MST3K Slash Community

The new generation

2008-10-11T10:58:47Z

So, the other day I was wondering, what if they decided to make new episodes of MST3K for the new generation? Wouldn't they have to bring in an all new cast? And how would they explain having some new guy on a new satellite with new robots? And who would the new bad-guy be? And just how "pretty" would the new show look, now that you can get some decent looking special effects for very little money?

What about you? What do you think the new show would be like?

Thank you, Geek Monthly

2008-10-11T07:20:12Z

So in the October issue of Geek Monthly, there's an interview with Joel and Frank. And they're in costume. And Joel talks about his apparent love/hate relationship with ventriloquist dummies. So of course I grabbed a copy. I'm flipping through the article while chatting with halsgoddess on Skype when suddenly -

"AHHHHH OH MY GAAAAW!"
"What? What!?"
"JOEL AND FRANK! THEY'RE HUGGING!"
"THEY ARE NOT!"
"THEY ARE IT'S ADORABLE AHHHHH! Frank is like, he's behind Joel, he's like hugging him from behind and and - " *high pitched squealing sounds*
"You should post it on that slash site!"

So I did.

They may be getting older, but they're still completely adorkable. :D

Dr. Forrester is going to be pissed. XD

yet another Joike comic from the E209 timeline

2008-10-09T02:26:00Z

SPYING ON THE HUMANS
ARTIST: mith_maulin aka piig
PAIRING: Joel/Mike
RATING: G
NOTES: In episode 10x07, Track of the Moon Beast, the bots send a toy car with a camera attached to it into Mike's bedroom, to find out what kind of pajamas he wears. The segment itself is gay enough, what with the bots urging him to "Take your robe off, dammit!" Of course, in the Experiment #209 timeline, that room is Joel's too. And this is what would happen.

The beginning of the segment can be found HERE, starting around 8:30.

I was going to incorporate this into a fic or ficlet, but it never worked with my POV choice, mostly because I don't plan on doing a bot POV story. Although now that I think about it, that would be kind of fun.

from the sequel to An Unusual Satellite Tale

2008-10-06T03:36:23Z

LIKE A VICTORY BACKSLAP BUT WITH MORE, UH, LIPS
ARTIST: mith_maulin aka piig
PAIRING: Joel/Mike
RATING: G
SPOILERS: Cirrepedia Soup: Nine Hours on the Satellite of Love

CIRREPEDIA SOUP: Nine Hours on the Satellite of Love

2008-10-04T02:00:22Z

CIRREPEDIA SOUP: NINE HOURS ON THE SATELLITE OF LOVE
AUTHOR: mith_maulin aka piig
PAIRING: Joel/Mike
SERIES: Experiment #209: An Unusual Satellite Tale
RATING: Quite solidly R

SUMMARY: Pertinacia Cirrepedia, the common space barnacle. Attaches to the hull of your Satellite and throws off the artificial gravity. Removal is time-consuming and possibly dangerous, and may lead to an afternoon of hot lovins with one's male shipmate.

WARNINGS: Joel!turbation; bot tinkering; behavioural conditioning; bullshittastic worldrules (re: artificial gravity); debarnacling; mouth-touchy between male-shaped space cowboys; inappropriate use of time tags; closet case!Mike; safe sex despite all odds.

NOTES: For all you lovely people who read Experiment #209: An Unusual Satellite Tale, here is the promised sequel, and proof that I am no literary cocktease. There is, I warn, no actual play-by-play porn in here. My lovely rattyfleef is better at that than I am. I, on the other hand, am master of the patented Piig Fade-To-Halfscene. I hope you find it hot nonetheless.

Much credit goes to rattyfleef. Whenever I was stuck for details, for example on what parts of the SoL needed repair, she fed me details. She's responsible for the name and description of the Pertinacia Cirrepedia. I also stole a few character details from an RP we've been doing. To you, Tresa, all I have to say is: KEGELS.

Thank you all again for reading a commenting. Now that I'm not buried in this fic, I'm going to go back and reply to the comments on the last chapter of E209.

CIRREPEDIA SOUP
Nine Hours on the Satellite of Love

8:30:00 SoL Standard Time

The auto lights clicked on in Mike and Joel's sleeping quarters, and on the nightstand the clock radio blared the evening rush hour traffic report from Minneapolis. Mike woke up comfortable, except for the hair in his mouth. Joel lay in front of him, curled up with is head tucked under Mike's chin. At some point Mike had tipped his head down. Now he had a mouthful of the stick-uppy madman fluff along Joel's receding hairline.

"Pfleh," said Mike.

"Mm?" Joel tipped his head back. His nose bumped Mike's chin.

Mike wiped his tongue with his fingertips. "You got your hair in my mouth."

"Act, act-shully." Joel cleared his throat. "Yer the one who. You rolled over inyour sleep. Ym. I stayed. Right where." He trailed off.

Mike snickered. Joel stumbled over his words plenty when he was fully awake; first thing in the morning, he lost what little grasp he had on language. He squinted up at Mike, one eye cracked, the other squeezed shut, as if it had missed the "open" command. He tried to elaborate on his mumbling, and succeeded only in an extended croak.

This, Mike decided, was the worst. First-thing-a.m. Joel was deadly, like a girl who wears underwear with cartoon faces on the butt. Mike wanted to find out where he was ticklish, or blow a raspberry on his stomach, or lean down and kiss him just to make him hiccup in surprise – but only in those bleary minutes before he finished waking up. He relaxed and waited for the feeling to pass. Yup. Any minute now. Joel was staring at him, both eyes open.

Joel reached up and pawed at Mike's shirt collar. Mike had given up on sleeping in his jumpsuit and settled on a t-shirt and shorts – unlike Joel, who insisted on stripping down to his underwear every night. Their legs tangled together under the covers. Mike tried focusing on that: no smooth, last-night-shaved girl legs. Just Joel's solid calves.

Joel dipped his head and tucked it back under Mike's chin. His lips brushed the skin of Mike's neck, just above his shirt collar. Mike flinched. What the heck was he—? Joel bit his shirt collar, tugged, and growled.

Mike laughed. "What the—?"

"Breakfsht," said Joel through his teeth. "Nom."

"You're not eating my shirt for breakfast."

Joel put on his whiny voice. "Then makeme sooome."

"Okay, okay! Just stop eating my shirt."

"Okay." He released the collar but kept his nose mashed against Mike's throat. He sucked in a breath. "Mike?"

"Uh-huh?"

"You smell really bad."

9:28:31 SoL Standard Time

Mike walked by the bathroom for the fourth time. This time he stopped, crossed his arms and glared at the door. He raised a fist to pound the door, reconsidered, tugged his chin instead. Inside, the shower ran. And ran, and ran. For thirty minutes it had hissed. Steam crept out the edges of the hexagonal door.

Mike gave in and applied his fist to the door. "Hey Joel?"

No response from inside. The water hissed and splashed on the tub.

"Come on," said Mike. "What, are you testing the capacity of the water recyc tank? What could possibly take you half an hour in there?"

Behind the door, the shower curtain rings jingled. Wet feet slapped on the floor and padded across the room. The door slid open, and there stood Joel, leaning on the doorlights control panel. He had a towel around his waist, clutched at his hip with his free hand. It did nothing to hide his erection.

"Look, pal," said Joel. "Either you can participate, or you can stop interrupting."

Water dripped off Joel's chin and down his shoulders and chest. It puddled on the floor and collected in the grooves between the tiles. Mike's face heated. He pointed down the hall. "Aheh. I'll just. Uh.

Joel shrugged. "Suit yourself." The door slid shut between them.

10:13:03 Sol Standard Time

A freshly showered Mike Nelson joined Joel and the bots on the bridge. Tom Servo sat on the desk, next to a coffee machine; upon closer inspection, his Executive Snack Dispenser bubble had been replaced with a twenty-ounce spherical coffeepot, the handle sticking out the back like a ponytail. Joel stood behind Servo, poking a screwdriver around in an open panel on the bot's back.

Joel didn't look up from his work. "Hey Mike." He put the screwdriver in his mouth and picked a smaller one off the table.

"Hey. Whatcha doing there?"

Joel mumbled around the screwdriver.

Servo swiveled his head. "He's demonstrating a complete lack of respect for my personal rights, is what! Mike, you have arms. Make him stop."

Joel picked the screwdriver out of his mouth. "Come on. You know you don't mind it. Think of the buzz you get." He held the screwdriver over his shoulder. "Hold this for me, Mike."

Mike complied. The handle was still wet with Joel's spit. He opted to hold it by the shank.

Joel bent down and squinted at the tangle of circuits inside Servo. "I once modified Tom Servo to double as a coffee heater. And nothing—" He rotated the smaller screwdriver. "—Nothing tastes quite as good as coffee from ol' Tom's head."

"Aren't we out of coffee?"

Joel's tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth as he worked. "I conned Pearl into sending us some."

"Hey." Mike grinned. "Good one."

Joel straightened and set his tools back on the desk. "The problem was he got buzzed on the coffee and we had to pry him off the theater ceiling. So I took it out the first time, but it shouldn't be hard to wire it back up."

Servo eeped. "Did you hit a memory circuit? I think it was a memory circuit. You just released traumatic memories from my childhood! Fluffy, no! Stay away from the carport!"

"I am nowhere near your memory drives."

Mike leaned his hip against the desk and watched Joel work. "Why go to all this trouble? I mean, doesn't the coffee maker have a heater already?"

Joel flexed his left hand. His brow creased. "Because I can. I guess." He gave Mike a weirdly shy through-the-eyelashes look, then returned his attention to Servo. "Back down on Earth, the band and the Hot Fish Shop were great and all, but I couldn't afford stuff to mess around with like this. It's neat I get to do it again."

