORS DNI, oral (m and f receiving), p-in-v shenaningans. And some minor violence, and drinking.

Word count: 3.3k

A/N: Alright, Charles' turn! Do we expect him to shag someone? Yes we do! Does he? That's a stupid question! (It almost didn't happen!)

A liiiiiittle more insight for you guys in the Marshall situation, but not too much (I actually had to go back and edit some stuff out because I felt I was giving too much away, whoops.) Anyway: Enjoy! And let me know what you think! 🥰

@deandoesthingstome @geralts-yenn @summersong69 @peaches1958 @fvckinghenrycavill @keanureevesisbae @livisss @sillyrabbit81 @ellethespaceunicorn @ylva-syverson @poledancingdinos

It’s rather busy in the kitchen, but I think they’re almost done, which means it’s probably safe for me to go take a look without being put to work. Besides, it looks like Leon is taking most of the heat for now. I’m almost slammed into a wall when Mike squeezes past me in the narrow hall, announcing the internet has been fixed.

“I knew there was a reason we kept him around.” I say as I join Leon in the kitchen. 

“Yeah, it would be so awful if you couldn’t watch porn for one night.” The only reason it doesn’t sour my mood is because Dani is the one saying it. Anyone else could get bent for all I care, but her, I like. It doesn’t stop me from elbowing Leon wherever I can hit him, though, because he should know better than to laugh.

“I don’t think I’ll be needing any tonight,” I say indifferently. From the corner of my eye, I notice that Mike’s paying attention for a change, and I can’t help but throw in a mildly inappropriate wink at Dani - just to see what he’ll do. And how she will react to it.  

“Think you can still get laid with a broken nose and a black eye, Brandon?” I was never planning on taking the flirting further, but if I had been… Mike is fast, and I really don’t need a dent in my face tonight. I’ve definitely become more careful since Sol kicked me in the nuts and Geralt came really close to permanently disfiguring my face.

One look at Dani, however, tells me enough. She’s biting her lip as she looks at Mike. Mikey, on the other hand, doesn’t take his eyes off me while he pulls Dani into his side. God, I’m glad they seem to work out. I can’t take another week of him smiling at his phone like an idiot but too nervous to actually ask her out. I’m fairly sure Anjelica ended up hitting send on that text for him. It was the weirdest thing to witness, because Mike actually has game - which is also why I don’t exactly mourn the fact that he’s off the market, although I’m fairly sure Sy is even happier about that. Everyone in this house has broken up more than one spat between those two about who stole whose chick. 

Word travels fast around campus, because there’s a staggering amount of people in the house that I know I didn’t invite. I don’t mind, of course; plenty of the ladies present I’d happily invite back - and from the looks of it, a fair amount of them would be more than happy to come along. Tonight, however, I'm mostly interested in the girls who are with Danielle. From the corner of my eye, I notice that Leon has similar ideas, and he’s a lot closer than I am. Luckily, he seems to be more interested in the other roommate, Ariel. The one I’m after is Sloane Price. She plays hockey on the university team, and I occasionally run into her after practice. She’s been sizing me up for weeks, and it’s driving me insane. The one spanner in the works; Sy. Sloane seemed to have set her sights on him, although I don’t know why. Luckily - again, though I like to pretend I don’t depend on luck - he’s occupied by Alicia Thomson. I decide to try the luck I say I don’t need, and talk to her.

My hand hurts like hell. It’s the price you pay for kicking out some douche who can’t keep his hands off your roommate’s girlfriend. 

“Thanks for doing that.” The voice is familiar to me now, and when I look up, Sloane is standing in front of me, holding an ice pack. She hands it to me, and I accept it gratefully. 

“Thank you.” The cold is amazing on my sore knuckles. 

“Can I take a look at that for you?” Sloane asks kindly. I nod, gritting my teeth as I move my hand slightly. She’s a med student - and this might just be a way to get both of us out of here a little quicker than I thought. “I don’t think anything is broken, but I’m fairly sure you sprained your middle finger. Is there any tape in the house?” Bingo! As a matter of fact, there is. 

“I think there’s some in my hockey bag,” I say, “do you want me to check?”

“Might as well come with you.” Sloane shrugs. 

We make our way upstairs and I lead the way to my room. My bag is at the bottom of the wardrobe, and I was right about the tape; there’s still some in there. 

“This is a pretty nice house,” Sloane says as she starts working on taping my finger to the next. “Better than the apartment I share with Dani and Ari… Definitely bigger.”

“I’d hope so,” I say, “there’s eight of us! It’s crowded enough as is.”

“It’s neat, for a house with eight guys,” she notes. I can’t say she’s wrong; we do keep things clean around here. It’s either that or get murdered by August, Geralt and Sherlock. Trust me when I say no one would ever find the body. 

I hiss when Sloane pulls the tape a little too tight. “Easy.” 

“Sorry.” She has a fantastic smile. “You’re all set.” She lets go of my hand a tad quicker than I’d hoped. It's strange. Normally I'd be wishing for them to get the niceties over with as soon as humanly possible, so we can get to the fun stuff. Not with her. It's not that I'm going to try to pretend I don't know what's going on. I've been in love before. The guys would try to say that I fall in love three times before breakfast every godforsaken day, but they're wrong. I like to fuck. That's all there is to it, really. More importantly: I don't do relationships. Those just end with everyone involved disappointed and hurt. I can't do that to her. To anyone. Not anymore.

Now, the smart thing to do would obviously be turning away, going back to the party, finding someone else and screwing her brains out. The only problem with that idea is that I wouldn't be with Sloane - who is agonisingly slowly leaning in for a kiss, while I'm moving away even more slowly. 

"I'd feel incredibly insulted if I couldn't see with my own two eyes you're rock hard for me," she purrs out of nowhere. "To resist you is an almost olympic level achievement, but to be resisted by you? I'm not sure my reputation could take a hit like that…" Her hands are on my thighs, sliding up. I know exactly where they're going. Do I stop her? Who am I kidding? I don't have the strength of character to do that. Involuntarily, I let out a groan. 

Her lips meet mine, and I’m done for: there’s absolutely nothing I can do to stop myself now. She pries my mouth open with hers and slips her tongue into my mouth. The vague taste of liquor - not beer or wine, it’s something else - lingers on her lips. It’s good. As far as kisses go, this one is pretty fucking amazing. Miss Price is handsy, and my shirt is on the floor before I know it. Part of me wishes they were all this fast. Yes, from a time-saving perspective. Don’t judge me, at least I’m aware I’m a bit of a jerk. I consider a world where all girls are as eager to sleep with me as Sloane for a moment, until she rakes her fingernails over my chest. When one of them grazes my nipple, I hiss. Hate the feeling. She has way too much control over me at this point, anyway. 

I toss her on my bed, fully expecting her to shriek - and she does. They all do. Sometimes, I find myself wondering when things became so predictable. Is there really nothing new to this anymore? She pulls me in for another kiss. God, even if it’s the same old thing over and over again, it never stops feeling good. The decision to wear jeans was a poor one, I have to admit. They’re not going to be a problem for long, however, judging from the enthusiasm with which Sloane attacks my face and neck. Those wet kisses along my jaw and down towards my collarbone make me shiver. 

“You like that,” Sloane moans into my ear. I love how it isn’t a question, but rather an observation. And she’s not wrong. 

“I do,” I reply, “but it makes me wonder what else that mouth can do.” Not even a minute ago I was impressed with her tempo, and now I’m acting as if she’s not even fast enough for me. What is wrong with me? 

“Are we in a hurry?” she asks. We really aren’t, but I’m acting like we are. Sloane raises an eyebrow at me. “I’m happy to admit I’m throwing myself at you, Charles, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to get away with a five minute pump and dump.” 

“Don’t insult me,” I scoff, “or do I have a bad reputation I don’t know about?” 

“You mean a reputation for being a manwhore? I’m surprised you didn’t know…” I laugh at her retort - albeit sarcastically. 

“I mean a reputation for being bad in bed,” I fire back at her. The corner of her mouth twitches, but she doesn’t say anything. I don’t consider it a win just yet. Until she finally shakes her head, that is. I smile at her. “I can give as well as take.” 

If that’s not a statement of the type ‘put your money where your mouth is’, then I don’t know what is. Sloane sighs as I slowly kiss my way down her neck. It doesn’t seem to do much for her… Oh, well. I’ll figure it out after I get a good look at these tits. She helps me take her sweater off. The fabric is thin, so even though it’s a relatively modest thing, it did reveal that she has much heftier equipment than I had expected. Curse sports bras and their figure-hiding properties - it's practically the only thing I've seen her in up until now. She stops me when I move to undo her bra, leaving me… confused, in a way. Is she distracting me from the fact she won't show me her tits by taking my cock out? Well… it's working. 

My jeans are off in no time, and she makes her way down quickly. Those massive bedroom eyes make up for what she lacks in technique. Not that she's bad. Not at all! It's just… 

"That - oh, fuck! Keep doing that!" I'm a simple man. There's two or three things I really like, and I don't need much more than that. It makes it really easy to give pointers. Unfortunately, any kind of hint makes it really easy for girls to want to punch me in the nose. Listen, I know us guys can be dicks about getting directions during sex, but ladies… Pot, kettle, black. In my experience, at least. Sloane doesn't seem to mind, though, which is lovely. She just settled for what I told her works best, making this one of the nicest blowjobs I've ever had. It's a matter of finding out how quickly she'll give up, now. 

About five minutes into giving a blowjob, about fifty percent of girls are going to call it quits. The ones who see oral as nothing other than pregame. Next forty to forty-five percent are gone after ten minutes. They're the ones who consider sucking dick fun enough to have at it until jaws start cramping or whatever. If she sticks with it after that time, that’s when I start to consider actually saving her number for future reference. Is that something a total jackass would say? Absolutely. Like I said: I don't have any strange ideas about what I am. I know many people consider me a jerk, and Sloane's assessment of 'manwhore' was far from incorrect. Still, I don't think I deserve the amount of shit I get for screwing around. I've never pretended to want more from a girl than a bit of good fun. It's not my fault some still expect me to call them, right? And I quit getting caught up in serious relationships after I ruined the third one by cheating. Now, some of the guys think my stance on sleeping with girls who are in relationships is questionable, and I won't pretend my opinion on the matter is undisputed… 

Sloane breaks into my thoughts in a rather unorthodox way: sinking her teeth into my cock. 

