The BLTS Archive - Discoveries:
Morning Glory
by Julad (julad@bigfoot.com)

---

This is a sequel of sorts to Discovery. It will eventually be
rewritten as  (probably) the fifth in the series, but I decided to
post it now because  I'm too busy with study to finish the others
anytime soon. It takes place  a few months and a whole lotta angst
later. I'll fill you in on the rest  of the story eventually. Consider
this a preview of things to come.

Feedback will be very much appreciated, because I'll be able to
incorporate suggestions into the final version.

Disclaimer: Blah, blah, Paramount. Archiving: Might as well. R'rain,
PKSP. Warning: Yes, Tom and Harry fuck. Each other. I can't see why
that would be a problem for anyone.

---

I often wonder how Starfleet manages to make sense of psych
evaluations. I mean, people are so complex; such confusing, contrary
creatures that  absolutely anything can be said to be true of them at
one time or another.

We deceive ourselves as much as we deceive each other. We lie about
ourselves without knowing we are lying. We can even tell the truth
without recognising it as such. So, do the evaluators ever get under
the skin of a person and find out what actually makes them tick? Can
they discern which motives really drive actions, and accurately detect
the true emotional states through which our reality is filtered? Can
they sift through the outer layers of projected personality and
comprehend the underlying persona? I guess what I'm wondering is this:
Which Harry Kim, and which Tom Paris, did Starfleet think they were
recruiting?

When I had my evaluation, I thought I was being honest. So, did the
psychologist believe in the same Harry that I believed I was? I
thought I was a straightforward person: honest, hardworking, loyal.
Modest. Oh yes, I knew I was smart as all hell, I knew I was an
academy Golden Boy, but what with all my friends and family and lovers
and teachers adoring me, I had never in my life needed to assert my
own greatness. So, did Starfleet believe the humble confidence and
self-assurance that I carried on the outside, or did they read deeper
than I had, and see the deep-hidden terror of failing, and even worse,
the arrogant certainty that it would never happen to me? So far it
hasn't, really, but how many times have I carelessly tossed my career,
even my life, on the line, without thinking that I could actually lose
it? I owe three lives over, maybe more, to cordrazine and last minute
beam-outs and sacrifices made by someone other than myself. Did
Starfleet know, when they made me operations officer on Voyager, that
I honestly don't believe in the event of my own death?

And the same goes for Tom. Why did they accept him into the academy?
Could they look at a member of a Starfleet royal family, and believe
he had ever been given an option of doing something else with his
life? Tom's sullen resentment of his father's insistence could well
have manifested as rebellion against Starfleet principles. Yet even
then, Tom tells me, flight called him, and the stars beckoned.

That's why I think they must know, not us, but our abilities. Because
no matter what his personal feelings toward Starfleet are, Tom thinks
like a pilot. He's not especially book-smart, he has no mind for
theory, but he thinks in motion. Momentum, inertia, acceleration, and
velocity. He sees the three-dimensional patterns of objects moving
within space, and understands instinctively the forces that govern and
direct them. People, too. He sees the forces that propel them, the
forces which resist their movement and can predict the pattern which
results. It's what makes him a holoprogrammer as well as a pilot. He
simplifies characters into their governing forces, and it gives them
depth and authenticity that many more detailed programs lack. That
perception is why some people find Tom's teasing so annoying, and
some, like me, just can't stay away.

And me, he tells me that I'm governed by mathematics and music.  Once
hearing it, I knew it was true. Those are the two forces which  make
up  the yin and yang of my soul. I hear harmonies in the function of 
Voyager's systems, see a complex but perfectly balanced equation  in
the relationship between her captain and first officer. I hear a 
glorious  counterpoint in B'Elanna's wild speculations and Carey's 
pragmatic rebuttals. I hear music and mathamatics in delta quadrant 
chaos,  and they're the source of my calm, and I hear chaos and music
in the  statistics of Operations, and they're the source of my
creativity.

Ah. My creativity. The reason for my current aimless musings. I was
deciding how to wake Tom up today, and wondering how I can take such
delight in making my predictability unpredictable. Predictable because
it's nearly 0600 and I always wake Tom at six. Predictable because I
woke, as I have every day since I entered the academy, at precisely
five hundred, and worked on reports and research with my lover nestled
warm and oblivious at my side, as I have every day for the eight weeks
we've been together. And unpredictable, because when Tom drifts off to
sleep in my arms at night, he never knows how the next day will begin.