Mike tilted his head. "You like it up here."

Joel didn't answer. He switched back to the larger screwdriver, popped a small circuit board out of Servo's back and replaced it with a new one. Servo grumbled and twitched his head back and forth.

"You do, don't you." Mike pointed. "When you said they were the best years of your life, I didn't think you meant it."

"There were things I missed," said Joel. "And well. People down there didn't believe this." He gestured back at the theater doors. "The bots. And stuff." He paused, and scratched the corner of his mouth. "Well, except for this one guy."

Mike did a double take – he swore Joel was blushing. It had to be the lighting in here. Joel snapped Servo's panel shut, flipped some switches and lifted the coffeepot-head to peek underneath.

"That should work," he said. He removed the pot and clicked it into the coffee machine. "See Tom? Now that wasn't so bad."

Servo sniffled. "I feel violated. Can I at least have my head back while you brew?"

"Okay, okay." Joel snapped the bubble back on. He picked a filter full of ground coffee off the desk, set it in the top of the coffee maker, and set it to brew a full pot.

11:21:22 SoL Standard Time

Mike sat at the edge of a gaping hole in the floor. He and Joel were at the far end of one of the corridors stretching from the bridge to the back of the ship. They'd removed four hexagonal floor panels; they lay in a pile behind Mike. Down in the hole, Joel braced himself on all fours, ass in the air.

He twisted his arm behind his back and flexed his hand. "Pliers," he said.

Mike rummaged in the toolbox. "Uh. The blue handle or the green?"

Joel wiggled his fingers. "Blue."

Mike handed him the blue-handled pliers and chucked the others back in the box. He kicked his legs and hummed a kind of Irish jig tune. He drummed his hands on the floor. Joel's back arched and flattened as he worked, and the pliers clinked on something metal. Mike picked a small rubber gasket out of the toolbox and flicked it at Joel's backside.

Joel grunted. "Bored?"

"Yes." Mike pouted.

"You're the one who wanted this done."

Mike leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. "Hey, you were having fun fixing Servo. I figured you'd enjoy working on the ship some more, too."

Joel reversed, straightened and leaned back to crack his spine. He rummaged in his hip pocket and pulled out two grapes. One he ate; the other he tossed to Mike. Mike snatched it out of the air and popped it in his mouth. The first time Joel chucked a grape at him, it had bonked off his forehead and rolled across the floor. Joel shook his head and placed the second grape in Mike's palm. He threw grapes at Mike two or three times a day now. Mike had learned to expect it.

Mike swallowed the last of the grape. "Hey, and while you're at it, the kitchen tap is broken, too. Well, it still works, but it sings when you turn on the hot water. Kind of off-key, too. It's creepy."

Joel rolled his eyes. "Sure. Anything else?"

"The door on Level B, by the elevator. It's stuck mostly closed."

Joel scratched behind his ear, one eye squinched shut like a puppy. "I know that one. It's big enough to fit through, though."

"I can't fit through it."

"Oh," said Joel. Something on his workspace caught his attention, and he got back down on all fours.

"I was wondering," Mike said, "what's with the grapes?"

"Hm?"

"Why do you always have grapes in your pocket?"

"I put a bunch in there in the morning." Joel handed the pliers up to him. "Uh. The Phillips head, smaller one, with the yellow handle."

Mike handed it down. "Yeah, but why?"

"Dr. F didn't do conditioning on you?"

"Well, kind of. If I didn't do what he told me to, he cut off my air or electrocuted me."

"Oh, well, that's just a given." Joel had to be the only other person who could call regular oxygen deprivation and electrocution "just a given." "But for awhile he and Dr. Erhardt tried positive reinforcement. They set up the buttons on the desk to dispense grapes whenever I pressed for a Call or Movie Sign."

Mike chuckled. "So did it work?"

"Sort of." Joel shuffled back and straightened again. "Now I carry them as a kind of pacifier. Bought 'em by the crate down on Earth."

"Wait." Mike held up a finger. "Wait. That means you've been training me?"

Joel's mouth slid into a lazy half-grin. "Something like that." He pulled another grape out of his pocket and lobbed it at Mike.

Mike held the grape between his thumb and forefinger and waved it at Joel. "But yesterday you gave me one when I banged my knee on the desk!"

"You made a cute face when you did it."

For lack of a better response, Mike ate the grape. Finally he said, "Well. Anyway. If you wanted to condition me, you have to find something better than grapes. Can't say I've ever been a fan of them."

Joel wiped the back of his hand across his forehead; it left behind a streak of grease. "Yeah? What are you a fan of?"

"Lobster." Mike closed his eyes. "Maine lobster."

"Hm." Joel nodded. He reached up and plucked a wrench from the toolbox. "Which side did you say the artificial gravity was stronger on?"

"Port," said Mike. "Starboard it's light, I think. I can jump and hit the ceiling, and I couldn't before. Servo said it messes with his hoverskirt too."

Joel pointed the wrench at the mess of wires and displays he'd been working on. "The hub's working fine. It's not what's throwing the gravity off." He rested he hands on his hips and stared down the corridor. "Huh. When's the last time you scoured the hull?"

Mike groaned and flopped his hands on the floor. "Nooo. Don't tell me."

Joel hoisted himself out of the hole. "You have done it before, right?"

"It took three shifts." Mike dropped his face into his hands. "Thirteen hours total. One of those things almost ate me alive."

"Well, we gotta do it again." Joel stood, dusted his jumpsuit off and helped Mike up. "There are too many on the port side of the Satellite. They're messing with the ship's lifeform readings. That's what's screwing up the gravity. If we leave it any longer, we either gotta move the sleeping quarters to the starboard side, or wake up one morning gravity-pinned to the bed."

They fitted the hexagonal panels back into the floor, tucked the tools away into the kit and headed back to the front of the ship. Time to suit up for a spacewalk.

12:42:03 SoL Standard Time

Mike lugged his spacesuited ass over the curve of the satellite's hull. The umbilicus linking him to the ship and air source tugged on his life support backpack; he grabbed it and yanked hard to give himself some slack. The thing was spooled on a wheel that kept on snagging, like a roll of toilet paper that got flattened somewhere along the way.

He gave the umbilicus a final jerk, hoisted his snow shovel over his shoulder, and continued along the hull. Above him loomed the Earth, bloated and blue and misty – from here it always looked to Mike like it would be cold, even when they were flying over Australia. In every other direction, space stretched out.

Where the heck was Joel? Mike waited for him by the airlock for half an hour, and finally decided to go out and get started on his own. He'd now been out here for another fifteen minutes and removed half a dozen of the rat-sized space barnacles attached to the ship's hull.

The barnacles collected mostly on the side of the satellite facing away from the Earth. They looked like little Stormtrooper helmets with feathery antennae poking out from under their shells. They stuck like hell to the outside of the ship, and when Mike went near, they scuttled off out of his reach. He'd developed a method of hooking them back with the shovel, then wedging the wide blade underneath their shells and levering them off. So far he had caught six of the twenty he chased after. Nearly a hundred more waited for him on the dark side of the satellite.

He spotted a barnacle and lunged at it. He missed with the shovel and the thing sped away. "Dammit!"

Something like a stream of silly string sprayed past him and hit the hull in front of the skittering barnacle. The creature hit the slick, lost its grip on the hull and went tumbling off into space. Mike watched it shrink to a speck.

Joel stepped up beside him. He had a pair of metal cylinders slung over one shoulder like a backpack. Under his left arm he held a cross between a leaf blower and a bazooka. It fired another stream of foam and the recoil knocked Joel back a step.

"What is that?" said Mike.

Joel's voice wormed into his ear through the headset. "It's an invention: the Debarnacler. I made it for getting rid of these things." He fiddled with something on the side of the device. "Sorry I took so long. This thing was buried way down in storage."

Mike brandished his snow shovel. "You mean all this time I've been prying them off with this, and that was right onboard? You couldn't have left a note in the airlock? 'Hey New Guy, this will make your life easier.'"

"Hey, I didn't even know there would be a New Guy. I thought if I ever got down, I was gonna take the whole satellite with me." Joel pointed ahead. "Okay, so you gotta herd them, and I'll spray in front of them. It doesn't really work unless we get them running."

Mike trudged over the hull. On each step his boots suctioned to the surface and released with a thock. The dark side of the satellite teemed with barnacles, shell to shell with their feelers poking up, like weeds growing up between rocks. Joel snuck around the largest clump. Once he was in position he hoisted the Debarnacler and waved at Mike. Mike stomped at the creatures, arms in the air, making growly Godzilla noises.

"Raaah! Run, foul space crustaceans! Your reign of gravity-wonking ends now!"

Joel hosed down the hull with Debarnacling foam. He huffed through the headset. "You know they can't actually hear you through your suit."

Mike ignored him and kept after the fleeing barnacles. "Fear Nel-zilla! Moo hoo ha ha ha!"

The creatures hit the foam slick and toppled off into space. A cloud of them floated up like gigantic soda bubbles. Joel reached out and snagged one out of the air.

Mike thocked over to him. "What are you doing?"

Joel headed for the Earth-facing side of the ship, barnacle tucked under his arm. "The shells turn colours when the oxygen hits them. Gypsy likes to collect them for her craft projects." He paused. "Well, project."

"You mean that big mosaic collage thing of Richard Basehart down on Deck 5?"

Joel's mic rustled, which probably meant he was nodding. He reached the airlock, knelt and opened a panel beside the main hatch, and dumped the barnacle inside.

They cleared almost all of the barnacles off in four sweeps, in just over an hour. Joel made two more trips to the airlock to deposit armfuls of the creatures. Mike asked why he didn't just coat the hull in Debarnacling foam so they wouldn't stick in the first place. He explained that the compound wouldn't adhere to the ship for long.