"I don't feel I deserved that," I groan. It didn't hurt, she was gentle enough, but it was an unwelcome enough surprise, nonetheless. What's worse is that she comes crawling up and kisses me. It's not the kiss that bothers me, it's the fact that she's no longer sucking my cock. Oh well, she's made it well past the ten minute mark. 

"Tell me," she moans into my ear before softly sucking on my earlobe. Fuck, she's good. "Would you ever have cum from that?" 

"No," I answer honestly, "but it felt absolutely divine." There's a big difference between a good blowjob and one that's going to finish you off. 

"I'd ask you to return the favour but… I would actually like to cum," she whispers. I chuckle softly. I'm reasonably confident I can make that happen for her. And I'd love to. 

She’s a willing participant for sure. She’s loud, which I’m definitely not going to complain about. Tastes good, too, and the way her pussy clenches around my fingers makes me very curious and very eager to fuck her. I keep eating her out until she screams my name - it’s almost suspiciously easy to get her there, but I’m the last person to question it. I can’t hold back a chuckle when I feel her fingers beneath my chin, pulling me up. Sloane’s hands are gentle, but impatient - so is her mouth. She kisses me fiercely. Feverishly. Almost desperately. I allow my eyes to wander, feel my expression turn into a frown when they meet her bra. It’s pretty, but in my way. Sloane, however, also stops my next attempt to take it off. 

“Why?” I ask. I’m curious by nature, which is not always beneficial - not even in these moments. Sloane looks at me and rolls her eyes. 

“What? I’m not good enough for you like this?” she counters. 

“I never said that,” I warn her. Women and their godforsaken talent to twist your words. I swear it’s at least half the reason I get in trouble all the time. “I was just wondering.”

“I like the support. They’re pretty heavy,” she says plainly.

“I can imagine.” Apparently, there’s a tone in my voice she doesn’t like, because she smacks me in the arm. “Hey!” 

She’s testing my patience now, and it’s working. It’s gone. I reach for my nightstand. Can’t screw around the way I do without protection - as disappointed as I am about that. I’m surprised when she puts a hand on my cheek and turns me back to her. 

“Skip it,” she says, “I’m on birth control.” Maybe if I hadn’t looked into her eyes, I would have been able to resist her. This is not a good idea. 

When she kisses me, I’m lost again. Next thing I know, I’m pushing into her, listening to her moans as she takes me all the way, hissing when she digs her nails into my shoulder. The sprained finger adds another degree of difficulty: it’s incredibly difficult to keep myself up, because - pardon my French - that finger hurts like a bitch. 

“Your hand?” she asks kindly as she strokes the side of my face. Her hands are warm and soft against my skin, which makes me sigh. I nod, my face screwed up from the pain. I’m nowhere near drunk enough to ignore the feeling. 

“Allow me,” she whispers before gently nudging me onto my back. I’m the last person to complain about a woman on top, especially when the view is so exquisite. As she rides me - with vigour, I must say. It’s greatly appreciated - I almost forget my displeasure regarding her bra. And my own name. 

“Do you have this kind of stamina when you’re on top?” she asks after a while. I grin widely - I can’t help myself. It disappears, however, when she climbs off and sits on my bed, my open arms clearly not enough of an invitation for her to join me in a more comfortable position. 

“Give my hand some time to heal, I’ll show you,” I say. She doesn’t seem particularly put off by the idea, which is lovely. “Come here for a minute.” Normally I wouldn’t ask. I’m not above a quickie in a bathroom stall, and I have been known to occasionally take off immediately after sex. What I don’t do, is ask the girls I shag in my own bed to leave - and not just because their staying the night exponentially increases my chances of having lazy morning sex, which I might just describe as my favourite pastime. In those cases, after sex cuddling is an inevitability. A nuisance, even. For me to ask for it… It reminds me immediately of just how terrible an idea this was. 

“Do you want a drink?” I ask quickly, hoping for an excuse to leave my room and get my head on straight again. 

“With alcohol? Yes, please,” Sloane answers. 

“I’m sure they won’t miss a bottle of wine.” I put my clothes on as quickly as I can, and make my way downstairs. 

At least… I try to, because a spat between Marshall and his best friend Peter prevent me from going into the kitchen. I’m not getting mixed up in this - or rather: I am going to try my very best, but if this guy keeps going the way he’s going, I’m afraid I’ll have no choice. My hand may not be broken now, but it surely will be if I have to assault one more person today. And I wasn’t planning on spending the rest of my night in hospital… Luckily, Ange gets in the middle of it before things really get out of hand. When the dust settles, I make my way into the kitchen to get a bottle of wine. Marshall doesn’t look too good… I might have to ask Sloane to take a look at him in a bit. If he’ll let her. He looks as if he just wants to disappear - and I don’t necessarily blame him. He hasn’t been himself, lately. The bad mood wasn’t unusual, per se, but there was something melancholic to it that didn’t suit him. I doubt this has fixed the issue. 

As expected, he won’t let Slo into his room. I’d be sad if it didn’t mean I got to have her back with me quicker. When I got back to my room, I promised myself tonight. Just this one night with her, and then I forget about her. She just wants to know if the stories are true, she won’t mind. If she’s smart, she won’t expect a thing from me - and she’s in medical school. She’s smart. We just finish the bottle, talk about nothing, and laugh. 

“Are you up for another round of debauchery?” she asks after she has put the empty bottle on my nightstand. She’s on her knees, straddling my thighs, clothed - unfortunately - because I haven’t had a chance to take her clothes off after she came back to the room. Neither of us are remotely sober now. Chances are that whatever happens next, will be forgotten before morning. 

One night. And then I forget about her. 

[itwasonlyadream]

I had a strange dream last night.

I was getting on a plane to fly to a new job. I was showing someone where it was on a map. It was way above the arctic circle. I told them that I was going to be there at least 3 months before I would see them again.

It took a long time to fly there because I had to switch planes several times.

When I finally got there, I was driven to a building that was shaped like a long hexagon stacked on itself three times.

I went in. There was a front desk, a door behind the desk on the left, two doors on the left and right of the room, and an elevator behind the desk on the right. There was nothing else and no one at the desk. There was a picture frame on the desk that had a message to take the elevator to the top floor.

I took the elevator.

When it opened on the top floor, the room was more open, but was in disrepair. There were some old benches and tables in the middle of the room, chairs lining the walls, and a cafeteria window at the back of the room.

To the right was an open door and another room that you could see metal chairs in. On the lower left was a hallway that went to another elevator. On the upper left was a room with more benches and some decor that indicated it was an entertainment room, but anything 'fun' was missing.

There were a few people in the cafeteria room sitting in the chairs lining the wall. Two women and one man.

I remembered the man, I had worked with him before, several years ago. We called him 'Big Mike' at work. He looked in bad shape and his hair was long and grown out.

He asked if I was thirsty and told me that the options were water (which wasn't safe) and Coke Zero in a can.

He explained that we were all here to work in a mine because we were 'trouble' and had to be removed from the rest of society until we weren't 'trouble' anymore. The building we were in was made up of these pre-fab hexagonal buildings staked on each other and that there were 8 levels to the building, not 3. 5 of the levels were below ground and were only used as part of the mining operation. The 3 above ground were the residential levels.

We were not allowed to leave the building, but we could go anywhere in the residential levels.

He said that whoever had sent us all there really didn't care how we managed to survive as long as the mining quota was met, so the only thing they monitored was the mining levels. In the residential area, anything could happen outside of the common areas, so it was best to stay in the cafeteria as long as possible if you weren't working.

We sat and talked a while, then miners started coming in to eat because their shift was over. We started lining up to get our food, then sat down at the benches at the tables to eat while more miners packed in the room. There was not enough room for everyone, so people were pushed against each other and trying to push through the crowd to get food. (It was pinto beans and a slice of white bread, btw).

Then Temuera Morrison (WTF Tem, they said you were trouble too?) came in with another large group of miners to eat, but was asking around to see if anyone had found his 'spinner'. He asked me, and I asked if he meant 'spanner' and he said no, and went on his way.

I heard someone near me say "I bet it's up on the roof." The person I was sitting beside said to never go on the roof, because people don't come back from the roof.

And then I woke up.

[no-goodbyes-no-regrets]

Have you any idea which article writer has released that John takes Aaron by surprise with an even bigger gesture than the I love you.? As all that springs to mind to me that’s bigger is a marriage proposal or let’s have a child. I just wonder if it’s been over exaggerated by one outlet because I’ve read a couple of articles and they only mention the I love you

I think I saw it in one of the mags this week?

wait, no it was metro - take it with a grain of salt then. the whole article is basically aaron/john fanfiction.

There was a temporary spanner in the works when Ross (Mike Parr) returned with news about baby Seb’s whereabouts and lots of talk of Robert that threatened to drive a bit of a wedge between the couple.

Lots of talk of Robert? He was mentioned a few times and Aaron was shown to still have feelings for him and wanted to raise Seb with Vic.

also BABY Seb? - the kid is SEVEN, metro.

[finalatomicbuster]

Big Max for Colt Men #5 (1979)

[kudosmyhero]

Transformers (vol. 1) #18: The Bridge to Nowhere

Read Date: May 10, 2023 Cover Date: July 1986 ● Writer: Bob Budiansky ● Penciler: Don Perlin ● Inker: Keith Williams ◦ Vince Colletta ● Colorist: Nel Yomtov ● Letterer: Janice Chiang ● Editor: Mike Carlin ●

**HERE BE SPOILERS: Skip ahead to the fan art/podcast to avoid spoilers

Reactions As I Read: ● what is this bridge thingy? a ship? ● I’m not invested in these new Transformers. I wanna see the already established ones ● he…. he just called Megatron “Meggy”

● guess we have some new characters in rotation thanks to the bridge ● 👏👏

Synopsis: In northern Oregon, a couple is out driving and enjoying the scenery when they spot a strange, gigantic metallic bridge that they have never seen before. Driving on it, they are horrified when a robot materializes on the bridge and suddenly explodes, sending them fleeing from the scene as the bridge suddenly vanishes. This is the first test run of the Decepticon's new Space Bridge, and it is a failure.

