The BLTS Archive - Morning is Broken
by Orlando (ajfgdm@globalnet.co.uk)

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Warning:  Angsty fluff. Drug-taking; anal sex; references to m/m and
bad stuff. Multiple pov's within the same paragraph ;0)

Feedback: If you like :0)

Archive: ascem

Disclaimer: Paramount owns _Star Trek_.

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Tasha Yar wakes. She is naked, and, in the cool, brittle morning,
looks burnished like a well-worn shield. Tasha stretches. She is
beautifully cut. She is sharp like lead crystal; her back delineated
and rippling like a limestone pavement. Her hips flare like the sleepy
delta of an elderly river.

When Tasha moves, her cool hair flips against Will Riker's cheek. Will
shifts. He doesn't want to open his eyes. His eyelids flutter. He is
sinking back away from shallow, brief consciousness. Tasha tilts her
hips. She is remembering how she and Will spent the night; all the
hours Will lavished on her. She presses herself into Will's muscles to
recapture the memory. Her shorn mound is damp like a sea sponge and
moist like morning dew. Her syrup makes her slide against Will's dark
thigh.

The smell of her reaches Will's nostrils. It makes him forget he
wanted to stay asleep. It makes him hard. Tasha's fingers follows the
ridge of Will's ribs; her palm skims across his belly. Her trimmed
fingernails scratch along the length of him. She cups him. He is heavy
inside the tight, unforgiving black fabric of his uniform, and big.
Will's hips lift and his cock presses itself into Tasha's warm hand.
Will opens reluctant blue eyes.

Will shifts his shoulders. His broad back is stiff like school- room
paper mache. There's a thick, patchwork blanket around himself and
Tasha. It's been keeping them warm, along with the liquid fire from a
now-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's over-turned by the couch on which
they slept.

Will reaches over the arm of the couch. His hand closes around a
brightly-coloured tin box. Its buckled lid is battered at the corners
and decorated with the acid image of a psychedelic Grey. Will
stretches his long legs. He aches. He feels corrugated. He isn't as
young as he wants to think he is. This morning, though, he's one step
removed from the real world, insulated from it by a belly simmering
with scotch and a sluggish bloodstream mellow with good shit.

Will's thumb-nail levers the lid from his stash tin. He heats Moroccan
black, crumbles it, and seeds it in a paper trench. He shreds golden
flakes of Virginia's finest and sows it in snowy, white rips. He tears
card for a filter, and balances the perfect, slender column he's
rolled between dehydrated lips. Will strikes the blood-red head of a
long match against the scuffed heel of his Starfleet boot. His head
tips back. He sucks in thin, fragrant smoke. It kisses the back of his
throat. It's good. He sucks it down into the grates of his lungs.
Tasha, looking down at him, recognises the expression on his face. He
is poised at the gates of Heaven. Will drags clean blue carcinogens
deep down in his belly. His eyelids shutter closed. Paradise pollutes
his veins.

Tasha clasps Will's neck. She cradles his head; tips his face. Their
tepid tongues tangle. They battle briefly until Tasha sits up and
blinks the night from her emerald eyes. Her high breasts are bare,
perched atop sleek, tanned ribs. She's a woman, but punishment with
weights and curls has robbed her belly of its curve. It's as flat as a
flood plain, bisected below the navel by a trickle of reddish-gold
hair. Her nipples pucker and rise like copper thimbles in the morning
draught. Will can't resist them. He surrounds them with cold white
teeth. He plucks. Tasha's belly flutters. The flittering keeps the
same tempo as Will's suckling. There is pressure inside Tasha's belly.
She knows she is wet. She can smell herself. Will leaves her be. He
leaves the couch. He needs the bathroom.

Will lets the painted wooden door stay open. Tasha watches him wrestle
with his erection. She smiles at his consternation. She thinks he's
the best. They've shared secrets for a while now, and, on occasional
nights such as this one, a zipless fuck. Tasha trusts him. The night
she showed him her battle-scars -- infesting her vagina like fat slugs
-- Will cried. He went soft. He couldn't get himself hard again. These
days, it's the first place his tongue goes. He'd like to kiss her
better, and sometimes, while he's trying, Tasha's mind's-eye manages
to lose sight of all the men and women who began raping Tasha before
Tasha had a word for what was being done to her.

Will is across the room, standing by the old stove listing on crooked
tiles and jammed between the learning wall and the dripping sink. A
battered, metal kettle hangs from his lax fingers. His feet are bare
now and his toes curl into the sandy rugs under his soles. He has
opened the front seam of his uniform from throat to belly. He's
tanned. His pecs flex when he moves, and Tasha can see a wide, black
splash of hair draining down to his groin. Will lights a gas burner on
the stove with an emerald taper and the sharp flick of his wrist. In
the moment of silence, before the burner whooshes into life, there's a
brief, sweet whiff of escaping gas. Disparagingly, Will tosses instant
coffee into two bright blue mugs. He tips his face, flattens his lips,
and a grey cloud of blue smoke plumes from his mouth. Tasha thinks he
looks languid, wrecked and fuckable.

Tasha knows how Will likes to be fucked. He's told her in drunken
confidences how he enjoys being made passive by arms stronger than his
own. Will likes to feel himself losing a futile battle against broader
shoulders. He needs to have responsibility taken away from him, he
says. He lives to be the pretty, vacuous boy on the arm of a
commanding, handsome man. He does not enjoy the pain, but he craves
the physical inclusion of sodomy. In his youth, he was a catamite for
anyone who would kiss him and could make him believe they meant it.