"Plus." Joel rested the Debarnacler on his shoulder and posed. "Where's the fun in that?"

They made a final trip to the joint between the forward globe part of the satellite and the main shaft. Joel got into position a few yards up the globe section and gave Mike the signal. Mike repeated his Godzilla act, this time adding bad-dub screams of terror from his barnacle victims.

This time the herd veered away from Joel, and he had to give chase. He and Mike moved on an intercept path with each other. Mike was so caught up in his roaring and stomping he didn't notice the foam slick across his path until he skidded across it. His feet kicked out from underneath him and he floated up with the barnacles, off into open space.

"Uhh Joel, we got a problem."

"Whoa, Mike!"

Below, Joel let go of the barnacles he'd snagged for Gypsy and lunged for Mike's tether. The suction-boots and lack of gravity slowed him down; he made effort noises through the headset. Mike flailed his arms and focused on not panicking.

"It's okay," said Mike. "No, it's okay. I'm still connected to the ship. If you could just ah, reel me in here."

"Right, yeah, okay." Joel sounded like he was going to panic himself. "I got your tether. You wanna grab it on your end? I don't want it to pull out of your suit."

"No, yeah, wouldn't want that." He reached behind and gripped the cord where it came out of his backpack. The line jerked, and he started falling back toward the satellite. He wasn't sure how far he made it before Joel floated past him. Away from the ship. "Uh. Joel?"

"Yeah," said Joel. "I – something went wrong there."

"No kidding. Wait, are you still holding my tether?"

"Uh – yeah."

"Well let go of it! You're going to drag us both out there!" He reached out and snagged Joel's line, then snatched his own away. "Give me that." He wrapped Joel's cord twice around his upper arm and hauled himself along his own tether, shoving back every memory of rope-climbing in grade school gym class. He pulled Joel along like a balloon on a string.

Finally he made it to the airlock, where both their umbilici disappeared into the ship. He pulled himself and Joel to the door, cranked the wheel and yanked it open, and dragged Joel inside. The artificial gravity hit them instantly and sent them sprawling to the floor, Joel on top of Mike.

The door shut and secured, and oxygen hissed back into the room. Mike tore his helmet off and breathed deep. "Whoo! That was almost pretty bad."

Joel sat up and popped his helmet off. "Yeah. Wow. Thanks for pulling me back in, there." He shrugged off the Debarnacler and tanks of foam.

Mike threw his arms wide. "But we made it! Go us! Yeah!" He grabbed Joel's face, tugged him close and kissed him right on the mouth.

Joel tensed. His eyes bugged, then slipped back to their usual half-open, but didn't quite shut. Mike wasn't sure what he intended to do here. Maybe a quick victory kiss, kind of like a back-slap and yeah man! but with more, uh, lips. It didn't quite work out that way. He didn't pull back, clap Joel on the arm and invite him to the barbecue on the bridge in fifteen. Instead Joel tipped his head and parted his lips and Mike held the back of Joel's head and they tasted the adrenaline in each other's mouths.

Eventually Mike pulled back. Joel's face hadn't changed, except for a smear of pink up his cheeks to his ears.

"Wow," said Joel.

Mike said, "Uh." He stood suddenly, and bashed his head on the airlock's low ceiling – or, more specifically, on the door to one of the cargo transfer compartments. The panel flipped open, and a dozen dead space barnacles tumbled out. They rained over Mike and Joel and rolled across the floor.

Mike hung his head.

15:21:26 SoL Standard Time

Mike and Joel did laundry.

The laundry facilities were tailored to the needs of the ship's inhabitants – that is, one human male with no one to impress. Dr. Forrester estimated Joel would get to laundry once a month at most, and by then would have accumulated enough for four or five regular loads. Instead of regular-sized machines, he provided a ceiling-high, eight foot deep front-load washing machine, and an equal sized dryer at the other end of the room.

Mike leaned on the washer beside the open bubble-door. They'd only managed to fill it halfway, and Joel complained that it wasn't efficient, and escaped to their room to gather more "from that pile in the closet."

Neither of them had mentioned what happened in the airlock. Joel had, however, wordlessly handed him five grapes as they walked back to their quarters.

For the third time that day, Mike found himself waiting for Joel, and wondering what the hell was taking him so long. Why did they have to do a full load, anyway? It's not like the stuff crammed in the back of the closet needed to be washed. That's why it was in the back of the – wait.

Mike pushed away from the washer. The only clothes he wore up here were t-shirts and shorts and dozens of jumpsuits. He went through every single piece, some of them twice or three times, before he got around to washing them. Which was probably why Joel said he smelled bad in the morning. The point was, he didn't have anything to leave shoved in the back of the closet. Except—

He dashed out of the laundry room and down to their quarters. Sure enough, he walked in just as Joel held up the velvety red and black dress Mike had worn the time he hazed himself. Joel considered the dress, from the low maximum-cleavage neckline down to the ruffly skirt. He raised an eyebrow at Mike.

"Aheh," said Mike.

Joel folded the dress over his arm. "You have like five of these in there. Plus that bra with all the padding." His other eyebrow rose to meet the first. "And that Star Trek uniform."

Mike shrugged and searched for words, gesturing with his palms up. "It gets boring up here. You know that! I got, bored."

"Mike, I spent four years here, and only ended up in drag like, twice. And those were for skits or for something Crow wanted us to rehearse." He laid the red dress on the bed and picked up a strappy black number. "Now, you—" He held the dress up, tilted his head and closed one eye.

Mike grabbed the dress. "Stop that."

Joel tugged the dress, yanking Mike close. He grabbed Mike's arm and stepped forward. Another three steps, and he had Mike backed up against the wall.

"Dresses, Mike?" said Joel. "Really?"

Mike swallowed. "Well. Maybe I'm – I'm in touch with my feminine side."

"Uh-huh."

Joel dipped and twisted his head and tucked his face to the side of Mike's neck. He gave soft, dry kiss, then a warmer one, up close to Mike's jaw. He finished with a third, lips hot and slick, with a scrape of teeth and a flick of tongue. Mike felt fifteen again, when making out and sucking necks was still a big illicit thrill. Only he used to be the one doing the biting.

Joel grinned against his neck. "So how does your feminine side feel about that?"

"Okay Joel." Mike fought to keep his eyes from slipping shut. "That's really sleazy."

Joel chuckled, and it vibrated from his chest to Mike's. He pulled back and stared at Mike's mouth, and he had that damn smile on again: the one that forced a flicker high in Mike's stomach or low in his chest, somewhere around the solar plexus. Joel moved in and pressed his mouth on Mike's, like a question. Mike tensed.

"Hm." Joel pulled back, brow furrowed. After a moment, his face cleared. "Oh I get it." He gripped Mike's jumpsuit above the hips and flipped them so Joel backed the wall, Mike pinning him. He slid his hands behind Mike's back and down to his ass, grabbed a cheek in each hand and hauled him close. "There. Is that better?"

Mike went crosseyed for a second. He swayed. It was too much. Joel's body was warm and solid against his. The wall was cool under his palms, one on either side of Joel's head, and Joel had on that eyes-up sad-puppy look. Other men shouldn't be cute like that. Joel specifically shouldn't be cute like that. This was the guy who walked around with pockets full of fruit, whose idea of a good time was an evening molding metal breasts onto one of the replica Tom Servos.

Mike gave up. It wasn't going to make sense, not any time soon. He could agonize over it, or he could screw Joel right up against this wall and find out if the dreams he'd been having were at all accurate.

15:45:59 SoL Standard Time

The up-against-the-wall plan didn't fly with Joel. He dragged Mike to the bed, flopped on the mattress and pulled Mike down on top of him. He pinched the zipper on Mike's jumpsuit and yanked it all the way down; he fumbled the top half of the suit off, then the t-shirt underneath. Soon the blue jumpsuit lay on the floor and Mike was down to his shorts.

Mike wanted to do the same to Joel, but he was determined to take it slow. He unzipped Joel's suit just enough to slip his hand inside and pet Joel's chest. If he was going to do this, he would at least be smooth about it. He would not act like a man whose only action in the past four years was a drug-induced dry hump under the desk on the bridge. Even if it already felt like his dick would drop right off his body if one of them didn't touch it soon.

He slid his hands over Joel's chest and kissed down his throat. He unzipped the red jumpsuit farther. Joel squirmed and wrapped his arms around Mike's back. His watchband scratched Mike's shoulderblade.

"Mike?" Joel's hand crept up to the back of Mike's neck.

"Mm?"

"If you don't hurry it up, I'm going to go try my luck with Gypsy."

15:53:40 SoL Standard Time

Mike thought he'd never felt anything quite as sweet and hot as Joel's mouth, and when it disappeared from his cock he threatened to punch him in the head.

"Relax," said Joel from the other end of the bed. "I'm comin' back. Keep your – oh. Never mind."

Eventually Joel rolled back, and slapped a small crinkly packet into Mike's hand. Mike held the condom pack up. "Where did you get this?"

Joel kissed his way over Mike's collarbone and down his chest. He brushed his knuckles over Mike's thigh. "They were in with the stuff Pearl sent after the space cowboys movie. Along with this." He slipped something else into Mike's hand, something like a tube of toothpaste. It was the lube Crow had spotted under "Ennis's" blanket.

"No," said Mike.

"'No'? No 'no.'" Joel lay back and pulled Mike on top of him. He hitched his knees up over Mike's hips. "Still wanna say 'no'?"

"Ngh." Mike's arms shook. "No! I'm not using – that's from Pearl. Pearl sent it."