Lord Straxus is not impressed and sends another warrior across which leads to the same results, much to Lord Straxus' infuriation. The Decepticons continue their tests unaware that they are being spied on by Blaster who is intercepting the data transmissions until he is picked up by Powerglide. Returning to Autobase, he provides Perceptor his findings on the Decepticon Space Bridge. They all agree that they need to rescue the kidnapped scientist Spanner, who is clearly being forced to make the Space Bridge for the Decepticons and prevent them from breaching the distance between Cybertron and Earth.

On Earth, in a coal mine in Wyoming which has now become the Decepticons new base of operations, Donny Finkleberg completes another Robot Master transmission and demands to be fed. Megatron sends Ravage out and the panther returns with a vending machine full of candy bars. When Donny complains about the nutritional value of living off candy bars, Megatron angrily crushes the vending machine and warns Donny about further complaints. Just then Laserbeak and Buzzsaw return from their mission to collect Starscream, Skywarp, and Thundercrack. When Megatron realizes that Shockwave has come along, he is furious. The two are then about to battle each other to determine who is fit to lead the Decepticons when they are interrupted by a holographic transmission from Lord Straxus. Straxus explains his tails with the Space Bridge. With this new revelation, Shockwave and Megatron agree to put aside their differences and come up with a means of creating Energon Cubes for the Decepticon war effort back on Cybertron. Overhearing this, Donny doesn't like what is about to happen and begins considering a way to escape to warn the Autobots.

Meanwhile, on Cybertron, the Autobots spring a two-pronged attack: While Powerglide, Perceptor, Seaspray, Cosmos, Beachcomber and Warpath tunnel under Darkmount, Blaster infiltrates it from above to plant explosives. Ambushing the Decepticon base, they are caught off guard when Darkmount is suddenly detonated. Furious, Straxus decides to take the matter into his own hand, transforming into cannon mode and entering the battle. Blaster makes it to his next target the Space Bridge where he is rigging up explosives. He is surprised when the Space Bridge transforms and to his horror realizes the Bridge is alive, and that it has been made out of Spanner himself. Blaster is hesitant to kill Spanner, however, Spanner begs him and is forced to revert to bridge mode because it's too painful to remain in robot mode.

The Space Bridge is activated and the Decepticons then begin attacking Blaster, bringing his Autobot comrades to his aid. On Earth, the reappearance of the Space Bridge brings about the police who speed toward it. As the Autobots battle on the Space Bridge, they just barely avoid being blasted by Straxus, sending them landing on the Earth side of the bridge. Battling Straux one-on-one, Blaster is on the defensive but avoids the Decepticons blows. Straxus hits the Space Bridge's fuel line before Blaster knocks him into the interdimensional energy between both points of space, causing Straxus to be completely obliterated. With the Space Bridge running out of power and closing up, the Autobots are forced to flee down the Earthside to avoid being destroyed by the remaining Decepticons. As they reach Earth the Bridge disappears, and they find themselves stranded on Earth and are greeted by police and military officials.

(https://marvel.fandom.com/wiki/Transformers_Vol_1_18)

Fan Art: Blaster. Agent Blaster. by MamonnA

Accompanying Podcasts: ● Transformers Chronicles - episode 16

● Transformers University - episode 57

[untangling-my-headphones]

It really seems like the same way they're keeping the possibility of byler unknown, they're doing the same thing with miileven, though because miileven is a 'canon' couple they're having to make what would be their romantic scenes worse compared to with byler a 'new' (at least to some of the GA) couple, they're having to give them lots of really deep moments to balance both ships out.

They seem to want both couples to have an equal chance of prevailing in the audiences mind - the epitome of will-they-wont-they. People will have an easy time assuming miileven will be endgame so they're throwing spanners in the works but more people will struggle to believe byler could happen so they're focusing all their attention on giving them really intimate, emotionally driven scenes that make it impossible to ignore but also still up in the air.

In the end though only one will be endgame (or maybe none?) and they would have chosen how far to push the struggles miileven go through and the emotional scenes byler get in order for one of them to come out on top and it not be entirely out of nowhere. (because they don't want to risk one being more preferred than the other if that is not the couple they're going with)

So having other characters be in the background of miileven scenes, having them have very few romantic scenes at all, having them not make up at the end of the season kind of like a cliff-hanger (or apparently even be on speaking terms much) are all issues they've thrown miilevens way to make it harder for the audience to work out if they will make it through. Honestly these are all pretty normal issues but Mike not being able to say he loves her, the 'from El' letter, Mike's eventual confession not working both in defeating Vecna or in making El happy aren't. They seem too deep set of issues for them to get over in one season (the last season) and still be the happy ending endgame couple.

especially when byler is the alternative. byler who are managing to fix the rift between them, managing to communicate and be there for each other and forgive each other. If byler isn't endgame the scales are looking a little unbalanced in their favour.

They could have written Mike and El to have a private moment for the i love you. They could have written El to come back from Max’s mind after Mike said i love you and she could have said it back and they could have kissed. They could have written them to have this magical, romantic moment that El could have drawn strength from to fight.

But they didn’t.

[fitsofgloom]

The Last Days of Disco: Colt Model Big Max (né Sam Pasco, right) and friend dancing at Studio 54, 1977.

[isitisitearlymichael]

Probs an unpopular opinion here but let’s go…

I look at Stranger Things seasons 1-4 as a tale of two halves.

For me, season 1 and 2 are undeniably about Mike and El. Even during season 2, when Mike is there supporting Will through everything, I don’t view his actions as him having romantic feelings for Will at all. He cares deeply for him, but I don’t think he considers Will in that way.

That’s not to say I don’t think the Byler storyline was planned, but I don’t think we were supposed to doubt anything.

But season 3 changed everything, and the narrative flipped. We saw that all the characters had grown up a little bit, and the dynamics between them were changing.

And for Mike, I don’t think he realised that the way he felt about Will was special until their fight.

I think a lot has been said about the it’s not my fault you don’t like girls line, which could easily have been Mike projecting, but little is said about Will’s I really did.

I don’t think Mike understood what Will was saying there, or at least allowed himself to understand the weight of the words they shared. However, I think it was enough to scare Mike. Because that shit both hurt and healed him. It hurt him that he almost lost Will again, but Will’s reaction also really showed how much he cared about Mike, and how much Mike’s actions were hurting him. And Mike couldn’t cope with that feeling at all.

So even though season 3 starts the whole I love you arc between El and Mike, the season also plants those seeds of doubt - not just for the audience, but for Mike.

Then season 4 seeks to repeat the dynamics of season 2 - Will and Mike are paired up while El and Mike go through the whole separated-and-reunited arc again. But this time it feels so different. They’re now even more grown up, and there’s a clear tension between the boys. But it’s not just this whole misunderstanding between them, it’s the romantic tension. The whole of volume 1 is like a will-they-won’t-they, even if volume 2 throws a complicated spanner in the works.

Season 4 also refers back to season 3’s fight, with Mike unable to control his emotions and then quickly running back to Will in forgiveness again. The apology scene is so intimate, but it’s the way he fluffs his words- gets nervous over them even - which tells us even more. I don’t know, maybe I feel like I lost you or something.

Or something.

What gives this line even more weight is how the words lost and lose are used throughout the show. When Mike tells El that he can’t lose her, we’re supposed to take that as a love confession. His fear of losing her has always been associated with his love for her. We also hear similar lines between Joyce & Hopper, and Lucas & Max.

But when the Duffers and Finn tell us that Mike is oblivious, I agree with them. I don’t think Mike knows that Will loves him at all. Not in that way.

He spends the whole season failing to understand how El could possibly like him in that way - his actual girlfriend - so why would he even consider that his best friend would love him?

But I also believe that there’s much more going on in Mike’s mind than we’re being let in to see. And I don’t think they’d plant so many seeds and focus on Byler in the epilogue so much if it wasn’t going anywhere in season 5.

[bullet-prooflove]

The North Star - Part Seven: The Heist - Terry Bruno x Reader (Feat Mike Duarte)

Welcome to mine and @the-hinky-panda The Bronx universe featuring our favs Terry Bruno & Mike Duarte.

This story takes place several years after 'Blood Out'. Terry still lives in the Bronx and works in Manhatten SVU.

Following on from @the-hinky-panda story 'The Dog' Mike has retired from the NYPD on medical grounds due to seizures causes by the attack. He has a therapy dog called Bono and lives with @the-hinky-panda character Meredith.

Tagging: @mysoulisasunflower @legit9thlunaticwarrior @bbyxoo @the-adzukibean @xoxabs88xox @crazy4chickennuggets @beardedbarba @wooshwastaken @justreblogginfics @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @storiesofsvu @anime-weeb-4-life

Part One: Moments

It was three quarters of the way through your appraisal of the room that you spotted him. That familiar dark hair neatly slicked back from his grizzled features, a black waistcoat over white shirt and black trousers. He was dressed like one of the caterers, a large silver whipped cream canister tucked under his arm as he pulled aside a discreet black velvet curtain at the back of the room and slipped behind it.

Are you fucking kidding me? You thought exasperated. Every time you thought this case couldn’t get any more complicated; something threw a spanner in the works.

A Degas and now a Duarte. Christ, Terry was going to get a kick out of this.

Paul was still occupied on the opposite side of the gallery, his head bent low as he talked with Arthur Munson, the fence and host for the evening. You followed Mike’s footsteps, disappearing behind the curtain before anyone could realise that you were missing.

It took you a second to realise that the room was set up for the auction later tonight. Over a dozen chairs facing a stage that included a podium and a gavel. It was old school, compared to the way it was done these days with computers and electronics. Paul had mentioned that Arthur Munson was a traditionalist. The walls were littered with artwork, a blatant display of the man’s proclivities. You didn’t recognise any of the pieces, but you assumed they were each worth a small fortune. This event tonight was an opportunity to show off, to fortify his reputation as a collector and procurer. A decadent marketing campaign that put his competition to shame.

At the end of the front row, near the stage stood Mike Duarte, his scarred hands covered with black latex gloves as he clasped the frame in front of him and tried to pull it from the wall. It stuck fast, unrelenting as he yanked at it again before huffing with irritation.

“Mike.” You hissed as your gaze came to land on him. “Tell me you aren’t trying to steal that painting.”

