The BLTS Archive - She's Watching Us
by Merri Todd Webster (lonchura@yahoo.com)

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DISCLAIMER: Heigh-ho, we all know how this works. No matter how much I
love these guys or how much I write for them, they'll never belong to
me, only to Paramount. /sniff/ Free the enslaved characters! Free the
bound periodicals! Whoops, sorry--got carried away there. . .

This little piece (Harry's talking to me!) is a companion to Lizzie's
'Janeway, Slashy Subtext Slut' (hope I got that title right) and is
shared with you by her permission. Lizzie, the ball is in your court.
. .

Archive at R'rain's and the PKSP Story Archive.

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"She's watching us, you know."

"Who is?"

"The Captain."

"Really?"

"Uh-huh."

I went on stacking toothpicks into a tiny, densely-built tower. I
could feel Tom looking at me, the warmth of those gorgeous blue eyes
moving over my hair and my lowered eyes and my mouth, but I didn't
stop what I was doing. Half the fun of these little projects I loved
was to do them while someone else was looking at me, talking to me,
taking some of my attention. Especially Tom. He tries to drive me nuts
thinking about what else he'd like to be doing instead. I try to drive
him nuts by persevering with my little hobby. It's fun. "I wonder if
she knows."

"I bet she wonders."

"You think so?"

I looked up. "Don't you wonder about her?"

"Sure I do."

"Does anybody know for certain whether she--"

"No, nobody. It's all rumors."

I shrugged. "Maybe she's not certain about us, either."

Tom laughed. "Come on, Har. It's pretty obvious." He laid his hand on
mine, stopping me from piling on the next toothpick.

I looked at his hand. Long and slim, decorated with a few fair hairs.
It just rested on mine, quietly. "You think so? The Captain's not real
intuitive. And it's not like you're going to--" I picked up a
toothpick with my left hand and began spelling out what I wanted to
say.

Tom watched intently as I put down one toothpick after another,
forming the letters with slow precision. I could hear him spell them
out under his breath. When I was finished, I looked up, smiling. He
wasn't looking at the rest of my sentence; he was looking at me, at my
mouth, his eyes blue flame. Heat ran all over me, and I wanted to
shiver but suppressed it. Then Tom's eyes flickered away for an
instant, and he said, laughing, "No, I guess I'm not. I can wait till
we get back to your quarters."

I laugh, too, and sweep up my lewd message. Tom helps me pick up my
supply of toothpicks and put them back in the little storage box. Our
fingers brush each other many times as we pick up the tiny slivers of
wood, making a little promise each time--I'll touch you later, I'll
kiss you later, I'll hold you later, as soon as we're alone, I'll tell
you how much I love you. Then we look at each other across the table
and nod; yes, I'm ready to go. Nobody will think anything of Tom's
putting his arm around my shoulders as we leave the rec room; he does
that all the time. I carry my box of toothpicks in both hands to avoid
temptation.

As soon as we're safely in the turbolift, Tom pushes me against the
wall and thrusts his tongue in my mouth. Not that I'm complaining; he
certainly doesn't have to force me. His fingers knead my shoulders as
our tongues rub hungrily together; I wrap my arms around him and run
my hands down his back to his ass, pulling him against me. The kiss
dissolves with a happy sigh. "Y'know, it's amazing we've never been
caught making out in the turbolift."

"We're beating the odds, big time." We separate as the turbolift
slows, walk down the hall to my quarters shoulder to shoulder.

Tom speaks too softly for anyone but me to hear it. "We've already
beaten the odds, Har--found each other because of the biggest disaster
that could have happened to us."

I save my response until my door is closed and locked behind us. Then
I grab Tom and kiss him until his knees are weak and it's my arms
holding him up. Long, slow, deep, wet, hungry. We're both hard as the
ship's hull and shaking all over by the time I let him go, kissing my
way from his mouth to his ear. "I love you so much, Tom Paris," I
whisper, "I just can't believe it some days. I can't believe other
people don't see it."

Tom always says he's not as articulate as I am, has a hard time
expressing deep feelings in words. But he does a great job of showing
how he feels, in action. "I love you, too, Har," is all he says before
dropping to his knees and starting to undo my pants.