"Like it makes a difference."

Mike squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.

"Well, ya big baby, it's the only stuff we have onboard." Joel straightened his legs, braced his heels on the mattress and arched his hips up against Mike's. "Still 'no'?"

"Hnuh," said Mike.

OHGOD:YES:FASTER SoL Standard Time

Mike was loud. Joel was not. Joel responded best to Mike's hands and teeth on his back. He had a splash of freckles over his shoulders and the base of his neck that Mike hadn't noticed before, probably because he had never seen Joel's back up close before. Mike was surprised he noticed anything while balls-deep and shouting every vowel in the alphabet.

16:49:08 SoL Standard Time

Mike lay with his face mashed against the small of Joel's back. It made his speech slurred and ridiculous, which was okay because at this point his brain and mouth could only handle the words "Yes," "Joel," and "Auurgh." He was trying to remember if the last one was actually a word.

"Time is it?" asked Joel.

"Auurgh."

Joel turned his head and wriggled toward the nightstand. He pawed at the clock radio. "Almost five. Come on, put your clothes back on. We gotta get to the bridge."

Mike whined and scrubbed his face against Joel's back. "Gimme… an hour."

"I told Gypsy we'd be there for dinner at five. She prepared it and all – I asked her a favour. So we can't leave her waiting."

Mike groaned. "I don't think I can make it that far."

"You, mister," said Joel, "are not the one who should be complaining."

17:15:41 SoL Standard Time

Mike shoveled another forkful of buttery white meat into his mouth. If he knew how, he would record this afternoon, load it into a virtual reality simulator and play it on loop for the rest of his life. Great sex and fresh seafood? Maybe he had floated off into space while debarnacling the hull, and he'd frozen and imploded, and this was the delicious, delicious afterlife.

"Lobster," he said through a mouthful. "This is fantastic, Joel."

Joel grinned at him from across the desk. Because he was lame and creepy, Joel had dimmed the bridge lights a notch and put a candle between them. The effect was spoiled by Crow and Servo throwing lemon wedges at each other from the other two edges of the desk.

Joel propped his head up, fork tucked between his index and middle finger. "You said you liked 'em better than grapes."

Mike nodded. "Oooh yes. Should have asked Gypsy to leave it in the shell though. It's even better that way. Hey, how'd you manage to get this, anyway?"

"Um." Joel poked the fork around his plate. "That's uh, my little secret."

Down at the end of the desk, Crow shook his head. "Yech! I got something in my food. Hold on." He clawed at the lower part of his beak, pulled something out and held it up in front of him. "It's a hair. Joel, I wanna talk to the cook."

"But Gypsy's the cook," said Joel.

Servo's head wagged. "Yeah, and she doesn't have hair."

"It's really long, too," said Crow. "Joel, your hair's not this long any more. And Mike's is even shorter."

Mike reached over and picked the strand out of Crow's claw. The hair was about eight inches long, black, and it thickened at one end and tapered at the other. In a few places, it seemed to have thinner hairs sprouting off it. It actually didn't look so much like a hair as a mostly-stripped, thread-thin feather.

His last mouthful of food stuck halfway down to his stomach. "Joel?" he said.

"Yes honey?" His shoulders fidgeted. He looked up from his plate, sheepish. That sealed it.

"I'm eating a space barnacle, aren't I."

Joel hung his head. "Yeah."

Mike buried his face in his hands. At least the sex was great.

Fanart?

2008-09-26T23:18:02Z

I want to draw some really naughty/kinky/silly MST3K fanart, but it's like my mind refuse to give me any ideas for such a horrible thing.

So now I ask you: What have you always wanted to see? Which paring and kink, and how explicit would you like it? Like, should it only be the hinted what's going on, or would you like to see the big rubber didlo go in?

Don't be shy. I've drawn hairy tentacle porn (you don't wanna' know) so nothing you suggest will freak me out. :)

Experiment #209: An Unusual Satellite Tale - CONCLUSILOGUE

2008-09-22T04:19:46Z

EXPERIMENT #209: AN UNUSUAL SATELLITE TALE
AUTHOR: mith_maulin aka piig
PAIRING: Joel/Mike
RATING: G this chapter
SUMMARY: Pearl's hypothesis: if there's one thing worse than being stranded in space alone, it's being stranded in space with one other person.
DISCLAIMER: MST3K is property of the geniuses at Best Brains. Bless 'em.
WARNINGS: Fake and poorly-acted violence; skit; happy Pearl; perhaps not the resolution you were rooting for.

NOTES: Well, this got finished a whole lot faster than I expected.

This is the actual final chapter of the story. Now that we've reached this point, I have one confession to make. You may or may not have noticed that the subtitle "Unusual Satellite Tale" initializes to UST -- as in, Unresolved Sexual Tension. I'm not sure how much that means in this fandom, but back in X-Files fandom it was a great big shining beacon of The Kind Of Story I Would Like To Read. Because after all, Mulder and Scully were the masters of unresolved sexual tension (well, until The Seasons That Will Not Be Named).

Anyway, way back when in my very first fandom, I read a story titled "The Ultimate Seminar Tale" which was so much an exercise in ramping up said UST, that the title initialized to just that. So this story was my homage to that one, and to all the hours and brain cells I've dedicated to fandom over the past ten years.

And now I shall shut up and get on to the end of the story. If anyone feels cheated or blueballsed by the end, let me assure you I already have sequels planned. Thank you to everyone for reading and commenting. This has been the most enjoyable writing I've done in a long time.

PREVIOUS CHAPTERS: The Temp and the Gizmocrat, The Boy in Gold Boots, Space Station Brokeback-G, Fork and Spoon, Banana Dangler

CONCLUSILOGUE

For the first time in over a week, Mike woke up without Joel's drool soaking through the shoulder or back or chest of his jumpsuit. In fact, there was no jumpsuit over his shoulders or back or chest. Instead it was unzipped to his waist and bunched uncomfortably above his hips. His arms were cold, his mouth was dry, his stomach felt full of wet sponges and his temples ached like someone had tried to rip his jaw off. All in all, not the nicest wakeup.

He scrubbed his forearm over his face, and it left something sticky behind. He grimaced and sniffed his wrist. Peanut butter?

Oh. Peanut butter.

Mike let his arm fall back to the mattress. Yes, he had hidden under the desk and built a barricade out of rice bags and peanut butter. And Joel joined him under there. And Joel decided it was a great idea to rub Mike's back. And oh God.

Mike grabbed the extra pillow and pressed it to his face. It smelled exactly like Joel's throat had – well, minus the peanut butter. Not helping.

The door sighed open and shut. "Hey," said Joel. "Um. What are you doing?"

"Oh, you know," said Mike into the pillow. "Trying to smother myself to death."

"Oh. Okay. Are you still high?"

Mike patted his chest, as if to check. "I think so. Right now I'm hallucinating I'm trapped on a satellite in high orbit with a pair of robots and a man who refuses to wear full-length pants."

"No." Joel's weight dipped the edge of the mattress. "That's pretty much where you are."

Mike drummed his fingers on his chest. "In that case, mind helping me with this pillow?"

Instead Joel picked the pillow off his face and tossed it across the bed. He'd changed out of his usual red jumpsuit into a pale green one that – wait, that was Mike's jumpsuit. Mike's face twitched. Was there something he wasn't remembering from yesterday? Before he could tip right over into panic mode, he noticed the palm-sized red stain at the center of Joel's chest, and the kitchen knife jutting out from it.

"Uh." Mike pointed at the knife.

Joel poked the handle. The knife waved back and forth. "Prop. C'mon, I came up with a plan while you were out." He crawled across the bed to the closet and tossed Mike a blue jumpsuit. "You might wanna change. Meet me by the door to the bridge."

Mike picked up the jumpsuit. He hung his head. Might wanna change. Thanks, Joel. That pillow was looking pretty good again. Unless it was possible to die of sheer humiliation – in which case he was well on his way.

Joel waited for him in the hallway to the bridge, adjusting the prop knife on his chest. "Better?" he said.

"Sure." Mike rolled his shoulders. "What's the plan?"

Joel walked him through the skit he'd planned. Mike nodded and repeated his lines. Once they had it down, they stepped onto the bridge.

Joel jerked his thumb at the far end of the room. "I'll get Cambot to call down to the Castle. As soon as Pearl's on the Hexfield, that's action, alright?"

Mike nodded.

"Cambot, you go ahead." Joel flicked his fingers at the bot.

They got into position behind the desk. Joel leaned back, and Mike gripped the handle of the fake knife. Joel tipped his head back, and Mike noticed a reddened patch of skin on the side of his throat. It wasn't stage blood from the jumpsuit. It could be a shaving nick, but it wasn't. No, it was definitely a hickey.

Before Mike could start screaming, Joel did.

"Aaah!" said Joel. Across the room, Pearl appeared on the Hexfield-2.

Mike stared at Joel's neck.

Joel twitched his eyebrows and made an it's-your-cue face. He cleared his throat. "I said, aaaah!"

"Oh, right!" Mike wrung the knife handle and loomed over Joel. "Ha ha ha! Take that, Joel!"

"Oh no." Joel held his hands up. "Mike has, uh, lost his mind and stabbed me with this kitchen knife." He stumbled back into the desk.

"Yup, I sure have." He glanced up at the Hexfield-2. Pearl had on an open-mouthed smile, hands clasped under her chin.

Joel lay down on the desk and went through exaggerated death throes. He cycled his legs, stuck his tongue out and twitched his hands at the ceiling, and finally went limp. If Mike wasn't still achy and sour from the comedown, he might have spoiled the whole scene by laughing.