“I’m not trying.” He snorted, inclining his head towards you for a moment before turning his attention back to the task at hand. “And I consider it a liberation.”

You stepped up to the painting as he withdrew a scalpel from his waistcoat pocket. It glinted wickedly in the dim light above.

“Is that…” You trailed off as you studied the painting in front of you.

The photographs you’d viewed on Meredith’s coffee table didn’t do it justice. It was vibrant and evocative, all plush greens and vivid blues. A sprawling hillside near Medellin, Colombia, a miniscule white picnic blanket had been added in such beautiful, perfect detail, you could see the tiny red poppies embroidered into the fabric. There was life in this work, it emitted through the thin layer of canvas vibrating through your bones as you stood entranced.

“Carrillo’s work is stunning. Nobody knew he painted, only that he put the fear of God into Escobar.” Mike informed you as he took a second to survey it.

“Mike, I can’t let you...”

“Yes you can.” He said firmly, turning to face you. His eyes fixated on yours, you saw the ferocity in his gaze, the ire and the passion. “His family deserve to have this back; it’s not meant for anybody else’s eyes. He painted it for his wife, to remind her of what they were fighting for before the Narcos killed her. That man sacrificed everything for what he believed in and I’ll be damned if I let this sit in some cartel shithead’s mansion like a fucking trophy.”

There was a viciousness in his voice, an undercurrent of anguish and understanding because Mike had done something similar. He had given everything for the neighbourhood, his heart, his soul and almost his life. He’d lived a lonely existence before Meredith had come along, he had told you one night in front of the fireplace, sharing a bottle of 19 Crimes. Meredith’s head had been resting on a cushion in his lap where she’d fallen asleep, his fingertips were brushing through her hair tenderly.  You discussed his life prior to the attack, how isolated he had become, how he had simply been surviving instead of living. It had been years since he’d actually been able to breath, and with Meredith he thought he’d found a home, someone to love, someone who loved him in return. He couldn’t believe it most days, sometimes he thought he was dreaming, that he’d wake up and the bubble would burst but then Bono would greet him with a cold enquiring nose, Shasta would lick his face and Meredith would laugh and his heart felt like it would explode in his chest.

You recognised that feeling, the one where you were waiting for the other shoe to drop. You had it in the dead of night while Terry slept beside you, his face buried in the curve of your throat, his soft breath ghosting over your skin. There was nothing quite as perfect as being wrapped up in his arms, feeling his heartbeat steadily against yours.

“It’s getting shipped out tomorrow.” Mike told you; he lifted the scalpel to the painting before sucking in a breath and hesitating. “That fucking asshole Munson wanted everyone to get one good look before it disappeared. It’s meant to be his piece de la resistance, proof he can get absolutely anything.” He paused, the scalpel wavering as he tried to select the right place to cut. “Go back to the party, I’ll be gone before you make your bust.”

You reached for the scalpel instead, your fingers wrapping around the handle and removing it from his grasp. Mike let you, your hands were steadier than his, these days. He moved to allow you more space to work.

“We can use the scalpel to break the frame instead.” You informed him, driving the slender blade between a minuscule space in the corner of the wooden panel before leveraging it from side to side. “That way you won’t be compromising the painting.”

Mike cleared his throat as a low crack resounded through the air, the lacquered wood beginning to separate at the joint.

“Meredith’s dad used to do carpentry.” You explained, hooking your finger under the lip of the frame and gently working it away from the painting. “It’s why I like upcycling so much. Do you have something to put the painting in once I’m done?”

Mike picked up the metal whipped cream cannister from the seat where it resided before unscrewing the top and revealing an empty vessel.

“Should I be concerned about how good you are this?” You asked him as you pulled away the side panel of the frame and set it down upon the floor. Mike picked removed a folded handkerchief from his pocket and wiped down the glossy surface as you tactfully slid canvas from its prison.

“I should be asking you the same thing Sergeant.” He said as he took the artwork from your hands with the utmost care before rolling it up gently and placing it inside the container. You took the handkerchief from his outstretched hand and wiped down the rest of the frame before depositing it and the scalpel into your clutch. “How long do I have?”

You removed your phone from your purse, your thumb flicking over the unlock screen.

“I’m about to call in the FBI.” You told him, your thumb hoovering over your text chain with Sinclair. “So, I’d get out of here as soon as possible.”

Mike rose an eyebrow.

“There’s a Degas out there.”

A smile twitched at his lips, and you found yourself returning it, a burst of laughter beginning to bubble in your chest as the sheer ridiculousness of this situation. You had to look away because you knew that it would erupt from your mouth if you held his gaze any longer.

“Bruno is gonna love this.”  He said, tucking the cannister back under his arm.

“I think he’s gonna ban me from watching Ocean’s Eight after this.” You told him, typing out your message to Sinclair.

‘There’s a fucking Degas.’ with three head exploding emojis. ‘Five Dancing Women (Ballerinas)’

He’d know what to do, Sinclair had been your right-hand man ever since you’d made Sergeant and transferred into the Bronx Homicide Unit. He was the one you trusted the most out of all the detectives you supervised.

“You probably have ten minutes after I send this message.” You informed Mike as the two of you strode back towards the black velvet curtain obscuring the doorway. “Head out the service exit. I’ve got Sinclair covering the back and he knows your face.”

Mike nodded his head, before straightening his shoulders and schooling his features into polite boredom before stepping out from behind the curtain and back into the main gallery.  You hit the send button on your message as the curtain closed behind him.

Love Terry Bruno? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[cellarfulofnose]

It's the Best I Can Do

(Sequel to Knowing Me, Knowing You)

Prologue: After the tour

John

John gathered a few sheets of notebook paper from the floor, crisscrossed with half-legible chords and lyrics, and tossed them into his guitar case. He felt light and fast, full of pep, despite the length of time he and Paul had sat in the same position, bent like gargoyles over guitars and pages. Not only had they finished the song they started yesterday, but they'd gotten halfway through a new one in the time left over. They were writing like wildfire lately. Had been since--

Well. That was the change, wasn't it? Since he'd decided to be a man and say fuck it and tell Paul how he felt about him, only to be interrupted by Paul planting a frantic kiss on his lips. Their minds worked too alike, sometimes. One day it was going to get them into trouble. But that day, and most every day since, it'd been...brilliant. Best he'd had. Better than he thought he could get.

He tried not to dwell on it.

John shut the lid of his guitar case and flipped the latches. "When can I come by again?" he said, standing, slinging the guitar over his shoulder.

"Um. Not tomorrow." Paul was seated on the bed and comparing a few of his own pages. He frowned in concentration, trying to match the ones that belonged to the same song. "Better Monday. Dad works, and Mike's got this, uh. He'll be on a school trip." As he pored over the paper, his lips moved. Silently singing to himself.

John wanted to ask him something. But he wanted him to look at him first.

"Can I tie you up?" he said, plain.

Paul finished reading a lyric sheet and set it on a pile of papers. "Wha'?" he said, meeting John's eye. His eyebrows were high, his face smooth. He hadn't heard.

"Can I tie you to the bed?" John repeated. "On Monday, when I come by?"

That sank in. Paul's eyes went even bigger and rounder than his cervine usual, and his lips tightened to keep down a big grin. "Okay," he said, coolly, but a healthy blush rouged his cheeks and neck. Boy, the kid could blush. He turned into a strawberry when he was drunk and shone pink at the suggestion of sex play. John got pretty ruddy, too, when bladdered; that was the Irish in them. But Paul was hopeless. And pretty.

"Yeah?" said John.

"Yeah, all right," said Paul, stretched wide by a smile he could no longer fight. He looked away from John, blinking.

John nodded thoughtfully. "Can I blindfold you?" he added after a pause.

Paul looked back. "Jesus, John." He was still smiling, but now it looked a bit shocked. "What-- yes, yeah, but...wh--" He trailed off and gave a confused little shake of his head.

John shrugged, hoping Paul couldn't see that he was about to keel over from the exhilaration of saying all that out loud. And that was the easy part. "You'll see. Or--" he snickered and covered his eyes with his palm, then peeked through his fingers at Paul, "...maybe you won't."

He turned to leave before Paul could respond (though he didn't say anything, which let John know he'd really thrown a spanner into the works of his brain). "See you Monday," he said over his shoulder, and turned the doorknob.

"Right-- Monday," Paul called when John was already halfway to the stairs.

Part One: The Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian

Monday

Originally, the idea had been to use rope, but that had fallen through for several reasons. First, John was terrible with knots. Ringo once remarked that if conscription hadn't ended and John had been drafted into the navy, Britain would have fallen to the Soviets. Second, they were cautious of rope-burn. And losing circulation in Paul's hands. It wasn't to be that kind of torture, whatever it was John had planned. And third and most importantly, John still had a pair of handcuffs he'd lifted from a sex shop in Hamburg. Paul made him try the key three times before he'd let him even slip a cuff round his wrist. When the first one locked fast with a buzz and click, John saw him gulp. But Paul caught his eye and nodded. Ready.

John passed the empty cuff through the carved hole in Paul's headboard, round the back, and over to his other hand, then clamped it shut. Paul was good and stuck now, hands suspended in loose splay over his head, not too tight. He was a bit wide-eyed, but not in a frightened, anxious way. He looked sharp, liable to give off sparks, like he'd downed a handful of uppers. His eyes were almost black with the size of his pupils.

Paul squirmed, trying to get comfortable, and something tugged fierce in John's chest. With his arms up, in nothing but his y-fronts, Paul looked uncanny like a painting they'd studied in art school. Some Christian martyr or other, bound to a tree branch by his hands, ready to give it all up for God. At the time, John thought it was about the queerest thing he'd laid eyes on: some pale, starlet-faced thing, modestly muscled with a tiny waist, barely covered by a loincloth, looking wanly up to heaven with arrows in his armpits. He and Stuart had laughed at it for hours and fantasized about it for even longer.

But this was no fantasy. This, Paul, was here. His to hold. His to touch. He couldn't stop staring.

Paul seemed to shrink under the weight of John's gaze. He shifted his position again. "What?"

John blinked. Shook his head. You're beautiful. "Does it hurt?"

Paul looked up and tested the slack of the handcuffs. The chain made a dull metallic noise, and John felt his mouth water. This was dangerously more attractive than he'd budgeted for.