Tasha watches Will come to their couch with the coffee. Tasha is
sitting cross-legged in deep, warm blankets. There is a salmon-pink
shawl around her strong and slender shoulders. Will thinks that she
looks ten years old; ten years old and lethal. Tasha moves and Will
can see her open vagina. He thinks it looks like a ruby ballet
slipper. He wonders what it would be like to be inside her. He has
never been there. Will uses his hands, his fingers, his mouth for
Tasha. But Will also likes to be encased in steaming, hot pussy. He
also adores curves and the soft, sweet-smelling down of women's hair.
He loves the way their perfume changes when he's started them cooking.
He likes the way they bite at the back of his tongue. He enjoys the
way they baste him with their hot jus and the way their red sheaths
get thick with menstrual gravy.

Will's jaw is bruised purple with stubble. He's a pretty boy, or a
handsome man, depending from what angle he's decided to look at you.
Tasha can see the soft outline of his bulky cock where it rests
speculatively against his thigh. Tasha knows it won't be quiet for
long and lifts her hands from under the downy tapestry of her blanket
to show it what she has to wake it up.

As he comes closer, Will sees what is swinging from Tasha's strong,
lean fingers. He douses his smoke. It hisses in the mug of cooling
coffee. Will smiles widely at the black straps, glinting buckles and
thickly-veined shaft waiting for him in Tasha's hands. Will feels his
blood-pressure rise. He feels his heart kick. He feels his ass spasm.
Will's hand drifts to his thigh. He spreads his fingers; opens his
palm and coaxes his cock awake.

Tasha enjoys watching Will masturbate.  She remembers all the ways
she's seen him do it: the languid milking with a lazy hand; the urgent
fucking with the thick, greased grip of a Klingon ceremonial blade.

Will arouses quickly under his own routine masturbation and at the
prospect of the strap-on dangling from Tasha's fist. Tasha comes to
her feet. She sheds her blanket. Will can smell her from across the
room. Will watches Tasha harness the dildo tightly against her smooth
skin. It sits snugly into her hips and thighs. The straps undulate
over the firm cushions of powerful muscles. Will watches Tasha
position the cock to ensure reciprocal rhythm for her clit. She
shivers. Will thinks she looks like a fallen angel.

Tasha splashes oil into her palm. It spreads in a sticky slick to her
fingers and back to her wrists. Tasha can smell coconut. She rubs her
palms together to relax the viscosity of the oil and to make it warm.
On impulse, she anoints her nipples. Will has made them tender. Even a
draught makes them ache. Tasha gleams. Will is looking at her. His
tongue flicks out and rims his lips. It doesn't help: Will's mouth is
as dry as brut champagne. Tasha directs him to the couch with the jab
of her chin. Will moves silently on bare feet but Tasha can hear his
breathing. It is light, and flutters with expectancy.

The couch is covered with a thick, waffle-weave throw. As he kneels on
it, Will can feel the texture of the fabric imprinting his knees. He
presses his belly into the seat-back. Will's nose is an inch from the
stucco wall. He can see the paint strokes. He can see where the
decorator has rushed the job. He can feel Tasha's economical, strong
body as she kneels on the couch behind him. She is kneeling between
his legs. Her thighs lie inside his. Her calves and shins run parallel
to his own. She grips his hips. Will knows she is preparing to
penetrate him. The muscles of Will's anus clench and then relax on
reflex. Will remembers the first time skilful fingers made his body
open. He remembers the surprise he felt at how derelict in its duty
the muscle guarding his body's sanctity could be made to be. He
remembers how wide he was made to gape. Will knows he has never
out-grown the need to be dominated; claimed; cherished.

Tasha's blunt, pale fingernails flick Will's cock. Will grunts in
surprise: Tasha's own cock is warm. It feels like silk against him. It
feels solid and sharp like a man's. Tasha penetrates and Will opens
effortlessly for her. Tasha stretches him. Will whimpers. He is
enjoying this lithe woman fucking him in the way he needs to have a
big man fuck him. It's been a long time since Will had a woman in his
ass. Expressions of pain and paradise chase each other across his
face.

Tasha guides Will's hand to his cock.  She folds his fingers around
himself.  She starts him off on the short, sharp, strokes she likes to
see.

Will is aflame. Will's world is cinders. He exists only in his cock,
in his ass. He is a binary star of need. He does not know that Tasha
is holding his hand. Will knows nothing except the steep cliff of
orgasm and how he is about to fling himself from its summit.

Tasha knows nothing now but the buck of Will's hips. Tasha knows
nothing but the remorseless smack of the dildo back against her clit,
and the pound, pound, pounding rhythm reverberating within her walls.
She can feel storm clouds gathering. She can feel the distant sky
blacken and her hips become heavy. Tasha knows that she is about to
follow Will in his dive from the cliffs of .....

Their orgasm is mutual, violent, star-spangled. Will pants like a
frightened girl in childbirth. His world is snuffed out. His belly is
sticky. Tasha's orgasm is silent, secretive; like a wounded dog that
cannot draw attention to itself. She withdraws from Will's body. Her
cock is warm with the heat of Will's hot body. It is still hard and
leaving it makes Will's ass wince. Tasha wraps her arms around Will's
waist and clings to his back like a ship-wrecked sailor.   Will turns
his head.  His intentions are genuine but his brain is fried.  It
makes the kiss he gives Tasha ill-aimed and lax. Tasha is similarly
afflicted, but does a better job at returning Will's affection.

Together, Tasha and Will hear the captain's voice. The captain speaks
from the combadge pinned to Tasha's uniform breast and balled behind a
cushion across the room. The captain's voice is brisk and
business-like. It informs his first officer and his chief of security
that his over-night business here is finished. He wants his officers
to meet him in moments.

Tasha and Will dress in Starfleet fabric; pull on boots; holster
weapons. They are ship-shape again. Their bodies are quietly euphoric
with the electricity of fucking.

They call for beam-up.

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The End