He rested his hands on his hips and considered fake-dead Joel for a moment. He faced Pearl. "Well, how about that. I went and killed Joel with a kitchen knife. Now I'm going to go dissemble the robots, put some socks in my ears and talk backwards for awhile."

Pearl threw her arms wide, as if expecting a hug. "It worked! You're nuts! I'm brilliant!" She cackled. "I have to tell the Institute. They have to see this." She squealed and cut the call.

Mike held his breath for a moment. When he was sure she wouldn't catch on and call back, he deflated and leaned on the desk.

Joel cracked an eye open. "Told you it would work."

Mike snorted. "And what happens next time she calls, and you're all not-dead?"

Joel sat up, removed the prop knife from his chest and tossed it aside. He scootched forward and swung his legs off the desk, one on either side of Mike. He squeezed his knees in and hooked his feet behind Mike's thighs. "Well hopefully she brings someone from the Mad Science Institute, they see we're both alive and not crazy, and we pretty much discredit her and her whole operation."

Mike did his best to ignore their position. "Ah."

Joel shrugged and talked to Mike's chest. "That's what she gets for, y'know, giving you spiked pineapple."

Mike had no idea what to say to that. He fidgeted and hovered his hands beside Joel's knees, the plan being to pry them off and run for the opposite end of the ship. Instead he envisioned himself yanking them so Joel fell back on the desk, leaning over him and giving him a matching red mark on the other side of his throat. For symmetry.

He shook his head and blurted, "Where did all the rice go?"

"I put it back in the pantry." Joel raised an eyebrow. "Why do you have an entire shelf of it, anyway?"

"That's actually just the on-hand supply. There's way more down in storage."

Joel tilted his head. "Uh-huh." He straightened and leaned forward, his face close to Mike's. His breath started to dry out Mike's bottom lip.

Mike's upper body locked, starting at the back of his neck and creeping down his shoulders and spine. He squeezed his eyes shut. He should step back, about-face and go for a long jog on the exercise wheel. Last night he went a little crazy and got a little close with Joel, but Joel had to understand he was drugged. He was drugged, and hadn't been laid in way too long, and now Joel was going to get all weird on him and start – wait, did Joel just pull back?

He opened his eyes. Joel had retreated, only by a couple inches. He looked Mike in the eye. Mike's mouth worked.

Joel's gaze flickered down Mike's face. "Go on," he said.

"What?"

Joel huffed. He leaned back in, this time so close they could chew on the same stick of gum. He even tilted his head. But he didn't close that last micrometer of space. "Go on," he coaxed.

"I don't—"

Joel groaned, pulled back and rolled his eyes. "Jeez!"

"What?!"

Joel unhooked his legs from around Mike. He pushed forward and dismounted the desk, squeezing between the edge and Mike's still-frozen body.

"You, my friend," said Joel, "have some heavy stuff to work through."

Mike turned his body aside like a door. "I do?"

"Yup." He patted Mike's chest. "Let me lay it on you. I think I've made myself clear. When you figure yourself out, well. You know." He bobbed his head. "You know."

"Sure…?" Mike scratched the side of his leg.

Joel clapped him on the arm. He slid his hand up to the back of Mike's head, tugged it down and planted a soft kiss on his forehead. When he took his hand down, his fingertips trailed from the corner of Mike's jaw down to the hollow of his throat. Joel stuck his hands in his pockets and sauntered off the bridge.

That night, Joel didn't bother waiting until Mike fell asleep or faked sleep. Fifteen minutes after lights-out, he rolled over, slung his arm and leg across Mike's front and pressed his nose to Mike's upper arm. Mike breathed at the ceiling for awhile.

He gritted his teeth and wiggled his arm to shake Joel off. Once Joel lifted enough, Mike slid his hand under and around to Joel's back and crooked his elbow so Joel could use his upper arm and shoulder as a pillow. He held Joel against his side. Joel made a satisfied grumble, voice low enough that Mike could never mistake it for one of his old girlfriends'. But then again, they were imprisoned thousands of miles above the Earth's surface. Who else would ever know?

EXPERIMENT #209: COMPLETE

The Art of Improvisation, or, Porn In Space

2008-09-20T05:20:25Z

Warnings: I laughed hysterically the whole time I was writing this. It is Not Suitable For Work, socks, sensible persons, or the laws of physics. Shameless abuse of inanimate objects. Rule 34. POV ping-pong.

Title: The Art of Improvisation, or, Porn In Space
Pairing: Joel/Mike AND Mike/Crowlet (not Crow!)
Author: rattyfleef aka fleeftastic
A/N: This is ~~Piig's fault~~ at mith_maulin's request. ♥. Because she is made of awesomesauce and nift and is the best beta ever <3.

One fine day after the Perseid meteor shower made frazzling sounds on the defences and the interoceters were starting to sing, Joel stood with his arms folded and his feet wide apart and decided it was a day for great things to happen. He went to the washroom.

Crow watched him leave, then trundled over to the other door and peered around the corner. He slumped by the table and sighed and sighed and sighed, high-pitched mournful whistles like a sad squeak-toy. His problem was short-term but seemingly insurmountable, and he was as miserable as somebody with a golden exterior could be.

It was almost time for the scientists to check in so Mike turned up, looking like somebody who should smell like cookies so you'd keep sniffing him and sniffing him, looking for the cookies you were sure he had in his shirt pocket.

Mike said, "Crow, you look so sad! What happened?"

"Aw Mike. It's my girlfriend." Crow wheeled back and forth aimlessly. "She's got time to talk now but I have to be here when we check in, and then we've got the movie! And then after that she'll be busy, she's got a tournament."

Mike's face crumpled in sympathy. "That's terrible!"

"Yeah." Crow shook his head. "She's tubular! She's a lab assistant in Japan, she's so smart. I just can't believe how lucky I am."

"So what does she look like?" Mike asked, and parked his hip on the edge of the table.

"Oh, she's really cute. Well, I'm sure she is. She's too shy to send me a picture."

"So you guys talk on the phone?" Mike said, encouraging.

"Naw. Text. I just feel so close to her, we have such a strong connection. We talk about our lives, our dreams, who she works with at the lab—"

"That sounds wonderful, Crow. So do you have a lot in common? What does she like?"

"Chess and bukkake."

Just then Gypsy came through in a fluff. "Where's Joel! I can't find him. He'll get thrown out the airlock if he misses another call-in!"

Mike rubbed the back of his neck. "Oh man, see if you can find him, I'll stay here in case he turns up."

"Alright," Gypsy said on her way out. "But strap yourself down. It's going to suck if I can't find him!"

Mike sighed. "Aw Crow," he said, "I'm sorry you won't be able to talk to her. Help me look for Joel."

"What's this?" Joel said, and came in with a tray.

Mike perked up. "Are those cookies?"

"No. I wanted cookies but there aren't any. So I cut some Purina Human Chow into little crispy circles. Would you like some?"

"I'd love one! We can pretend."

As Mike chewed, Joel petted Crow's forehead. "You look sad, honey," he said.

Mike, still chewing, told Joel about Crow's girlfriend. Joel's narrow face creased. "Well, you go talk to her, Crow. Mike and I will cover for you."

Crow rocked eagerly. "Really? You mean it?"

Joel nodded firmly. "Absolutely. Go on, now."

Crow twirled. "Whoopee! Oh, ain't it great to be in love!" He trundled out at speed.

Mike folded his arms and rested his weight against the table's edge. "So, do you have a brilliant plan?"

A cookie disappeared and Joel chewed without changing expression. "Nope."

Mike shoved both hands into the hip pockets of his jumpsuit. "Huh," he said.

Joel tugged on the tip of his nose. "C'mon, then," he said, and rummaged around under the table. "Go get me that empty protein-sludge container, okay?"

"Uh?" Mike said. Joel had folded onto his knees and his Test Subject jumpsuit bagged and hunched as he groped about. He looked like a heaving mound of discarded Christmas paper. "The yellow one?"

"Yeah," Joel said, and did a caterpillar-crawl-commando reverse out from under the table. He clutched a pair of enormous mothballs, the sort scattered all over the ship to keep the wee creeps from the storage level from infesting the living quarters. He brandished them at Mike. "See? Eyes!"

"Uh," Mike said, and scratched the back of his calf with his toes. "Those are mothballs."

Joel grinned, an "I know" grin of all sorts—I know where you sleep, I know what colour your socks are, I wonder what your eyeballs taste like. Mike backed out of the room and went for the protein-sludge container. In the kitchen/eating-area/storage-space the little port-hole looked out onto where the moon would be in ten minutes, and where the earth was a quarter-hour ago. The container was in the recycling.

"Funny," Mike said, when he came back into the room. "This is the same colour as Crow's oh my god."

Joel yanked his jumpsuit up and turned a little circle. "I can't do it!" he said in fallen-ice-cream tones.

"Can't do what?" Mike tried to say. What came out was, "Underpants?"

"I know. I don't have any left. I need elastic."

Mike sat on the edge of the table again and stared at the nutritional information of the protein sludge. None-none-none-lots-none. Serving size: variable.

Joel shrugged into the top of the jumpsuit one arm at a time. He fiddled with the zip and spoke without looking at Mike. "See, the thing is, I don't have near enough parts to make anybody else. We're really gonna have to get creative to fool the mads." He glanced at Mike through his lashes. "May I have your undies?"

When Mike first got here and stared out at the moon and the black and the Earth, he couldn't figure how to navigate. Where was North, now? He was probably the only man ever born who did this, but he didn't think 'left' or 'right'—everything was North South East or West. Hey Mikey, where's your washroom? East of the hall closet.