"No, they're all right," said Paul.

"Well." John swallowed. He couldn't look at Paul just yet, or he'd have him right here and they'd never get to the Plan. "If you want me to stop, just..."

"Yeah." Even without looking, John could feel Paul nod when the mattress bobbed beneath them. "Yeah, I know."

"Okay." Barely more than a whisper. John took a deep breath and wrapped his black necktie around Paul's eyes. He wasn't supposed to be nervous. It should be Paul ready to piss himself, and Paul didn't even know why he should be nervous yet.

"Can you see?" he ventured, after securing two half-hitch loops behind Paul's head.

"Still better than you," Paul said, a smile playing at his lips.

John was tempted to jab him in the ribs for that. But to his delight, Paul's smile flickered and then faded as he seemed to realize he was swinging a bat at a hornet's nest, disarmed and blind. His breathing quickened ever so slightly.

Good.

John leaned to the side and picked his jacket up off the floor. From the inner pocket, he drew out a tatted gray feather, tall and straight as a quill.

Paul

There was a heavy moment where Paul was certain John was going to lay a smack across his face for mouthing off. And part of him was, well. Not altogether opposed to that. He tried not to tense up, but his whole body tightened; even his skin, it felt like, waiting for the blow to land. The anticipation, married to the mystery of not knowing where it would come from or when, had Paul's heart jumping out of his chest.

But John didn't hit him. Instead, he touched him as gentle as you can touch someone, stroked up Paul's ribs with one grazing fingertip-- it had to be, it was so light and soft. Felt like he was barely touching him at all.

Paul's body jolted, out of shattered surprise if nothing else. He felt a shudder coming, ready to shake out of his chest like a yawn, and when John's gossamer touch swirled around his collarbone, he endured it with a sigh that was almost a ticklish laugh.

The bed creaked beneath them. John was moving; leaning in closer, going by the way the mattress dipped. Paul tensed again. But nothing happened.

Then, something wispy soft went up Paul's left nostril and started moving around.

Paul gave a hissing gasp, pure reflex, and the fire was lit. He tried to pull his head back, as if he could get away from it, but a horrible tickle already had its claws in Paul's nose. The ache and pressure of a building sneeze filled his head.

No, no, no, no, no. Not in front of John. Not after all that, before the tour.

Not without his hands.

"Jh- John..!" he tried, but it was too late. He didn't even have time to hold his breath before he was curling in on himself with a clumsy, sputtering "hnngktSChew!"

What the fuck. What the fuck. Paul's blood roared in his ears, as much from mortification as the exertion of the sudden sneeze. How had that happened? It'd been years since he'd let fly a sneeze in front of anyone, least of all John. Even when all four of them were sick as dogs with the nastiest cold this side of the Spanish Flu, he'd given himself an ear infection stifling them all down to little wet shudders. It was agony, of course, but not compared to this. He felt naked. Cold and exposed, but enflamed. He turned his head against his arm, sniffling behind his left bicep.

That wasn't normal. Something had gone up his nose.

John gave a soft huff of disbelief. "Fuckin' Christ," he said quietly, "this might be easier than I thought."

Paul's head straightened, turning as if to look at John, though his vision was all black silk. "What? What're you talking about?"

He flinched when something brushed over his bound hands, fearing insects or spiders, but it was smooth, downy.

"Can you feel that?" John asked.

Paul curled his hands, letting the strange material graze his fingers. He felt a straight row of delicate fibers along a hard spine.

It was a great big feather.

At once, the world became much smaller to Paul. "Did you do that to me, just now?" he demanded.

"Clever lad," said John, a smile audible in his voice. The feather dragged across Paul's palms and reappeared at his cheek. "I've got a proposition, you see."

Paul couldn't think. His pulse was racing with humiliation, flushing his skin hot, and John was tracing playful circles over his cheek with the feather. It was too much sensation. He hadn't even begun to consider why John would have done that, what he possibly stood to gain from making him sneeze. Unless he just wanted to embarrass him; in which case, well done, he was about to melt his brain with the heat of embarrassment. Thank fuck he was blindfolded and didn't have to look John in the eye. He might actually have died. He hummed, as much a reply as a reaction to the feather's coaxing.

"Tell me what you think of this," came John's voice, closer this time. "I get to make you sneeze ten times--"

"Ten-- what?!" Paul recoiled. He hid his face behind his arm again. There was no way this was happening. He couldn't take that. John didn't want that. It was his stupid fetish, his 'fucking fixation.' And now it was being thrown back in his face in the most mortifying way possible-- for what?!

"Wait, listen," John insisted.

The bite of the handcuffs against Paul's wrists was starting to feel much, much too tight. He felt his throat tighten along with them. "John, please."

"Hear me out. Okay?" John's hand was on his shoulder, firm and warm. He stroked his thumb against Paul. "You okay?"

Paul concentrated on the touch. Rising panic gave way to an anxious stir, which finally subsided to calm. He took a cleansing breath and swallowed. "Yeah, 'm okay."

"Good. All right. So." The feather swept under Paul's chin this time, as though encouraging him to look up. He almost did it, too, without thinking.

John continued. "I get to make you sneeze ten times, BUT, but," he added, pre-empting the wave of horror that rolled over Paul again, "you get to do it to me after. For thirty minutes. Straight."

Oh.

Well. That changed things, didn't it?

"Think about that, eh?" John's voice was low, right next to Paul's ear. It raised a chill all down his arms and the back of his neck. He tried not to flinch away from the faint puff of John's breath on his skin, but then John's nose was against his neck, and a shiver wracked Paul's whole body. John sniffed roughly, rubbing his face over Paul as though trying to scratch his nose with Paul's shoulder. "Half an hour," he murmured, then rubbed and sniffed again. "How many times d'you think you could make me sneeze in half an hour? Or longer, yeah? If I can't stop."

"J-- ffuck..." Paul didn't know if he was trying to say John or Jesus or what, but speech of any kind became impossible with John nuzzling the point of his nose into Paul's neck, making him squirm and shiver. It was like he felt everything more when he couldn't use his hands to push John away, stop him touching him. The blindfold, too, seemed to heighten his other senses, so that the sound of John's breath and the press of his nose just about drove him mad.

And that idea. Paul couldn't even wrap his head around it. That was the sort of putting out that Paul didn't even conjure in his most personal fantasies. Just leave it to John, randy bastard, to cook up something like that. It sent a hot spike of excitement to Paul's core, making his stomach flutter and his cock start to fill out.

"Yeah," he breathed, nodding hard. "Yeah, I'll-- shit. I'll do it. I'll do it."

Paul felt John's weight settle on his thighs, sitting astride him, and he quickly said, "Wait, wait." He craned his neck away. "That...that one before, that, that counts toward the ten, yeah?"

John scoffed. "Does it fuck."

"It--" Paul felt John move, and fearing the feather, he pressed his nose into his arm. "Fucking prick. It counts."

"Miser."

Paul didn't uncover his face. "Say it counts."

"Thirty minutes, Paul."

Paul said nothing. Damn him, damn him. John held the best hand at the table and he knew it. Still, he hesitated.

"Fine, it fucking counts," John said impatiently, "now come here. Let me see your pretty nose."

Oh, God. Sweet heat bloomed up through Paul's body. His head reeled, sending him spinning, so to take the situation back, he turned to John and twitched his nose. Down-up down-up, quick, like a rabbit.

John laughed, unguarded. "How do you do that?"

"Hey." Paul tilted his head lazily, trying to look as if he had someplace better to be. "Less talk, more action, a'right?"

John snorted. "Have it your own way."

There was no pause this time, no space for Paul to anticipate where the blow would come from. Almost before John stopped talking, the feather was back in his nose, flitting around. Paul let out a surprised noise that finished as a cough. John was good at this. His movements were inelegant, unpracticed, but he'd managed to strike a spot that made Paul's head buzz with the need to sneeze. But he was ready, this time. This one he saw coming. As he felt himself crest the peak, he sealed off his nose and throat and ducked to the side.

"hhh'nkxt!"

It was quiet, but it made a nasal squeak that had Paul longing for the use of his hands so he could hold it in proper. Mortifying, yeah, but still. Could've been worse.

Paul swallowed and cleared his throat. "Two."

"Oh, give over," said John, sending ice into Paul's veins. "Call that a sneeze?"

Luckily, Paul was so shocked that he forgot to die of embarrassment. "Some people say 'bless you.'"

"I'll say that when you actually fucking sneeze," John said, then his voice softened. "Just-- it'll feel better, all right, just let it go, Paul."

Would that it were that easy. Paul chewed on his lip, as he couldn't reach his thumb. "I don't know if I, um."

Thirty minutes.

Paul exhaled. "I'll try."

"'At's a lad." John clapped his shoulder, too hard, meant to be a joke, and Paul smiled despite himself. But his smile disappeared when John held him by the jaw and stuck the feather in his nose.

"Wow," he blurted without really meaning to, his voice at half-strength. It wasn't quite like before, an itch that went straight to his throat, an intrusion he needed to cough out. No, whatever John was doing now, this was all in his nose, and it was worse. It tickled furiously, dry and catching like a brush fire. His eyes were watering, soaking into the blindfold.

"Aren't you gonna tell me how it feels?"

"Uh..." Paul's breath wasn't getting away from him yet, but he could feel it deepening, getting ready for something big. He wasn't sure how long he had to talk. "It's, uh. Pretty inte'hh...intense." His diaphragm jumped as the tickle flared, started to sting. He huffed a breath out, trying to fight it. The blindfold was warm with tears now.

"Yeah, sounds it," John said, might as well have purred. "Gonna sneeze?"

Paul almost trembled. John had caught him off guard, and that small lapse in control had him fighting for breath against the fluttery, feathery tickle. All he could get out was "I...think--"

"Got to tell me when you are," John said.

He was going to.

"You've got to say it."

He couldn't hold it back. "I'm- hh-- I'm gonnasneezScHhhew! ...httCHhew!"

John had let go of his jaw just soon enough to let him twist toward his shoulder. Not covering, but not full in John's face, at least. Which was lucky. Judging by the cold tickle gathering at the skin around his nostrils, that last one was a bit of a mess. Urgh, God. Paul wiped at his nose with his upper arm, sniffling as quietly as he could, trying not to sound as drippy and pathetic as he felt.

