A small piece of angsty P/K. If anyone likes it I might remember where I put that sequel I was writing <eg>

Disclaimers: Well, if you don't know by now then you should be ashamed of yourself - Paramount is, well, paramount. If they'd stop pretending to be slush fiction and got on with the real relationship that they're so terrified of, then I wouldn't have to do this, would I?

NC-17. We wouldn't want anyone younger to get the wrong ideas.

Tem,

Note: This was the first piece of slash that I ever posted anywhere, and it went to the BLTS list in September 1997.

I know to the second the moment that I fell in love with Harry Kim. He was sitting at a bar, desperately trying to persuade a ravening Ferengi not to cause an interstellar incident. Like the Feds were going to care about one piddling little barkeep on a deep space station. And a Ferengi to boot. Okay, so maybe I'm biased, looking back. I've reason.

I'd looked up to see what was making all the racket and distracting me from my first legal alcohol in eighteen months -- and I was lost.

Later, I couldn't say what precisely it was that told me *he* was the one, the still centre to all the chaos, but it was so. Every day that passed taught me the lesson more clearly. Somehow though, I never did tell him. No, that's not quite true. I told him every way I could, without saying the words, for years, but he wasn't listening right. And when I finally said it so he could not mistake me, in a moment of panic, it was the worst mistake of my life.

It didn't matter though. He had been the best thing in my small world, and I loved him, and, in his manner, I think he loved me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I used to sit with him in the evenings. In the early days it would be hell. He'd sit there, trying to not fall apart. Sometimes it worked, sometimes... Afterwards he'd sit up, away from where he'd ended up, leaning against me. He'd roll his shoulders painfully as he tried to get the kinks out of his back, and look up at me, his eyes red and still wet. I wanted to kiss those tears away, to hold him so close he would forget the pain, forget the loss of love that tore him so.

Forget Libby.

No matter that we were 70,000 light years away. No matter that there were women - and men aplenty willing to solace the lonely young ensign curled up miserably on my sofa, he stayed faithful. So, I took what I could. It was selfish, and deceitful, and ultimately so incredibly frustrating that I could scream. It was all I had, and it was better than nothing. At least it was *me* he came to for this much.

So I would hold him, a friendly arm over his shoulders, when he cried for her. And pretended I did it because he was my friend. For months, my only friend.

More than once I seriously considered building a hologram, just to lose the edge of the lonely nights, but I never quite could - it would have meant time away from him. Besides, it wouldn't have been right, something that wouldn't have bothered me too much before - I just took what I needed, did what seemed a good idea at the time, and let the rest take care of itself. Harry was the making of me I think. Somehow he saw inside my doubly condemned body to a person he thought worth knowing, worthy of his friendship, and I tried so hard to live up to that. Not by being like him - I tried it, and it just wasn't me. Gradually others on the ship grew to know Harry, and to trust his judgement. Eventually they made, if not friends with me, then at least some kind of truce. Even a fairly amicable one. Life became instead of merely bearable, almost enjoyable.

Nonetheless, I still didn't have what I wanted, for all my restraint and patience - but then, mercifully, neither did he. It was shameful, but I was glad of it, that I had him, and she didn't. I cheered him up, and sent him home to his quarters, and hoped, in the dark of gamma watch.

Over the course of our five year journey both of us, in our separate ways, and for reasons more similar than he ever knew, fell for various men and women. It was a distraction from reality if you like. It never lasted - with Harry it rarely even started, he was so determined to be true, body and soul, to his heart and his given word. In all that time there was, I believe, only one exception.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We'd been playing pool. In the more than four and a half years since leaving the Alpha Quadrant, he'd improved to the point where he could occasionally take a game off me. He won more often than that, simply because I loved the delighted glee that filled his face whenever he beat me. I was careful not to do it too often, but sometimes, the bad times, I would throw the game, as subtly as I could.

"I can't believe you scratched!" Harry chortled for at least the sixthtime. Okay, so subtle isn't my long suit, but hey, it worked, all right.

"Do you have to rub it in?" I groused, filling my sore heart with his happiness.