When you're part of the world everything is relevant to everything else—there are rules and boxes and expectations to be met, and consequences if they're not. There are forces holding you to the floor. But here the only puppet strings are pulled by two middle-aged madmen and when the artificial gravity fritzes you got heavy, you drifted. If the experimenters were mad and the subjects therefore sane by definition, and if the only other sane man on this sattelitic world wanted to cannibalize your Fruit of the Looms for the elastic in order to fool two unhinged odes to unscientific process so that a robot with a spraypainted catcher's mitt on his head could instant-message his Japanese girlfriend—well, the only thing to do was unzip your jumpsuit and say, "Turn around."

Joel beamed at Mike and pivoted. He fished in his breast pocket and popped a grape into his mouth.

Mike unzipped and shimmied out of the green canvas. He had to strip it off entirely to get his underwear past his outerwear. He kicked it onto the table and started to pull the lower half of his jumpsuit back on. "All yours," he said, and Joel turned around in time to see Mike's ass disappear into his pants like a soft white bunny rabbit into a box.

Joel's narrow face tried to blush but couldn't remember how.

"So what else do we need?" Mike said, as every Junior High locker-room experience squirmed free from his memory and swamped his face with colour.

"Yellow sock," Joel said, busily dismembering Mike's underwear. "A sharpie. Superglue, yellow nail-polish, and we're gonna have to steal Tom Servo's popsicle-stick collection. Jeez, and we only have five minutes."

Mike zipped up fast enough to catch a few chest-hairs. He winced and tugged the suit away from his skin, ripping the hairs out, scattered tiny pains. He scuttled off to Servo's room.

Things were different with both of them here, Mike and Joel, but not ridiculously so. There wasn't space for an extra bedroom—real estate in space was like unicorns in a nun-run nature sanctuary; theoretically abundant but difficult and costly to come by in practice. None of the bots had offered to share their room with each other, nor had they shown enthusiasm for the prospect of rooming with a human. Tom Servo claimed Crow kept trying to lick his head in search of the ghostly flavour of long-gone gumballs. Crow simply said, "But he's all…" and refused to explain himself further.

In the end—after botly tantrums, name-calling, and something that will ever-after be known as The Incident With The Spanner, Mike and Joel had wound up dividing the day into three shifts and sleeping by turns, always making sure they were both awake when it was time for a movie, host segment, or check-in from the mads. Mike had become accustomed to falling asleep with his face mashed into a pillow that smelled like the back of Joel's neck.

Servo's room was a magpie-nest of collections, a paean to the pack-rat, a hymn to the god of Really Neat Stuff. Several times Servo'd had to be forcibly stopped from dismantling some vital piece of equipment—once even the wall-- for bolts to add to his nuts-and-bolts-box. All were lovingly polished and mounted like butterflies. Mike found the popsicle sticks under the broken-mothball-collection (three sneezes in quick succession) and slightly East-assuming-up-is-North of the Undewear. Mike even found a yellow sock. He pilfered without shame and headed back to where Joel was working.

"Must be hard to get these up here," he said, waving them. Joel gave him a quick lopsided grin, showing too many teeth. "Yeah, it was a bit," he said. "Gimme?"

Mike handed the sticks over. The Crow puppet was a lopsided set of shoulders—cobbled together from what looked like the remains of a picture-frame Gypsy had kept a photo of that actor in--a protein-sludge-container head with a hole in it; even the articulated eyebrows were there.

"Sock," Joel reminded. In the interim he'd re-created Crow's crest on the puppet. Mike got to the table just as the call-in signal started up; Joel hauled him close and dragged one of his hands under the table and shoved the end of the string into it. "Eyebrows!" Joel said quickly. "Tug to lift 'em. Sock!"

Mike handed the sock over. "They are never gonna fall for this!" Joel jammed his left hand into it and stuffed it up fake-crow, through the neck and out the hole in the protein-sludge-container sock-puppet style. Mike make a long arm to thump the button and the Mads flashed onscreen, rubbing their hands together. Though Mike wondered if they hadn't been up here a little too long themselves; Frank rubbed Dr. Forrester's hands for him, and visa-versa. The test-subjects stood side-by-side like Christmas with the puppet hollow between them. Mike sidled closer in an attempt to disguise the fake they held; Joel flinched shyly aside at first, skittish from lack of contact. Mike elbowed him lightly and he settled. Mike made a command decision to roll with it, and reminded himself not to ask fake-Crow about his Japanese probably-AI girlfriend in front of the Mads. The smells of mothballs and spraypaint and sticky-tack stuck in his nose like fishhooks.

"Soooo, my little piggy-guins!" Dr. Forrester said, and left off rubbing Frank's hands to fluff his own wild hair into wilder cat-in-humid-weather disarray. "You'll wind up sucking your toes in a corner after this one, mark my words!"

"Ewww, toe-jam!" Joel said out of the side of his mouth, flapping his sock-covered hand open and closed. Frank and the Doctor laughed. Mike could feel Joel all down the side of his body. He was sure they were going to get caught. A bead of sweat slipped down the back of his neck and into the crumpled collar of his jumpsuit. When they got tossed out the airlock should he exhale or hold his breath? He'd never considered that these would be his final years. It wasn't that the Mads cared so much about the bots, but that Joel hadn't kept ht test environment stable today by ensuring that at least one of the bots was present for the call-in. Servo had tried to add Gypsy to his new bot-collection by mounting her on a plaque on his wall; she was still sulky from trying to buff the glue off. Servo was on extra chores for the rest of the week and was currently washing the lunch dishes, all both of them. With his skills at procrastination and gripe-fu it would likely take him the rest of the day.

Frank kept laughing, but the Doctor collected himself enough to lean close to the camera and tap it with one perspective-engorged fingertip. "Just watch, just watch! Frank was brilliant. My intellect was epic-tacular! Your sanity will shatter like movie glass and blow away like a fart in a stiff breeze!" He closed the call. Mike tipped his head sideways till his temple touched the canvas over the ball of Joel's shoulder. "I don't believe it. Joel, you were fantastic to build Crow's puppet so fast."

"Puppet!" Joel squawked. "Mike, I'm shocked at you. Just because I haven't built Crowlet a brain yet!"

"Uh," Mike said. "I thought you said there weren't enough parts--?"

"I'll think of something," Joel said, and petted the back of his own sock-covered hand.

"Uh," Mike said, just as the call-in button flashed again. He answered and Dr. Forrester stood with his hands on his hips, glaring at Frank, who had his chin tucked into his superstranal notch and his hands wringing.

"Well?" Doctor Forrester demanded of Frank. "There! I've called back. Now what do you have to say?"

Frank tossed the Doctor a sheepish look. "I don't have to!"

Forrester flapped his elbows and clucked. Frank looked at the camera and burst out, "Crow! You look different."

Joel and Mike exchanged panicky glances. Mike tugged the string to raise the--Crowlet's eyebrows. "I do?" Joel sock-puppeted. His adam's apple bobbed.

"Yeah," Frank said, and dropped his chin further. He shuffled his feet. "Did you--cut your hair?"

Dr. Forrester smacked his forehead, then the back of Frank's head. "You Morlock! He doesn't have hair! He obviously just got his carapace polished. Isn't that right labthing?"

Joel beamed at him. "I sure did! Doesn't he look handsome?"

"Whatever. Enjoy your last moments of relative sanity!" And the call ended itself decisively. For several moments Mike and Joel stood unmoving, slight fixed smiles on their faces. Eventually Gypsy sidled in. "Miiiiiiiike, I can't find--oh."

Joel said hi and Gypsy turned in a little circle. "Jeez, are you okay?"

"No! I couldn't find you and I was so worried and you were probably here the whole time weren't you and I've still got GLUE on me! Hi Crow."

"I'll clean it off for you after the movie," Mike promised.

"I don't want to wait that long. You two and Crow are on your own, I'm going to make Tom Servo do it. He must be done the dishes by now!" With that, Gypsy left.

"Mike?" Joel said.

"Uh-huh?"

"Going to call Crowlet a puppet again?"

"Nuh-uh."

Joel gave him a quick lopsided grin. "Oh good."

Mike shook his head and had a hard time stopping. He wagged Crowlet's eyebrows a few times, then let go of the string to throw both arms around Joel, trapping his arms against his ribs. Joel twitched hard, like somebody'd given him a few volts for bad behaviour, then wriggled his arm free of Crowlet and clutched back. "Go us!" Mike told Joel's collarbone.

Mike let go at the end-of-a-guy-hug moment and tried to step back. Joel held on. "Just a little more?" he said. "Feels like years since I had a hug. Us primates go a little funny in the head when they're hug-deficient, you know."

"Kay," Mike said, and rested his palms on Joel's shoulderblades, then awkwardly crossed his wrists at the center of Joel's back. They both smelled like the same toothpaste, same deodorant, same bed. It was a familiar smell that said comforting things to the back of Mike's brain. Joel sighed and sagged when Mike pulled him closer.

Eventually Joel leaned his head back, blinking. Mike watched the flicker of his eyelids and the moment seemed to stretch, rubber-bandy, a choice, a possibility, an eternal hallway blocked by numberless and slowly closing doors, and then Joel dragged his fingers across Mike's mouth. "Okay, honey?" he said, and Mike seized up, wanting to reach out so badly he couldn't move. Joel read the stillness as refusal and blinked once more, hard, before turning his head. "Movie sign," he said, as the claxons sounded, warning, and the world shook.

Mike trailed him down the hallway, Crowlet forgotten. The wanting and the regret twined in his stomach until he thought he'd throw up or drown trying not to.

The theatre was empty and Joel sat in his usual seat with his knees and elbows tucked in close. He expected Mike to sit at the far end of the row and sleep on the kitchen counter and never touch him again ever. The room darkened and the movie title came up, When Women Lost Their Tails. It had cavemen in it.