"Four," he said. The vibration of the word made him cough, which made his nose drip again. He gave a quick, snorting sniff and cleared his throat. There. Happy?

John whistled. "Bless you."

Paul's ears burned. John had never said that to him, at least not in context. He'd only heard it in quick Liverpudlian thanks; Ah, blessye, son, when he tossed John a cigarette or similar. He was going to be fighting a hard-on every time John said it innocently from now on.

If he'd ever said it innocently to begin with.

John smoothed the feather over Paul's lips. "Not s'bad, was it?"

That was just it. It wasn't bad at all; it was wonderful, on a purely physical level. Paul had almost forgotten how natural, how relieving it felt to sneeze without trying to bottle it up. Free and open. But that didn't negate the fact that he'd never endured anything so humiliating in his life. He was burning, queasy with it. And incredibly aroused. It must be obvious to John; he was practically sitting on it.

Finding all of that too arduous to sum up, Paul just shrugged. As well as he could with his arms bound above his head. "Yeah, 's all right."

"Just all right, is it?" said John, and he cupped a hand on Paul's dick, bold, relaxed.

Paul bit his tongue and swallowed a moan. His hips tried to lift, roll into John's touch against his will, but he was pinned down. He couldn't push him away. He couldn't even bring his legs together to keep John out. He was held open, and if John kept that up, he was going to go to pieces then and there. "Mmn-- don't. You... John--"

"God, let me kiss you."

Paul gritted his teeth. His hands were getting pins and needles; all the blood was flowing downstream. "Don'-- Don't get distracted," he gasped as John moved his hand.

"One kiss." John's other hand was at his cheek. "God, look at-- If you could see how you fucking look right now."

Like a chicken hanging in a butcher shop window, Paul thought, trussed up by its skinny limbs. But he needed to touch John back. "Kiss me, then," he sighed, "come here."

John held his face and kissed him, pressed them chest to chest, deep and quick. Paul had only just gotten his tongue in John's mouth when the weight and warmth lifted off him as John pulled back. Paul was panting slightly, out of breath just from that. Why did he stop?

For another moment, John was still. Then, he planted a quick peck of a kiss on the end of Paul's nose.

Paul scrunched it up immediately. That tickled. "What'd you do that for?" he asked, fighting the urge to rub his nose against his shoulder.

John shifted, and Paul could practically see him shrug. "It's gettin' all pink," he said after a moment, as if that were an answer.

"Hm." Paul lowered his head to hide some of his smile. "Yeah, thanks for that."

"Guilty, guilty." John took Paul's jaw in his hand again and dusted the feather over the tip of his nose. Not enough to stir up a sneeze, but Paul still winced and huffed at the flighty itch. He'd gotten too comfortable, just now. He'd almost let himself believe that he could make it through this in one piece, with his dignity intact and his image untarnished in John's eye.

He wasn't even halfway done.

"Let's try the other one, shall we?" John said, and wriggled the feather into Paul's right nostril.

Paul made a startled sound, somewhere between a cough and a yelp. This side was far, far more sensitive. His nose twitched and wrinkled as his body tried fervently to reject what was tickling it. He started coughing repeatedly, breathless and weak. This was bad.

"Wha-hey. That's it, isn't it?" John said triumphantly.

"Hah...ah'h..." Paul couldn't get a single word out. The tickle was almost unbearable. Tears rolled down his right cheek under the blindfold. He needed to sneeze. He needed to clear every trace of that feather out of his head.

"Yeah, that's it," John laughed. He switched to a dark, rumbling schoolmaster's voice. "Come, come, boy, where are your manners?"

Paul's breath hitched again. He could have sobbed. He was sure he'd burst into flames if he couldn't sneeze right this minute. But he knew what John was asking; he'd said that to him before. Beg me for it. "Ple'h-h! ...please--!" he gasped.

John twisted the feather cruelly, making Paul's head rear back. It hurt, stung smartly like a lash, but that was all it took. His lungs swelled and filled, and he whipped forward.

"hEH'ttSCHOO! --eHt'Tsschhw! eHt'TCHHEW! ...Augh, God."

Jesus fuck. Paul buried his face in his arm. Those had gotten away from him. He'd thought that earlier one was a mess? Now he felt like he was drowning. He could feel hot trails of wetness clear down to his lip, and his nose was full and blocked. Fucking disgusting.

"Goodness me." John was clearly talking through a smug grin, the fucker. "That's seven now, is it?"

Paul snuffled against his arm, achieving nothing. He couldn't even breathe in through his nose, and the sound it made when he tried was obscene. "Yup," he muttered soddenly.

"Come 'ere."

Like hell, thought Paul. There was something wrong with John if he wanted to kiss him right now. "No," Paul said into his arm, "I've-- got all this--"

"Not for a kiss, you clot," said John, "I can see you've got all that, I'm trying to blow your nose for you." There was a rustle of fabric, like John was grabbing at a piece of cloth.

"No, urgh, God, don't--" Paul turned further away and tried to mop up the mess with his arm. He only succeeded in making both his face and his arm dewy and cold. "...Don't do that. Jesus."

"Yeah?" John wasn't impressed. "What's gonna happen next time you sneeze, then? Gonna drip all over your cock?"

Paul was so sure John was going to touch him that his hips jerked, chasing something that never came. He tried to keep them still as the lack of contact started to settle in, making him restless, starved.

"Hey, maybe that wouldn't be so bad, eh?" John said in a low voice, like it was a secret, putting a chill in Paul's skin. "Can't have too much of a good thing. Bit of... lubrication never hurt an--"

"All right, fuckin' hell." Paul needed John to stop talking and quick. He shouldn't have raised his voice, though. The change in pressure shifted something in his sinuses, inviting a watery tickle. "Just--" Paul worked his jaw, chewing on his tongue. Finally, he turned his head toward John, lips tight.

"There you go." John's voice was kind, jarringly so. "Come 'ead."

A bundle of cotton cloth enveloped Paul's mouth and nose. It was a bit rough, and for a moment he wondered if John was using his t-shirt as a handkerchief again. But it was small and square, just well-worn. Paul wondered, with a jolt of shame and arousal, if it was John's own, almost threadbare with use and abuse. John used to toss off into a handkerchief, he remembered him saying once. Used to.

Whatever its origins, it might as well have been velvet for how good it felt on Paul's face, swiping the skin around his nose carefully dry, not scraping too much or rubbing too hard. A shallow sigh fell through his parted lips. All right, this wasn't so bad.

John took the handkerchief away with a final drag under Paul's nose. When he brought it back, it was folded so that the side touching Paul was clean and dry. John held it firmly over his nostrils and ordered, "Blow."

Paul was still blushing down to his toes, but he didn't see much use in resisting at this point. He drew a careful breath in through his mouth and exhaled. Slowly at first.

John barked out a sudden laugh. "Not the first time you've heard that, is it?"

"Shut up," Paul said, breathy, on the exhale, before taking another gulp of air and clearing his nose again.

"Like bloody Pavlov's dog, you are. Someone says 'blow' and you can't help yourself."

Paul opened his mouth to tell John he'd ring his bell, or some other thematically appropriate threat, but what came out was--

"hh'cgsschhh!"

It'd been too much of a disturbance, blowing his nose. It tickled up a tag-along sneeze that wrenched out of him when his lungs were practically empty. Straight into the fabric and John's waiting hand.

John exhaled a short laugh. Paul heard his lips come together and part, like he was going to say something, but he was silent for another moment. "Bless you," he finally said. "That was...eight?"

In answer, Paul pressed against John's hand, closing his left nostril, gave a final, miserable blow, and nodded. This was so ridiculous. John had made his point; he'd had a good laugh. Why did it have to be ten? John was the funniest person Paul knew. He should be the first to recognize when a joke was spent.

But John didn't seem to take the cue. He pinched the cloth together and away from Paul's face, cleaning up all traces of the last sneeze. "Here's an easy one for you," he said. The feather reappeared at Paul's ribs and started to trail up his side. "If you can say my name, you only have to make it to nine."

Paul raised his eyebrows. John was starting to see some sense, then. He tutted, pretending to be stuck. "Tough one. 'S it...John?"

"Full name."

Paul had to bite his lip to keep in an exasperated sigh. "John Lenn--"

"How soon we forget!" John exclaimed, suddenly lousy with patriotism. "Middle name, middle name. The bloody bulldog, hey? We shall fight on the beaches..."

For Christ's sake. Paul pulled his lips into a smile and carefully pronounced, "John Winston Lennon." Time to pay the piper, arsehole.

"Good, very good. Only..." John's mouth was right next to Paul's ear. "...that's not my name, is it, Paul?"

Gooseflesh rose all over Paul's skin. His teeth nearly chattered together. "F'ckoff."

"No, I think you'll find it's John, with an N," purred John with an N, gently dragging the tip of his nose from Paul's ear to his neck. "Not Joh'd Widdstond Leddond," he gurgled, approximating Paul's stuffy voice.

"Fuck you." Paul rubbed his ear against his shoulder, forcing out John's chilling touch. He didn't sound like that, sickly and impotent. Sure, he might have been woefully congested, but his nasal consonants were intelligible...weren't they?

Hell with it either way. He was going to get John for this. He was going to make him regret that stupid indecent proposal.

"Temper, temper," John tutted. He gave the end of Paul's nose a coy, admonishing tap with one finger. It made his eyes water. Paul flinched and shook his head.

John ran the feather pensively over Paul's cheek. "Reckon you still owe me two, then," he said, and stuck it up Paul's right nostril once more.

Paul let out a strangled cry. He couldn't even cough; it was so bad. John had gone further back than before. He was fluttering over a spot that felt so tickly and invasive, so profoundly wrong, that Paul's body was on high alert. Get it out. He didn't care what had to happen. His breath came in gasps, high and wanting.

"hah! ...hh'h...hh...! hEht'CHShuhh! ...ahh--!"

The sneeze ripped out of him before he knew quite what was happening, but it brought no relief, only a gaping, aching need in his head and chest. The feather still tickled so badly.

John hadn't even taken it out.

"Nine," said John, "nearly there." He was barely moving his wrist, twisting it a miniscule amount this way and that, guiding the feather with deadly accuracy against the most reactive part of Paul's nasal passage.