I groaned. "Gods, Tom, let me sit down!" I back up and drop onto the
sofa, lifting my hips to let him pull my pants down and my briefs. I
throw back my head and spread out my arms on the back of the couch and
let it happen, let him make love to my cock with his mouth, licking
and sucking and nibbling, let him say everything by giving me pleasure
that he feels he can't say in words. As much as I love giving pleasure
myself, sometimes I have to be selfish this way, for his sake, let Tom
lavish himself on me and not do anything in return until he says he's
ready.

It isn't long before I come, hard, shouting my lover's name and
clutching his shoulders for dear life. I'm happy that he gets on the
couch beside me, wraps his arms around me, tucks his head against my
neck, because I really want him to do that, and I'm purely incapable
of asking or even indicating that I want it. We sit there in happy
silence until I'm able to turn to him and say, "Now it's your turn,
Tommy boy," and bite that beautiful swanlike neck.

Tom lies back on the couch and I stretch out on top of him, eager to
kiss him anywhere and everywhere. He helps me undo his clothes,
unbutton his shirt and spread it open so I can get to his chest and
his nipples as well as that wonderful, biteable throat. I kiss and
nuzzle and lick and nibble, trying not to miss a centimeter of that
warm, sensitive skin covered with soft blond fur. I love his body
hair, so different from my own. I love this man's body as well as the
soul that inhabits it, the soul of a flyer.

I work my way down below his navel and lick thoroughly all over his
cock and balls. Tom moans and groans and says my name over and over,
but I don't want to suck him off; I want him to come inside me. "Wanna
fuck me, beautiful?" I ask, nipping the underside of his jaw.

"Oh, gods, yes!" He sits up and I slide off of him, kneeling in front
of the couch so I can lean on it. "Where's the lube, lover?"

"Middle drawer of the table." I'm a slut, but a well-prepared one: I
keep lube in the living room, the bedroom, and the bathroom. No
spoiling the mood by running around looking for supplies when the
magic moment has arrived.

Gods, I love having him in me. Even just his fingers. Of course, I
love fucking him just as much. Just that it brings us that close
together, makes us one body as much as we're one heart. Tom would
probably laugh at such a romantic sentiment, but only because he'd be
embarrassed by the truth of it. We really are one heart, have been for
years. It feels like always.

"Oh, yesss. . . ." He glides into me, filling me, easily, not even a
twinge of discomfort. We fit one another perfectly, either way, him in
me or me in him. My knees are going to regret this, but that's what
dermal regenerators are for. Tom moves in and out slowly, gently,
stroking me inside, his arms wrapped around my middle. I hang onto the
couch for dear life. This is so good. . .

I move with him and tighten my muscles around him, silently urging him
to give me more. Tom spreads quick kisses over the back of my neck,
across  my shoulders, up into my hair. He pants into my hair as he
picks up speed, "Oh, Harry, gods, I love you, love being in you like
this--"

"Fuck me, sweetheart, please, it feels so good, do it harder--" Tom
obliges, and neither of us can speak as the pressure builds, the
pleasure. I try to tell him I'm hard again, need his touch, and
somehow the incoherent noises I make get me exactly what I want,
skillful, loving fingers sliding over me, more pressure, more
pleasure--

Everything goes white as I come a second time, gasping, demanding my
lover's climax with my own, and I feel Tom's arms tighten unbearably
around me as he thrusts as deep as he can, groaning my name, and
exploding, filling me with everything he can give.

We stay right there, gasping, trying to get our breath back, for what
my knees say is an awfully long time. I whimper a little when Tom
withdraws--I always do-- and then the two of us stagger into the
bathroom and reach for the shower controls at the same time.

We hold each other under the spray, kissing, mostly just leaning
together. At last Tom reaches for the soap. "I wonder just how much
the Captain would like to know about us," he muses aloud.

I slick back my hair with a dollop of shampoo. "What do you mean?"

"I'm sure she wonders whether we're lovers or only friends--"

"Only," I snigger--we are friends, very best friends, always.

"--but does she wonder, say, how we'd look making out in the shower?"

Tom smiles at me, dazzlingly, and I realize he's got something truly
wicked in mind. . ."

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The End