Mike sat next to Joel. Setting his palm on Joel's tense forearm felt harder than anything had since he kissed Honoria Gittens at recess, and when Joel covered Mike's hand with his own Mike felt winded and wobbly, like he was on his back in the playground again with Honoria's knuckle-prints on his sternum.

"Joel, I just froze up, I do want--"

Joel let his head fall back for a moment, body relaxing abruptly into a sprawl. Then he leaned in and dragged his unshaven chin up the side of Mike's throat to say, "The movie's on, but after--"

"Oh," Mike said, and all the heat in his belly shriveled obediently. Figures moved on the screen. Joel slid his hand into the roomy knee-level saddlebag pocket of Mike's pants with all the stealth of a sounding whale and twisted his hand like a hamster in a sock to pet the back of Mike's knee. Five, ten minutes, and the movie ran, and Joel kept his hand in that pocket, barely venturing further up. Mike tried not to fidget. His mouth was dry as moondust. He was startled to find he could get hard from this, these light touches in the dark.

Mike eventually leaned closer to tug on Joel's sleeve. "You know, there are more fundamental ways of distracting ourselves from how bloody awful this is."

Joel grinned at the baffled cavemen on the screen. Mike was distracted enough by the way Joel's cheek appled and the agreement it suggested that it momentarily blinded him to another possibility for that grin. He poked Joel with his elbow. "You totally just wanted to see how long I'd let you make me wait!"

Striving to look blameless, Joel offered his bare palm and his sock palm. "Uh. Force of Skinner?"

Mike blew a hard breath and narrowed his eyes, trying for slyness. "Operant conditioning? So where's my reinforcer? What would I have to offer to, uh, train a new response?" His heart thumped. He was so pleased at his own daring that he decided he deserved a treat regardless. He leaned close as Joel turned his face to the screen and wound up sticking his nose in Joel's ear. "Oy!"

"Sorry," Joel said, and half-stood and twisted to get one knee on the much-flattened theatre cushion and rear up, bracing both hands on Mike's chair-back to either side of his head. Mike wasn't used to being loomed over. Joel's bare throat right there, the soft underside of his jaw and the way his stubble caught the light from the screen. Joel cupped the back of Mike's neck and held him still to lay a string of lip-prints along his hairline, light, like all Joel's nerves were sticking out of his skin and he was afraid to snag them on Mike.

"Joel--" Mike said, and fumbled for Joel's zipper.

"I'm here, hon--" Joel's breath fell out, and he sat back into his chair, hard, and tugged Mike's hand. "Come here?"

Mike stood, suddenly uncertain. They couldn't leave, that was for sure. He let Joel move him but balked when Joel tried to tug Mike onto his lap.

"Joel! I'm a grown man!"

"I know." Joel wagged his eyebrows and groped Mike through the jumpsuit. Mike said, "Mmph!" through his nose and sat abruptly on the edge of Joel's chair, between his wide-spread legs. He set both palms on the tops of Joel's thighs and gripped. Hell, he'd sit bare-assed on Cambot if it got Joel to keep this up. Joel wound his arms around Mike's ribs and squeezed, then stuck his face into the back of Mike's neck. "Turn round a bit?"

Theatre seats really weren't built for two, and Mike had to brace his legs to hold his perch. He twisted his shoulders, holding on to the seat arms, as Joel tipped to the side. They succeeded in butting noses.

"Yow!"

"Ouch!"

Joel laughed softly and butted his forehead against Mike's. Mike wanted to hold Joel's face, rub his thumbs along the laugh-grooves by the side of his mouth, but he couldn't reach without falling off. Or trading his shoulder and wrist joints for ball-bearings, but that would take too long, and anyways he wasn't near the genius at tinkering that Joel was.

"Here," Joel said, and tipped his head at a slight angle. Instead of the harder kiss Mike had expected, the all-your-base kiss, the surrender-your-tonsils kiss, Joel held back. He rubbed his mouth across Mike's until Mike's lips felt all tingly and too big for his face.

"Joel--"

"Mm?"

Mike wiggled close as he could get. He didn't know what Joel was playing at but it wasn't like their parents were going to walk in. "This. Mm." Joel had pressed with his hips. "This makin' out is nice and all, but it's not like you need permission from--uh. Anyone."

Joel's eyes were all pupil. "Oh, but I've got to ask Doctor Forrester's permission for you hand."

"You'll be in a lot of trouble if all you touch is my hand."

When he grinned, Joel's teeth reflected the light on the screen. "But honey! Don't you want to wear a wedding dress? I'd show you off every day like the trophy wife you are."

"Dress? Dress? Wait, you'd--you'd show me off?"

"Mm-hm," Joel said.

"Oh." Mike said. Then, "Okay, whatever, would you--faster, okay?"

"Huh," Joel said. "Always thought you'd want it all slow and dreamy."

He'd imagined this, wanted it, and that was just so fucking hot Mike thought he'd just pop like bubble-wrap and deflate into a cartoon muddle of flat lines and jumpsuit. Joel caught the undersides of Mike's legs and hauled them wider. Mike grunted and shifted his weight. Joel tugged the tab of the zipper and hummed questioningly against Mike's jaw.

"Sure, good, yeah, have a party--" Mike said.

"What's the matter?" Joel said, and snickered. "Got a case of blue--jumpsuit?"

"It's more greeny. Uh. It's. A greeny colour."

The jumpsuit was now unzipped to its full extent, Mike's shoulders, chest and pale belly emerging from the canvas like some rare and floral banana. Joel was doing his best to work Mike's jumpsuit under his butt and off entirely, squirming his hips against Mike's in an inefficient compromise between letting go of Mike and actually moving the cloth, an unpracticed bump-and-grind sort of peeling. Mike shifted one foot and started to arch off the seat, grinning at the shadowed expanse of roof. It felt like his body was booting up, colour blooming under his skin like night-time cities on Earth. How dumb was it to take turns jerking off in the bathroom, struggling against boredom and slowly forgetting what it felt like to be touched when all along this had been waiting? And waiting, and yanking at bunched fabric which rubbed harshly against the most impressive erection ever to grace the Satellite of Love? "Ow."

Joel froze. "Ow? No 'ow'! Not what I was going for!"

Mike shoved his hand down the gap afforded by the undone zipper to protect himself from the unfriendly fabric. This no-undies thing blew. He made a note to raid Servo's collection later. "This commando thing is no good. How do you stand it?"

"Oh," Joel said carelessly, and gnawed on Mike's trapezius. "I made a sort of pad out of dryer lint and a coffee filter. Little Joel doesn't like the canvas anymore than Little Mike does!"

Mike wanted to object to the 'little', he really did, but Joel chose that moment to enact the changing of the guard, hauling on the inner bend of Mike's elbow to move his arm onto the arm-rest. He shoved his left hand down into Mike's pants and cradled his erection. His left hand, the one with the sock. Mike was torn between moaning and horrified laughter, and he wasn't sure how to classify the sound he made. "No, no way, I am not having sex with a sock--"

Joel squeezed. The sock was a little nubbly, and so soft it didn't matter that it was dry. Mike struggled to cling to his convictions. "No really, feet go in that--"

"Only one at a time, and they're not there now," Joel said, in a tone far too reasonable for a test subject in a mad scientist's theatre watching a dreadful movie with his hand down his fellow test-subject's pants.

"Nn," Mike whined. The words 'sock' 'pants' 'sex' and 'you freak' floated spin-cycle about his brain but refused to coalesce into anything coherent. He arched his hips instead and Joel made an approving sound against his temple.

"Bet you wish you were naked," Joel said. He goosenecked his arm so Mike's pants tented as far as the limited slack would allow. "Arch up?"

"Will you get rid of the damned sock?" Mike groused even as he put his weight on his heels and lifted. Joel let go of Mike's cock--"Dammit Joel!"--shoved the tangle of jumpsuit as far down as Mike's sprawl allowed, and grabbed his erection again. Mike sank onto the edge of the seat and closed his eyes. Just this, these awkward and fabric-blocked touches with this brilliant maniac, and his body was thrumming. He could feel his pulse beat all through. The cavemen onscreen debated economics and the changing light flickered through Mike's eyelids. Joel hooked his chin over Mike's shoulder and admired the rise and fall of the sock. His chest moved unevenly against Mike's back. It was hard to tell in the movie-light, but he rather thought that the yellow of the sock and Mike's pink flush looked well together. He rocked his wrist, barely moving his hand in a deliberate tease.

"Muh," Mike said. "Joel, rougher--" He breathed hard through his nose and grabbed Joel's leg again, his half-bare and hairy calf.

"Like this?" Joel said, and slid his hand up till his palm cradled the crown of Mike's cock, then he twisted his wrist into a sock-puppet grip. He made talking motions and said, "Nom nom nom!"

Mike grunted, momentarily so blinded by sensation that he couldn't respond. Then he whacked his head against Joel's chin, snickering helplessly even as his belly clenched for more. He held Joel's wrist just for the look of it, Joel's knobbly bones, blue veins, and that ridiculous sock. "Seriously--" another fluttering squeeze and Mike's breathing hitched. "C'mon, I'm all wound up--properly, jerk me off--"

"Oh wow," Joel said, and slid his free hand down to knead at Mike's inner thigh. He pressed his hips restlessly against Mike and finally started pumping his hand. Colour spilled down Mike's chest like pomegranate juice and his hands wadded fistfuls of Joel's jumpsuit without his permission.