Once, in a fit of cynically romantic poeticism, he dubbed it 'Morning
Glory'. The source of the phrase is lost on me, but the beauty of it
isn't. Mornings are glorious with Tom. This is my favourite part of
the day, the hour I spend with my lover before we report to the bridge
for duty. It's my favourite thing, to wake him in a different way
every day. It's more than a game to me, it's an unspoken challenge to
the routine forced on this relationship by duty and confinement. Tom
and I work together, eat together, socialize together, and now sleep
together. Boredom and stagnation, while not inevitable, are the
greatest threat to our happiness as lovers. Hence the determination on
my part to make every morning special and unique.

Sometimes he wakes with his cock growing stiff in my mouth as I suck
gently on the silky head. Sometimes I whisper sweet, dirty nothings in
his ear and they infiltrate dream after dream until their urgency
brings him to consciousness. Sometimes I straddle his hips and stroke
myself, shifting gently over him, and anticipating the moment when his
cock hardens in response. Then I lower myself onto it, and blue eyes
open to see me bringing myself off, surrendering completely to the
exquisite feeling of his erection throbbing inside me. And then
sometimes he wakes to feel my hand curled around him and my slicked
arousal pressing at the opening to his body, and always before his
eyes are open, he begins the day with a breathy, whispered "yes".

Oh, don't think it's all sex and sweetness though. The reality is
usually far from pretty. Tom actually hates waking up more than anyone
I've ever known. He is very damn bloody-minded about it, to tell the
truth. If my methods don't have the promise of immediate pleasure,
he'll ignore my attempts at rousing him, or curse me roundly and pull
the pillow over his head. And to add insult to injury, he usually
blames me for his reluctance to get up. Ha! As if he's the only one
who expended all his energy the night before.

There actually is one failsafe way of getting him out of bed. I
discovered it when we first started sleeping together. Unfortunately
it doesn't last long, but it's kind of fun sometimes. I used to get up
at five and work on my reports at the table in his quarters, but after
I'd been out of bed for a couple of minutes, some unerring sense of
Tom's would alert him to my absence. I'd hear him swear hoarsely and
then he'd stagger out, bristly and more than half asleep, to find me.
The corners of my mouth are twitching at the memories of him picking
me up and dragging me across the room, then dumping me unceremoniously
in the bed and curling up around me, content once more. He'd do it 
every time he woke up alone. These days I usually don't bother trying
to get up without him, I just grab datapadds quickly and then work in 
bed  while Tom sleeps happily at my side. Sometimes I feel like a 
glorified teddy-bear, but I adore him for finding a bed so horribly
empty  without me in it. I forgive his shitty morning temper tantrums,
his laziness, his stubbornness, just because he wants so badly for me
to be there.

Now, listening to my own indulgent thoughts, I'm starting to think
that I'm far too easy on him in the morning. He gets everything he
asks for, even breakfast replicated from my rations, just because he
looks so gorgeous when he's tousled and sleepy and confused. And if I
have the nerve to deny him what he wants, he just rolls over and 
starts snoring again. Ignores me, after all I do for him. Hmmmph! A
bucket of cold water seems like Tom's well-deserved wake-up call now.

Hmmm, cold water. . .

That's a very tempting thought. I can see it clearly in my head, and I
can't help smirking at the mental picture: Tom leaping out of bed with
a yelp and standing there dripping and spluttering, electric blue eyes
wide with disbelief. There'd be curses and accusations and threats,
but he wouldn't be ignoring me, that's for sure. And then I'd have a
whole hour of his revenge to look forward to. Oh shit, I can't stop
giggling now. Good thing flyboy is still totally oblivious.

This idea's too good to use right away. It'll be more fun to save it
up for a special occasion. When he's been flirting with Megan or
B'Elanna to make me jealous, maybe. I'll certainly enjoy the
anticipation. Every time he teases me from now on, I'll be picturing
his warm fuzzy dreams being rudely interrupted by icy cold water.

Still, I can tease him this morning as well. There's no reason I
should let him take my tolerance for granted, is there? Today's plan
is forming in my mind now. I call up a few schematics on the various
padds scattered in the sheets, and immerse myself in them until I can
get the smirk off my face and my tell-tale erection is gone. Then I
shake him awake.

"Mmmph?"

"Tom, wake up, I need to ask you something." I keep shaking him.

"Nnnnnghhrrr." He's definitely annoyed. Good.

"Hey, just wake up will you?" His eyes are slowly opening, so I
pretend I'm still lost in the data on the padd I'm holding, and
absently shake his shoulder again.

"Nnnrrwhat?" He knocks my hand away but I don't look up  at him, just
pick up another padd.

"I've been thinking about that problem we have getting emergency power
to the impulse engines. I need to know something."

"What?" I recognize that tone of voice. It means 'what' as in, 'I
don't know what you're talking about, but if you don't explain
yourself now and if the explanation is not to my liking, I'll be
responding with deadly force.' Tom can be very eloquent at times. And
I can be very blithe.

