The BLTS Archive - Late Night Hoverball
by Aimee (aimee_2@hotmail.com)

---

RATING: NC-17, I guess.  There's sex, but it's not terribly graphic.
*shrug*  Whatever.

DISCLAIMER: Tom Paris, Harry Kim, and the entire Star Trek universe
belong to Paramount and UPN.  I am blatantly infringing on their
copyright by writing this story.  However, I don't care.

WARNING:  This story contains descriptions of sexual intercourse
between two men.  If you don't like that, or if you are underage, hit
delete now.

ARCHIVING INFO:  Yes to R'rain.  Anyone else, please ask first.

SPOILERS:  Tiny ones for "Waking Moments."

AUTHOR'S NOTES:  Today was a perfectly miserable day, gray and dreary
and rainy and cold.  It was, in fact, a perfect day to curl up with a
book and read, except I didn't feel like reading.  So I wrote instead.
This is what I came up with.  It's a straightforward PWP: just the
sex, ma'am.  If you find a plot, you're trying too hard.  It's also a
missing scene from the episode "Waking Moments," inspired by that
moment at the end of the ep when Tom and Harry walk into the mess hall
together, all sweaty.  I'd appreciate any feedback telling me what you
all think.

And now, the story.

---

Harry stood in the doorway of the gymnasium, enjoying an unexpected
opportunity to watch Tom Paris unobserved.  It was late enough that
he'd expected to have the gym to himself, but apparently Tom hadn't
been able to sleep either.  Ever since Voyager's run-in with the
aliens who lived in the dream world instead of the waking world, he'd
suffered from an acute case of insomnia; he'd hoped that, with a
thorough enough workout, he'd fall asleep out of sheer exhaustion.  So
he'd gotten out of bed and come down here, only to find Tom had beaten
him to it.

And instead of getting exercise, Harry stood by the door, immobile, as
a sweaty, flushed Tom Paris rode a stationary bicycle, legs pumping,
the muscles in his buttocks rhythmically bunching and releasing . . .

He must have made some sort of sound, for Tom's head suddenly popped
up and snapped around to face him.  "Oh!  Hi, Harry.  Couldn't you
sleep either?"

He had to clear his throat before he could answer.  "Hey, Tom.  No, I
just couldn't seem to drop off tonight.  I thought some exercise might
do me good."

Tom had stopped pedaling; Harry felt faintly disappointed.  "I guess
great minds think alike," the pilot joked.  "Hey, here's an idea!  Are
you up for a little hoverball?"

"Sure, why not!"

"Great!  This bike was getting a little boring.  All that work and you
never go anywhere -- what's the point?

Harry quirked an eyebrow.  "Feeling a little existential tonight,
Paris?"  He felt absurdly pleased when Tom laughed.  "C'mon.  A ball
game sounds like fun," he grinned.

Tom clapped him on the back, and they headed off to the hoverball
courts together.

Harry balanced on the balls of his feet, bouncing slightly, all his
attention focused on the ball.  A limp, sticky lock of his hair fell
off his forehead and into his eyes; he brushed it aside impatiently.
His muscles ached, his lungs burned, he was sweating like a horse, and
he was losing the game to boot -- but, God, he felt good!  This was
just what he needed, a moment of simple enjoyment spent reveling in
uncomplicated physicality.  He sighed happily.  The computerized chirp
signaling the start of the round sounded, and he was off, launching
himself headlong at the ball hovering nearby.

He dove for the ball, deftly grabbing it and control of the game away
from Tom in one smooth motion -- or he *meant* to, anyway.  But
somehow his foot snagged itself on an uneven patch of the floor, and
he staggered clumsily forward a few steps before loosing his balance
completely.  He landed in an untidy heap positioned directly in front
of Tom's feet.  Tom, of course, immediately proceed to trip over
Harry, and he fell with a resounding smack! right on top of him.

Harry stared at Tom's appalled face only inches away from his own --
perfect kissing distance -- and finally couldn't control himself any
longer.  He began to laugh.  Not some amused snort or half-hearted
chuckle -- no!  This was a full, all-out,
close-your-eyes-and-convulse-on-the-floor belly laugh.  He lay on the
floor under the half-naked body of his absolutely beautiful best
friend, and roared with slightly hysterical hilarity.

"Harry?  Are you all right?  Harry!"  Tom's voice quickly changed from
concerned to alarmed.  Harry heard him, and tried to get himself under
control, but found the task impossible.  "Harry, are you . . . are you
*laughing*?"  The dumbfounded confusion in that question set Harry off
again, and he dissolved into a fit of undignified giggles.

"You *are!*  You're laughing!  You . . . you . . . ."   Tom snickered.
"It's not funny."

Harry managed to get enough breath into his lungs to gasp, "You . . .
you're laughing too."

"I am not," he said, and promptly collapsed into a spasm of
not-laughter.