"Fuck, Joel--"

"Mm-hmm?" Joel said, and got fancy, adding a little it-unscrews-this-way twist to the end of each stroke. Mike started making noises through his clenched teeth. His hips lifted and he hung on, tremors running up the long muscles of his legs. He shook his head. "No no, I'm too loud, the movie--"

"We can rent it later," Joel said. When he held Mike's balls in his warm palm Mike rolled his body against Joel's and kicked out, promptly losing his balance and slipping off the seat. "Shit!" He flailed and managed to grab one of the arm rests even as Joel lunged to catch him, knees cracking on the floor. They wound up pressed together, Joel's arms around Mike's torso and Mike twisted to hang onto his chair-arm. They were both breathing fast. For a long moment the movie played interrupted, then Mike let go of the chair and slouched in Joel's grip. "If you stop now I'll tell Tom Servo what you did to my underwear," he said levelly. He petted Joel's forearm, then pushed.

"Heh," Joel said. "Neanderthal." He allowed Mike to move him, and nicely didn't tease when Mike guided the Crowlet sock around his cock and left his own hand there, palm riding Joel's knuckles, to follow the movement.

"There you are," Joel cooed, and stroked, firm and steady, rubbing at the crown with his thumb at each circuit.

"Uh,' Mike said. His head fell forward and his eyes were squeezed shut. It felt like some wonderful nightmare, after years of only his own touch--he wanted to turn, wanted to scrub his face against Joel's shoulder. It felt like his body wanted to turn itself inside out, or maybe like there was some sort of chemical reaction going on in his gut, some alchemy between his dick and Joel's hand and that goddamn sock--he laughed, couldn't help it, laughed right into his orgasm and the way his body seized and shook, the way Joel moaned in sympathy and hid his face in Mike's hair. Flickering light, smell of sex and old popcorn, the feral salt of semen and the wet smack of it on the theatre floor, spatters someone will have to clean off--the last trickles soaked into the sock and left Mike shaky and exhilarated.

Joel hummed and kissed his shoulder, softly. "All done?"

"If by 'all done' you mean 'kinda chafed and getting oversensitive', yeah," Mike said. His heart still sped, his lungs felt too full of air and all his nerves shimmied. He looked down when Joel let go with a little goodbye squeeze that made Mike's legs jerk.

"You were noisy," Joel said. "I like that." He held the ankle of the sock and pulled it off his hand and down over Mike's deflating erection. Mike squawked in protest and dug his nails into Joel's legs. "Oy, I'm just cleaning up," Joel said, and peeled the sock off, inverting it like a shedding snake.

Mike slammed his eyes shut so fast colours flashed in the dark. "Oh my god. I will never forget that visual."

"Hush, you." Joel tossed the violated sock onto the little puddle of what eventually becomes the tacky sticky-on-the-bottom-of-your-shoes-ness on theatre floors everywhere. "You got some already." He held Mike's waist and bit his ear.

The screen dimmed. "Tell me that's part of the movie," Joel said, and knocked his forehead against the nape of Mike's neck.

Mike sighed. "Nope. Commercial break and host segment!"

"Oh god. The bots aren't here and I don't have enough free RAM to come up with anything." Joel scrambled to his feet as he spoke. He helped Mike stand then looked down at his own pants with a rueful twist to his mouth.

"Heh," Mike said. "We'll have to put you to stand behind something. Assuming you don't tip over. Let's go change."

"Change?" Joel said. They trotted along the hallway, Joel moving with even less grace than usual.

"Yep. Loincloths!"

Loincloths indeed. Never had a paler pair of bare hominids orbited the Earth, though Mike's shoulders turned out to be broad and smooth and Joel's body had a pleasing ranginess. Joel held a guitar and Mike a tiny pair of bongo drums on a strap round his neck. Cambot flicked the 'transmitting' light on and Mike beamed. "Hey everyone, it's the rock song!"

Joel blinked and followed along, strumming a sprightly rhythm and filling in backup vocals while Mike explained how and why a rock was the greatest invention the world has ever seen¹ , and as soon as the song was over and Cambot had flicked his lights to indicate he'd stopped recording² Joel ditched the guitar, clutched Mike's biceps and backed him into a wall. Mike flushed and extricated the bongos.

"Think we have time?" Mike said.

"Commercial," Joel mumbled. "Lots of 'em. Cambot!"

"On it," Cambot said. "I want a bigger allowance."

"Sure thing honey," Joel said, and stared at Mike's mouth, which would be fine except Joel had his tinkering face on. Mike became the first person to blush and smirk simultaneously in orbit. Joel rewarded him with kisses, soft ones laid on Mike's upper lip, then lower, and with a leisure that belied the urgent wiggle of Joel's hips. Without anything to equalize their heights Joel's loincloth was a pleasant scratch against Mike's belly. Mike worked his hands between their chests and pressed his thumbs to Joel's nipples. Joel left off kissing to shake his head. "Nuh-uh, never felt much of anything there."

"Hm," Mike said, and squeezed Joel's obliques. "Neck? Lower back?"

"Back," Joel said. "No more talking. This is a no-talky zone. Mmph."

Mike grinned into the kiss and kept raking his nails slowly along Joel's back. Joel licked Mike's teeth, bit his lower lip and held on. His breathing got deeper. He grabbed Mike's hips and started a sinuous grind, one that made Mike heat all over and wonder if Joel had a secret past as a pole-dancer. Joel dropped his forehead onto Mike's shoulder. "Mike," he said in a tiny voice.

"Yeah?"

"If the yellow light comes on dear Christ ignore it!"

Mike wrapped his arms around Joel and rocked him, laughing.

"Jerk."

"Eh?" Mike pulled away, driving his shoulderblades against the cold wall.

"Seriously!" Joel said, and actually pouted at him, cheeks attractively coloured, hips still working. Mike's heart tripped and sped. "I mean, look at you, laughing at me instead of giving my gorgeous self your full attention."

Mike wasn't as good at improv as Joel was. He got stuck on a thought sometimes and then had to scramble to catch up with everyone else, leaving burnt-out tire-tracks on his frontal lobes. He covered it well--he was good at make-believe--but he always felt lumbering and primitive when he watched Joel's brain work, sprightly and strange. He got stuck now on the light in Joel's expression. "Alright then," Mike said, and hoped it answered whatever Joel had said, and that the proper action was to reach around and grab the tops of Joel's thighs, using the grip to force his hips into a slower, harder rhythm. Joel's whole body flexed and released in time. He bit his lip, then grabbed Mike's jaw and bit his lip, held him for a series of needy, sucking kisses. His lips were thin and harder than Mike had expected; his breathing had acquired a hitch on each exhale.

"Okay?" Mike said. The wall behind him wasn't cold anymore. Joel's next breath had voice in it, and he gave a soft laugh.

"Mm?" Mike said, tucking his mouth close to Joel's ear.

"Just happy."

Mike reared his neck back; Joel met his gaze, all flushed and disheveled, then impishly crossed his eyes. Mike was startled into a snickerfit. "Alright mister, that's it," he said, and pivoted about Joel like dancing, pressing him flat to the wall. He wedged one hand down the back of Joel's loincloth and worked his thigh between Joel's legs.

"Yeah," Joel said. The back of his head knocked the wall and his eyes were lidded; the cords in his neck stood out.

"Hell," Mike muttered. "I want to kiss you but I want to watch--"

Joel gurgled and grabbed Mike's hips to haul him close, bumping them together. He let out a sound like choking and colour bloomed on his face, a sweep of it down his neck and almost to his sternum.

"Oh, you're kidding," Mike said.

"Shaddup." Joel cracked one eye open and hunched his shoulders. His hands shook. "It's not like I'm beating them off with a stick. Shut up," he added, as Mike snickered.

"With a stick!" Mike crowed. "Well, I should hope not."

"You're mean," Joel said, with an exaggerated pout. "I'm never having sex with you again."

Mike nosed Joel's cheekbone. "But I've got the best lines!"

"Oh? Like what?"

Mike deadpanned, "Soooo. D'you come in your pants here often?"

Joel mimed a blow at Mike's head. "That was terrible. I mean it, I'm never having sex with you again."

Unbeknownst to them, the mads had called in to check on their reaction to the latest horrible movie, and Cambot had answered the call himself, and would never admit how. Doctor Forrester scratched his eyebrow and watched Mike grab Joel by the ears and tease him by kissing his chin.

"Oh," Frank said.

"Oh shut up, you idiot," Doctor Forrester told him. "Their sexual politics aren't part of the experiment. Cut the call. And give them a few more minutes."

"It's congress, Doctor," Frank said plaintively. "Sexual congress."

The call ended; Joel pulled away to point at Cambot with his pinky. "Cambot, did the light just--"

"Ignore it," Mike said. "He's probably just laughing at us."

Joel twitched. "I hope it wasn't a call."

"We haven't had movie sign. The alarms didn't go off. "

"But I did. Let's get out of these things." Joel peeled away from Mike, sliding sideways along the wall. "Yah cold!"

"Hey, we could do our own experiment," Mike said, following.

"Oh?"

Mike leered. "Wanna see how much sex we have to have to wear your dick down to a nubbin?"

"But the hedgehog can never be buggered at allllll!" Tom Servo sang, having finished the dishes at last, to Cambot and Mike's and Joel's retreating bare backs. He called after them, "Hi Mike, Hi Joel!" Then he caught sight of Crowlet, discarded on the floor. "Oh my god!"

END
*
EPILOGUE

Freshly showered and about, for the first time, to get into the same bed at the same time, Mike and Joel stood by what they would later have the Porthole Vs Window argument about and watched the Earth.

"Look, a volcano! Make a wish," Mike said. Joel blinked slowly. Mike said, "What'd you wish for?

"Cottage cheese."

------------

¹It's an actual song. It's also true. a hammer? A rock tied to a stick. Axe? Same thing. Also-also? The movie exists.

²He lied. DVD's available for only 19.99!