"Is there ever a situation in which a pilot would need to drop the
ship out of warp and immediately engage maneuvering thrusters? Or go
directly from thrusters into warp in under ten seconds? You see, I can
possibly bypass the auxiliary power conduits from the warp drive so
that the impulse reactors can be brought online by. . . " That was
quick. I'm suddenly pinned to the bed with a very cranky, stubbly
pilot glaring in my face.

"Harry Liu Kim," he growls, "I may love you, and I may owe my every
scrap of happiness to you, but if you've woken me at six to talk about
Operations, I'm going to have to kill you."

"Well," I offer in my most reasonable tone of voice, "the discussion
about the engines should only take ten minutes, and that leaves us
about forty minutes for me to reward you for your assistance."

Tom snorts and rolls over, pulling the covers tightly around him.
"I'll take another fifty minutes sleep and a quick fuck in the shower,
thanks."

Okay, so he's genuinely shit off, but now so am I. "Oh, that's
romantic!" I snap.

"You're the one who woke me to talk about warp drives and conduits,"
comes the muffled reply.

"Yeah, and then I was going make love to you until you were delirious
with pleasure. But don't worry, I'll find something better to do while
you waste our morning snoring." I throw all the datapadds onto the
floor and start crawling out of bed. An arm slides around my waist and
pulls me back.

"I'm sorry, baby," Tom whispers, kissing my face. "Stay here and I'll
show you romantic." He starts sucking gently on my neck, and my anger
dissolves instantly. This is exactly what I wanted: a morning of him
being nice to me, rather than the usual reverse. I'm thinking about
telling him that the 'shop talk' was only a joke, but then he stops
his attentions and snuggles into me, breathing slowly and deeply. I
stare at him indignantly, but he's oblivious to me again. The bastard!
He's going back to sleep! I lie there and start fuming. That bucket of
water is going to make its debut in about sixty seconds, I think, and
what's more, it's coming out of his replicator credits.

He snuggles closer, and I feel something poking my thigh. Oh, okay,
he's not going back to sleep after all. A hand creeps between my legs,
stroking and scratching, making me shiver. I sigh happily, closing my
eyes and concentrating on the sensations.

"I'm just tired because you wore me out last night," he whispers. His
breath is hot and tingly on my ear, and my erection is returning at
the memory. Tom threatened at dinner last night to fuck me until I
screamed, and I held him to it. He wasn't satisfied with the results
until I was on the brink of orgasm for the third time, and by then I
was sobbing and begging and thought I was going to die if I didn't get
release. Then when he finally let me come, I screamed his name
repeatedly and blacked out.

Oh, dammit, I just remembered something else.

He did work pretty hard at doing that, and I didn't wake up to give
him anything in return. Belated guilt makes my face turn red. I guess
maybe he deserved to sleep in this morning. I should have just done
clarinet practise or something till he woke up naturally.

Then my thoughts return to the present because his hand is stroking my
balls and I can only moan incoherently as all the blood leaves my
brain. Apparently I'm forgiven.

Tom rolls over onto my stomach and grins in my face. "Care for an
encore performance?" Those fingers travel lower and start teasing my
ass. I moan again, and they descend into the crack. It stings and I
can't help but wince.

"Sorry, but you can't go there," I tell him apologetically. "Too
sore."

Tom wriggles provocatively against me, wicked lust in his eyes. "So go
fix it with the regenerator."

"But I want to be sore." I wriggle under him in response. "I want a
reminder of what you did to me."

My lover pins me with a look of exaggerated patience, as if speaking 
to a two-year-old. "So go fix it, and I'll make it sore again." Then
he beams a glorious smile at me. "It'll be fun!"

I groan, and push him off me. "There's no time. I'll have to make you
sore instead."

Tom stretches out on his back. "Oh, I don't know about that," he says
airily. "I need to be convinced that it's a good idea."

Oh, no way. I'm going to fuck him senseless, but I'm not going to let
him be difficult about it. There's no time, and besides,  I'm the one
who calls the shots in the morning. If it's convincing he wants. . . 
I move in between his legs, take his cock in my mouth and suck hard.
Tom arches his back and mutters something about subtlety. Well, I've
had it with talking, so I deep-throat him in response. He shudders and
moans, but I don't let up in the slightest. Instead, I use one hand to
fondle his balls, and slip the other hand under him, searching for his
crack. One finger slips inside and as I use it to stroke his prostate,
he groans and thrusts up into my mouth.

"Alright, alright, fuck me already," he gasps.

I release him and he shoves the crumpled sheet out of the way and gets 
on his hands and knees for me. I'm not giving it to him right away
though. I put my hands in the small of his back and push until he's
lying flat on the bed, then I nudge his legs until they are spread
wide. He whimpers in anticipation.