Long, mirth-filled minutes passed.  When they had both finally wound
down, Tom murmured, "But it really isn't funny.  You could have been
hurt!"

"I know," Harry said.  "Sorry."

"S'okay."

At that moment, Harry became conscious of the fact that Tom still lay
on top of him, their bodies pressing together.  They had both taken
their shirts off long ago in the heat of their game, and now the
pilot's still-sweaty, naked, heaving chest rubbed against his own,
Tom's breath blowing hot against his face.

He began to get an erection.

"Uh, Tom," he said and tried to sit up, but only succeeded in pushing
himself even closer into his friend's body.  "Tom," he repeated
breathlessly.

"Harry," Tom moaned back.

He took a closer look at the blond man's face.  His cheeks were
flushed and his pupils dilated, and he was breathing more heavily than
he really needed to.  That might have been the result of the recent
laughing fit, if not for the hard-on Harry could feel pressing eagerly
against his own.

"God, Tom," he gasped in surprise and desire, and kissed him.

Time held still.  Nothing moved, nothing stirred, the world itself
held its breath.  All minor details withdrew themselves from Harry's
consideration, leaving him free to focus his attention on the
important things: the taste of Tom's kiss, the pressure of his lips,
the feel of his sweat-slick shoulders gliding under his hands, the
texture of his skin, Tom's hands tangled in his hair and cradling his
head with an unexpected tenderness even as he devoured Harry's mouth
with explosive, passionate intensity.  He found the universe in Tom's
embrace.

Harry slid his hands down Tom's back and into his shorts, caressing
the round flesh he found there.  Tom gasped aloud in response.  With
his cry, the spell was broken, and the course of time resumed -- but
strangely.  Instead of the normal, smooth flow of time's river, the
current drifting evenly by, one hour per hour and one minute per
minute, this river was filled with odd tides and eddies, and didn't
seem to want to be contained by its banks.  Sometimes it raced by, a
raging torrent of white water, other times it was barely a trickle,
moving sluggishly through the mud and stretching seconds into
eternity.

Afterwards, Harry found his memory of this first time distorted and
unreliable, large portions of it blurred into indistinctness in his
mind.  Instead, he had a series of unconnected moments burned into his
brain, fragments of crystallized sensation.  The feel of Tom's nipple
contracting into a sudden, hard pebble under his tongue.  The taste of
Tom's skin, salty and musky, a powerful aphrodisiac.  The sound of
Tom's voice alternately murmuring endearments and shouting demands.
The way Tom's whole body writhed and wriggled when Harry found a
particularly sensitive spot.  The throb and pulse of Tom's cock in his
grasp.  The ache and almost-pain as his own cock hardened even further
at the touch of Tom's hand.  The wicked, joyful glint in those blue
eyes as Tom flipped Harry to his back and sucked his erection down his
throat.  The unbelievable intensity of the pleasure and satisfaction
he felt as his orgasm flooded his central nervous system.  The less
showy but equally powerful emotions that overtook him as he watched
Tom find his own peak.  The look on Tom's face.  The clasp of Tom's
hand.

The sound of Tom's voice.  "I love you, Harry."

They lay naked on the floor of the gym, entwined in each other.  Harry
felt distinctly disinclined to move.  He was perfectly comfortable
where he was, wrapped in his newfound lover; why should he ever need
to move again?  The bridge would just have to get along without him.
Let Voyager sail where it would.  Who needed the Alpha Quadrant?  He'd
already come home.

Time passed, back at its normal, sedate pace.  Beside him, Tom finally
stirred.  He absently pressed a kiss to the ensign's neck, and said
"You hungry?" in a sleepy voice.

Harry considered.  On the one hand, all he wanted to do right now was
take Tom back to his quarters and make love to him again, to immerse
himself in his lover and not come up for air until morning.  But, on
the other hand, he actually *was* hungry; a late-night snack sounded
awfully tempting.  His stomach growled, loudly, making the decision
for him.

"Guess so," Tom laughed, and rolled to his feet, pulling Harry with
him.

Oh well.  At least they were sure to have the mess hall to themselves
at this hour of the night, which presented some . . . interesting . .
. possibilities.  All those kitchen utensils.  Harry's eyes glazed.

"All right," he said.  Tom glanced at him askance; he supposed he
*had* sounded a trifle . . . enthusiastic.

The ball was still hovering patiently in midair, waiting for them to
play.  Harry grabbed it --  managing to stay on his feet this time --
and put it away.  "You know, next time we play hoverball, I'm going to
win," he said teasingly.

Tom smiled -- an odd smile, somehow both happy and serious.  "But you
won this time, Har."

"What?  Are you kidding?  You beat the pants off me!"

Tom's eyes gleamed, but he didn't take up the straight line Harry had
handed him.  Instead, he said simply, "We both won."

A pause.  "Yeah.  I guess we did."

They left for the mess hall hand in hand.

---

The End