"Can't...it-it's not--" Paul was panting uselessly, spilling over with tears. The sneeze wouldn't come, no matter how much his nose itched, no matter how his lungs screamed for air. He pulled on the handcuffs, as if he could reach John's wrist-- to snatch it away or drive it deeper, he couldn't say. "I w- I want...!" He felt close to weeping.

"Fuck," breathed John. It was a blue sigh, tinged with the beginnings of worry. He pulled the necktie up to Paul's hairline at the same time that he withdrew the feather.

Paul squinted out at the suddenly-bright room, his mouth hanging open. The light pierced his eyes, induced a teary prickle that spread into his nose...

He took in a huge, gulping, shaking breath, and sneezed.

"--hah'KHtSHHOO!"

Straight from the chest. It knocked the breath out of him, left him half-bent over, his tongue and teeth still buzzing. He coughed. Tried to sniffle. Mary and the Saints, it was over.

He was going to make John rue the day he was born.

John clapped and gave a bellowing cheer. Paul couldn't hear exactly what it was he said, apart from ten. One of his ears was starting to go a little blocked, and he was too busy playing over Thirty minutes in his head. When John let him out of these restraints... Christ.

"...that feel better now?" John was saying. Paul looked up to see John, face split with a grin, holding a long gray feather in his right hand. It was a darker gray, shiny, at its pointed tip. "Wasn't sure you were gonna make it through that, to be honest," he admitted with a light laugh.

Uncuff me, you rotten bastard, Paul thought, but he gave a sweet half-smile and glanced bashfully down. "Big boy, aren't I," he shrugged. Sniffled. "Can handle meself."

"Too bloody right," John rumbled, and curled his hand around Paul's dick, once. Just a quick hello and done. But even that was enough to make Paul gasp and bite his lip to keep down a whine, lean his head back as the hot spark shot up his spine.

"Stalling," Paul managed to hiss through gritted teeth.

John muttered reluctant agreement and lifted his tie the rest of the way off Paul's head. Paul shook his hair out, then once more when he was sure John was watching. It was a bad idea; too much head movement. He had to wipe his nose on his arm and snuffle awhile.

"I'm starting to see the, uh. The appeal, or what you call it." John reached over to the end table to retrieve the key and set about unlocking Paul, whose heart leapt into his throat. But John only went on. "Sort of orgasmic, isn't it, almost? Sneezing?"

"Um." Paul swallowed. "W- ow!" With a steely click, the cuffs sprang free, and he immediately began to rub his wrists where the metal rings had cut little red lines in his skin. He felt blissfully sore and freed, like taking off boots that'd been giving you blisters all day.

"You all right?" John slid his weight off Paul's lap and sat next to him, back to the headboard. He took one of Paul's wrists in his hands and brought it close to his face, frowning as he ran his thumb over the indents. "Shit," he said softly, "sorry. Didn't think they would..."

"John?"

"...Yeah?"

Paul was certain he must be shaking with the effort to speak slowly and calmly. "Where's the feather?"

John blinked at Paul, then glanced back over the bedspread. It took a moment of searching, but he found the feather and held it up between them.

The two of them locked eyes. For a long moment, they stayed very still. Both chanced a fleeting glance at the feather, then back at each other.

John's jaw tensed.

Part Two: Speak Roughly to Your Little Boy

Paul lunged for it just as John yanked his arm back. He caught hold of John's wrist, but John grabbed his hand, trying to pull him away. They struggled back and forth until Paul's weight forced John into a prone position under him, their hands locked together next to John's head.

John tugged once more, then flashed a wolfish grin, all jumping eyebrows and teeth. "Give us a kiss."

Paul yanked with a useless grunt. "Get fucked."

"I'd sure like tmmph..."

He'd shut John up with an open-mouthed kiss, a little smothering, rougher than it needed to be with gravity on Paul's side. John's face softened at once, then his grip, as Paul sucked a bit of teeth into his lips, met their tongues. He let go of Paul's hands. Paul answered by clutching the side of John's head, thumbing over his cheek.

With the other hand, he slipped his fingers between John's and took hold of the feather.

John gave a low hum, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. Then his hand clamped shut on nothing, and he hmm?ed surprise into Paul's mouth. He broke away with a shake of his head that almost made Paul bite his tongue.

"Judas," he spat, breathing heavily.

Paul smiled. He pinned John's shoulders swiftly to the bed with an arm across his collarbone. "You promised," he said, tapping John's cheek with the feather.

John's eyes darted to the feather. He swallowed. "Didn't get it in writing." He was panting more now, his eyes wild with exhilaration or fear.

Paul ran the feather across John's throat like a blade. He could see the hairs raise on John's neck and arms when he did it. It felt fucking amazing, the clear-headed might that came with brandishing it. Intoxicating. Like having a gun, or a cock. You felt big with one in your hand. The fact that it was a lovely, graceful, fluffy little thing that had John sweating was an extra treat. So brash, so cocksure, wasn't he, a moment ago, but the shoe was on the other foot now. What's the matter, John? 'Fraid I'll stick it up your nose, like you did to me? Scared it'll tickle just terribly?

God in heaven, this was going to be fun.

"Any last words?" Paul said, holding the feather to the end of John's nose.

John wet his lips and gave an experimental sniff. "Yeah. Try the left side first," he said boldly. "Itchin' like mad already, just watching you."

Paul tried very hard to appear like his stomach hadn't flip-flopped at that. But, judging by the burning in his ears and cheeks, he guessed he wasn't fooling anyone. Still, he put on a cool, disaffected expression and aimed the feather.

...Thirty minutes. What time was it? Paul glanced at the alarm clock on his bedside table. Quarter past four. Thirty minutes from now was... Right. Good.

It almost seemed short.

"Come on," said John, getting fidgety. "I want it."

Paul had never, never been able to look John in the eye and deny him something he wanted, so he obliged.

00:00:01

John's eyes half-lidded, then squeezed almost shut as he cringed. "Ah. There, yeah."

Paul's heart leapt. His head filled with things he'd heard from birds in fevered gasps; Oh, right there, faster, oh, just like that, you're gonna make me...! Every time, they'd almost ended him shamefully early. John was usually much more thrifty with such talk. Until now. Paul wasn't going to make it. He was already stiff as a board and John hadn't even sneezed yet; Jesus suffering Christ.

Entirely without consulting his brain, he blurted, "Can you... try not to?"

John blinked tearily at Paul. "Try not t--?" His nostrils flared out and his eyes fluttered shut as his breath skipped, but it only lasted a moment. "...Try not to sneeze?"

"Yeah." Paul's throat was dry.

John's eyebrows knit together. He began taking deeper breaths, lips parted. "Thought the who-whohhle... point was... for me t..."

"I know, just..." Paul swallowed. He tried not to move the feather faster. "If. If you can."

John nodded, which jostled the feather against the inside of his nose and punched a spell of coughing out of him. "Can I-- usemyhands?" he sputtered. It sounded urgent.

"Yeah," Paul sighed, "whatever you-- yeah."

John's head tilted back with a long, worried inhale. He pushed Paul and the feather away from his face. With the other hand, he pinched his nose between a thumb and fist.

"--hhah'dDtt!hh... aht'DdTtjsh! --'dDTtsh!"

Each stifled sneeze sent a tremor through John's body, then Paul's where he lay on top of him. He felt every muscle in John's stomach contract, felt his legs twitch as he tried to bend double.

Then John deflated. Let go of his nose with a wrenching sniff. It was so pink already, it looked like someone had made him up with blush. Paul instantly felt his own face go uncomfortably hot and knew he must be a few shades off scarlet by now. John caught the look and grinned. "Good?" he said, raising his eyebrows, knowing.

Paul let his head hang, bowed so he wasn't looking straight at John. "Yeah," he breathed around a rising smile. "Yeah. Really good." He felt like he was going to melt into John. That they'd explode like sodium and water.

"Here. Let me up." John nodded for Paul to take his arm off his chest, and without a second thought, Paul did. He climbed off John and gave him enough room so that they could sit cross-legged, facing each other. Like they always used to.

John was staring at him expectantly, so Paul quickly took him by the jaw. He raised the feather nearly to John's face, then stopped. "Can I?"

"Yeah." John nodded. "You don't have to ask." The deerlike fear was gone from his eyes. Now they looked calm, wet. Ready.

Paul couldn't say anything. He thumbed John's lip, which got him a twitch of a smile. With a dizzying flash of arousal and a deep breath, he worked the feather back into John's nose. Left side, of course. Smooth circles, starting off slow.

That wasn't good enough for John. He grabbed Paul's wrist and started moving it faster, little twitching movements, until his cheeks were tear-streaked and his head starting to lift back.

Paul was so stunned he forgot to retract the feather. John either didn't care or couldn't get his hand up with Paul's in the way, because when he finally caved in, he didn't bother to hold his nose.

"...ah'ngkxtcch! --nnkXtsshu!"

John's shoulders hunched when he sneezed, like making himself smaller would help him hold it in. It didn't; especially as Paul kept twisting the feather, maybe even a little faster now.

"ahhh... nnKgXsshiew! ...haH'AHSHHhew!"

John finally lost control and let out a roaring sneeze, all over Paul's hand. Paul jumped without meaning to, like an electric charge had zapped him-- it was just so loud. And wet.

"Bloody Christ. Snrrf!" John dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, then dragged his wrist under his nose, turning and swiping to clean himself up with the back of his hand. "Sorry." He sniffed again, guttural, snorting.

"'S okay." Paul felt as though someone else were talking for him. He was reeling a mile above the clouds, his skin tingling, still coming down from the rush of that last... performance. John had tried so hard to hold back, even when he couldn't use his hands, but they'd gotten too strong for him. Or too many. The thought coiled wickedly under Paul's stomach and made him take a deep, cooling breath. "You held 'em off for a while," he added.

John laughed wetly. "It's no good. Keepin' 'em in like that, it just makes me have to sneeze again. Till I get it out."

His tone was so casual, his expression so at ease, it was like he didn't know he'd almost killed Paul saying that. When Paul could speak again, he raised his eyebrows, and the feather. "Prove it."

00:09:28

"Paul, it's... 's not going to work."

"You..." Paul pulled the feather out, making John shudder and cough. "You think you're done?"