Oh God. I love the sound of Tom when he's like this: vulnerable and
needy. And he looks gorgeous, head to the side, muscles tensing
through the long, lean body, lying prone on dishevelled bedclothes.
And that sweet round ass is so inviting I can't stay away from it
another second. I pounce, touching, stroking, squeezing, kissing,
sucking, biting. Everything about it looks and tastes and feels
wonderful. I could feast on Tom's ass all day, but unfortunately I
have other things I have to do, so I drag myself away. Quick
lubrication, and then I push my erection inside him.

Oh God. I could stay like this all day too. It feels so incredibly
good to be this close to him, pressing every part of my skin to his
and feeling the tight, slick heat of him surround me. The sensations
rushing through my aching cock are sending me out of my head too soon,
and I breathe deeply to calm myself, inhaling the scent of him and
sweat and sex. Tom whimpers again and tries to move under me, so I
lean forward and flick my tongue over his ear. Having that done only
makes me giggle, but it drives Tom absolutely wild with lust. As he
moans incoherently, I withdraw slowly and then thrust even deeper into
him, licking his other ear when it comes into reach. The slow torture
makes my beautiful lover cry my name, so I keep doing it: long hard
thrust, lick his ear, and slowly pull back while he shivers with
pleasure and desire.

The sight and sound of him under me is clouding my mind with crimson
want, but only when his moans are constant do I give into my own
pressing need for release. I pull him up until he's on hands and
knees, and reach around to grab his seeping erection. Then I let him
have it.

The last shreds of my control dissolve as I thrust savagely into him, 
and his cries and mine are indistinguishable as we quickly climb the
wave  of ecstasy towards climax. He sobs aloud and I fuck him harder,
faster.  The pressure is unbearable now and I see stars in the red
haze and I hear  a rushing sound in my ears and my body tenses and Tom
calls out to me as  he comes. He tightens around me and I thrust as
deep as I can and the  world turns white and oh god the pleasure is
ripping my soul apart, oh god,  OH GOD, orgasm slams viciously through
me and I'm screaming too, and flying and falling and dying with the
sheer agony and ecstasy of it. . .

My body collapses on top of his, gasping and trembling.

My mind still soars through the stars on wings of rapture and 
exultation.

Slowly my breathing calms and I can feel my limbs again and they're
still tingling with aftershocks. Wow. Where did that come from?
Usually in the morning, sex is playful and lazy. That fuck rivals our
first time together, so sudden and intense. I kiss Tom's shoulder and
taste salty sweat. It's delicious and I suck his neck and throat
languidly, wanting to taste more. He stirs finally, and kisses my face
and lips, whispering words of love. I hold him closer for a minute,
but then he rolls me off him and pulls my arms around his waist until
I'm spooned up behind him, drifting peacefully. He sighs contentedly
and his eyes are closed and I suddenly realize. . .

That son of a bitch! He's gone back to sleep! And if my internal clock
is right, we are already running very damn late. I check the time, and
now it's my turn to start swearing. We don't even have time for
breakfast, and after last night and this morning, I am very fucking
hungry. And since Tom is in no state to get ready, I'll have to do
everything for both of us.

I clamp down my temper and drag my bleary-eyed lover into the shower,
wash us quickly and hand Tom a towel while I shove my uniform on and
straighten up my hair a bit. When I'm done I dress Tom roughly, and
finally he's awake enough to shave himself while I run a comb through
his short curls. Then we quickly rinse our teeth with dental solution,
and I slap our communicators on and drag him towards the door, still
cursing God and clocks and Starfleet.

At the door, Tom stops me. His seraphic smile keeps me from 
protesting as he slips his arms around my waist and lowers his lips to
mine. They  are so warm and inviting, moving gently over my mouth
until I open it and his tongue slips inside and I can taste him, fresh
and clean and delicious. After a very thorough kiss my bad temper is
gone, my limbs are tingling again and apparently Starfleet can just go
to hell, because I'm kissing him back passionately. Surprisingly, it's
Tom who breaks it off and leads me along the corridor and into the
turbolift. The doors shut and he kisses me again, using warm, moist,
talented lips to make me dissolve in his embrace. He pulls away just
as the doors open onto the bridge.

With the eyes of the crew on us, Tom squeezes my hand and brushes the
hair off my forehead. There is a love and mischief in his eyes as he
speaks softly in my ear.

"Good morning."

Then he leaves my side and sits down at the conn, and somehow I have 
to bring my mind back down from cloud nine and listen to updates on 
sensors, shields and controls. Still, I can't keep the stupid smile
off my face as I remember the past hour. Every single thing about
getting Tom out of bed is glorious, and it definitely was a good
morning.

---

The End