John shook his head. His lashes were spiked and dark with tears, his cheeks glistening wet. "No," he snuffled, "the feather, it's, it's not going to work anymore. There's too much... Ahh, fuck, it itches." John pinched his nose and started rubbing it in circles, making an awful squelching sound. From lips to brow, his nose had turned an angry, glowing pink, and he was only making it worse by roughing it up some more.

Paul felt a twinge of mixed sympathy and guilt. He looked away, choosing instead to study the feather a moment. John was right; there was certainly too much of something for it to work. It was no longer a fine, straight instrument. The rounded tip was dark and wet, starting to mat, slicked over with a clear shine. Good God. Paul had the urge to throw it out of sight before John could see that he'd seen it, for reasons he couldn't hope to articulate. While John's eyes were still closed, he dropped it off the bed.

"Give us a mo," said John. After he gave up on the itch he couldn't scratch, he turned to the side and mercilessly blew his nose into a silk scarf. It was their best substitute once they ran out of handkerchiefs, about five minutes ago. Felt better on the skin, too, John claimed; wouldn't chap.

"All right?" Paul asked, as automatic as it'd been the last 100 times he said it.

John nodded and mm-hmm'ed into the scarf. He mopped himself up with a few extra sniffles and sighs, then tossed it aside. "I have-- Hang on." He rose from the bed and went rifling through his jacket, discarded in a pile on the floor.

Paul's head swiveled around. "What are you doing?"

"Ha-ha," said John, victorious. He turned to Paul, grinning wickedly, with a little tin box in his hand.

Paul frowned and looked closer. "Are those cigarettes?"

"Better." John strode back over to the bed. "Lie down."

Paul was already on his back, head on the pillow, when he realized he'd seen trained dogs slower to obey a command than that. It made him a little restless, but he blamed the quick response on curiosity. "What is it?"

Next to the bed, John flipped the lid and reached into the box. Paul couldn't see the contents, but John's hand emerged with something pinched between his fingertips, the way you'd gather a handful of salt or spices to sprinkle over a roast.

"Snuff," John grinned, and deposited a pile of the stuff on Paul's bare stomach.

Paul's eyes widened. He tried not to upset the pinch of brown powder by breathing too hard, but as he inhaled, his heart went double-time. John couldn't be serious. He wasn't really about to--

"Sláinte," said John, and pressed his nose to Paul's skin with a series of great, rushing snorts.

Paul gasped helplessly, not least because it tickled, made the muscles in his stomach clench up. But also, the line of snuff was gone and John was upright, sniffing sharply again and again, knuckling at his nose like a dope-fiend. "John," Paul said in soft disbelief.

John held up a finger, warning him to wait. His features went slack, then twisted up with irritation. He nodded as his lungs filled with a shaky breath. This was going to work.

"heH'EHShhhew!"

John buckled forward, holding his nose. His leg jumped with the force of it, almost folding him like a jackknife. He found his footing with a staggering step and straightened up, blinking.

Something below Paul's stomach pulled tight. He was so hard his thighs ached.

He swallowed. "G'bless you." This was the first time he'd said it to John in context, too. It was petrifying. Felt like a sin, an overstep.

John waved it away, shaking his head. "Save your..."His expression faltered, scrunching together. He sawed back and forth under his nose with the back of a finger. "Save your breath." Clearly he wasn't done.

Paul remained obediently silent.

00:18:10

"'After a while...' snff! '...finding that no-nothing more hap...hahh'h--happe--!' hhh... --AHShhew! '...happened,' snf! 'she decided on go- on go...goihhng into- the-h! garden- at...' --h'EHSH! h'ESSHew! '...at once.'"

John swiped a fistful of the silk scarf past his nose, cleared his throat, and kept reading.

"'But, alas for poor...for-for poor Alice!' snf! '...when she gohht... to the- door- she...' hh-h! ah... 'she found she had...forgottenthe- little- goldehh...' hh'iESHhew!" Caught, just barely, in the scarf. "'Little golden key.' snrrf!"

Paul felt drunk. He was sitting at the head of the bed with a hard-on like the Tower of Pisa, as John sat against the wall next to him, reading from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. He'd flipped to a random page a few minutes back, and so far, progress was slow. It was turning Paul's brain into porridge, the way John's deep timbre went all thin and high as he ran out of breath, the way he tried to rush every word out until he couldn't move his mouth anymore.

John lowered the scarf and searched for the passage where he'd left off. He blinked and squinted, tightening his face as he scanned.

It shouldn't have struck Paul as funny. Right now, though, he was so dizzy with the heady drugs of arousal that he had to suppress a giggle. "What?"

John shook his head and turned over the book, propping the page open on his knee. "I can't bloody see." He laughed lightly as he wiped his eyes from the corners. "'M tearin' up." It was a surprisingly delicate gesture, the flattened hands and careful fingertips, brushing away tears like a romance heroine. Softly beautiful.

It caught Paul for another reason, too. Normally, John would sooner walk headlong into obstacles and play for a blurry crowd than admit to having trouble seeing. It gave Paul an idea.

"Put your glasses on," he said.

John took his glasses out of his shirt pocket-- Paul wondered, stunned, why he hadn't yet asked him to take it off-- and put them on without so much as a grumble.

Well. If that was all it took.

John flipped the book back open and blinked. He brought it closer, then further away as his focus adjusted. "'She found she had forgotten the little golden key, and when she went back to the table for it, she...she found she could not poss-possibly...reach it.'" He raised his free hand to his face in a loose fist, with one long finger slightly stuck-out. He pressed it under his nose and held it there as he continued. "'She could see--'"

"Does that help?" Paul interrupted, unable to stop himself. It was like the filter between his brain and his mouth had broken down, his normal anxious inhibition given way to the warm calm of arousal. He wasn't even particularly sure any of this was real anymore.

John chuckled. "Not really." He sniffed hard and sighed a congested "ugh."

Paul bit down on his lip. He concentrated very hard on staying upright, and not wrapping a fist around himself and fucking out all the hot tension and pressure. They were closer to being done now. He could make it. Even so, he couldn't quite bring himself to ask John to keep going.

Fortunately or unfortunately, John didn't need to be told. "'...She could see it quite plainly through the glass, and shhhe... and she try-- hahh-- hied...!' hah'DdTsh!hhew... haht'AHSHHhew!!"

John ducked sharply down against his hand, and the motion knocked his glasses most of the way off his face. He quickly pushed them back up his nose with a furtive glance at Paul, as if to check whether Paul had noticed.

Paul couldn't stop a huge smile from taking over his face, giddy and apologetic. John laughed shyly, which made Paul burst out giggling, which made John start laughing full and loud, which made him sneeze again.

"--'tTSSSHHew!" Clumsily into the back of his wrist.

Yeah, Paul wasn't going to make it.

00:29:45

"I'm gonna come--! John...John, I'm--"

Between Paul's legs, John nodded his understanding, even as he let out a shattering sneeze into the skin where Paul's thigh met his hip.

"--'DZSChHew!!

His hand on Paul's cock clenched a little tighter for a second but didn't slow. The other, wrapped with his arm around Paul's thigh, gave a small squeeze too, and that was it. Paul cried out, slapped a hand over his mouth, as his whole body wound into a tight knot and pulled suddenly, blessedly free. He came until his legs hurt, shaking with the effort of tensing up.

"Ohh, fuck." Paul lay flat on his back, panting. His world had gone white for a second, there.

The warm press of John's body disappeared from between his legs, and a piece of cloth hit his stomach. He looked up. John had thrown Paul's underwear at him to clean off his stomach and chest, and he was sitting on the bed, trying to blow his nose.

Operative word, trying. Not much air was getting through, it sounded like. John surfaced, muttered a soggy expletive, and tried again.

It hit Paul straight in the chest this time. Post-orgasm, the sight didn't excite him, so much as it gripped him in a fierce and guilty way. He quickly mopped himself dry and threw away his dirty y-fronts. "Hey," he said softly. His voice was a little wrecked from his strangled cry earlier. He cleared his throat and added, "Come 'ere."

John lay down on top of Paul, not even bothering to check whether he'd cleaned himself off. He sighed heavily when he let his weight settle, his face on Paul's chest.

Paul dragged his fingers through John's hair and held him with an arm over his back. A tired exhale fell from John's mouth, and Paul felt his shoulders stir as he tried not to shiver. They lay there and breathed together, both trying to get their breath back.

"Thanks," Paul said when the silence had started to kill him. "For, um." He drummed his fingers on John's head, as if in thought.

John's cheek moved against Paul's chest. A smile. "Just wanted you to see how it felt," he said. His voice had developed a good rasp, too; real bluesy. Scraped raw, but that was rock and roll.

"How what felt?"

John was quiet. After a pause, he lazily lifted one shoulder. "All of it." He sniffled thickly, uselessly.

It wasn't an answer. Paul knew, though, it was the best he was going to get, and better than he deserved.

But his brain-mouth filter wasn't quite re-formed yet.

"Is that the most you've ever sneezed?" he asked, and immediately the word felt leaden and profane on his tongue, wrong as blasphemy. He was sure John could feel-- could hear his heart thump against his ribs, with his ear on Paul's chest.

John shifted, adjusting his head. "Never really thought... uh, no, actually." He huffed a short, congested laugh.

Paul's heartbeat must have been deafening now. "Oh?" he said, calmly as could be.

"Yeah, it was... remember when I missed the show in Bedford?"

At first, Paul came up with nothing. Then-- oh. That show. A lump rose in his throat.

John seemed to take Paul's silence for incomprehension. "Only the worst bloody cold of me sorry life?"

"Yeah, I--" Paul cleared his throat and swallowed. "I remember."

"Fucking awful. Like here, just now, but for fucking days. I couldn't eat, never mind sleep."

A breath filled Paul's chest without his permission. "...God."

John scoffed, getting irritated at the mere memory. "Then I had to do the mouth organ for Thank You Girl the next day."

"...Did you?"

John nodded. "Took me fifteen takes."

Paul realized he'd frozen. He started stroking John's hair again and tried to relax his limbs. "Really?"

In reply, John nudged his nose against Paul's chest, moving his head to scratch it. He snuffled, still unable to get a proper breath through.

Paul bit down on a crafty smile. His hand crept down John's back, little by little, before finally settling on the curve of his waist.

"You know the best way to clear a blocked nose?"