"Yup! B'Elanna! B'Elanna, did I tell you..." and he was off again. Now that he was no longer facing me I could dare to stare at him. His hair, soft and silky, ink black. Those hands, talented, capable of running a ship, rebuilding a warp engine, playing a clarinet, strong and sensitive. I sometimes fantasised just about his hands, touching me, holding me -- loving me. His shoulders, perfect to rest on. That long straight line of his back. The smooth swoop of his lower back into that perfectly rounded ass. The long, black clad legs. Everything.

I sighed, off in a world of my own, where Harry Kim said "Hang Libby" and fell into my arms. As if.

I woke from this pleasant daydream with a start. Sandrine's was deserted, and Harry was saying something to me."Tom? Tom, you okay?" He was standing next to me, a gentle hand on my shoulder, eyes warm with concern - only friendly concern, I had to remind myself.

"Tired, I guess," I lied easily. The truth was I had a terrible feeling about B'Elanna and Harry's latest freak - a point to point relocator, which had already seemed to shift particles under controlled conditions. They would gabble on about it to anyone, and had spent the whole evening speculating on the possibilities of using it to get home. *They* were thrilled.

"Tom--" he said warningly. "Don't try to push me away. I want to help."

For one wild moment-- but then reality kicked in and I smiled. I don't think that smile came out quite right though, because his frown deepened. I wanted to lick those furrows away from his forehead so badly that for a moment I thought I had done it, just leant forward and run my tongue across that sweet skin. I put every ounce of will power I possessed into sitting still.

"Sorry Harry. I guess I'm feeling a bit down." Like he hadn't spotted that one already. It wasn't the whole truth though, so I didn't mind him knowing. That was the other thing. I didn't *want* him to know the whole truth. Not ever. Not if I couldn't have him.

"I noticed," he said dryly, eyes flicking to the pool table, then returning and holding mine. His hand covered mine where it rested on the table, and he sat down beside me. "What is it? Is there anything I can do?"

I looked at him helplessly. He was the one person I would consider trusting with something like this, and yet the only person I could not tell. The warmth of his hand on the back of mine seemed to swell until it was almost the only sense working. The folds of his finger joints. The pressure of his thumb lying at an angle away from the rest of his hand. The faint feel of sweat as the warmth built, and the sensation from the fine hairs on the back of my hand pulled this way and that as he rubbed his palm fractionally backwards and forwards over them. Not a comforting touch. No.

"Tom?" Those deep dark eyes have got tiny flecks of gold in them, so small you can only see them from a breath away. I was drowning in them, lost between his eyes and the burning focus of his touch. At least, that's my excuse for what I did next.

I turned my hand under his and held it, staring down at our joined hands. He squeezed gently, just as a means of comforting a friend. We were holding hands and I couldn't, I wanted, I lifted that hand to my lips and kissed it.

He gasped and tried to yank his hand away. Deep in his eyes I could see shock, and something else, so entirely unimagined that my grip tightened instinctively, and I slid my other hand up his other arm to his shoulder, to the back of his neck.

A thought later and I was kissing him, my lips brushing softly, dryly against that beautifully sculpted mouth. I brushed another kiss across his lips, loving the papery feel of our skin touching.

It was as if I was dreaming, but I'd dreamt this often enough to know the difference. Still, I doubted my sanity when I felt a tongue run lightly along both our lips. I think he was trying to moisten his lips, a nervous trick of his that never fails to make me long to scoop him into my arms and cuddle and reassure him. This time protective was the last thing on my mind. This time I opened my mouth and sucked gently till it slipped inside.

He made a sound, startled, and with the beginnings of the desire I'd seen flare in his eyes. But we were kissing, so sweetly and hotly, all there was was his mouth on mine, our tongues licking at each other, exploring, searing, his hands on my shoulders, the taste of him, such passion and gentleness, and I would have sold my *soul* for that moment.

I was so lost in it that when he pulled away a moment later it was as if my heart was ripped in two.

"Tom. *Tom*," he said insistently as my brain emerged from the haze filling it. "Tom, we can't do this. I'm sorry."

Strange how five words can break your heart into shattered tattered remnants. He *knew*. I could see it in his eyes: mingled in with the desire was worry. For me. That I not be hurt. A rich, *kind* compassion. In a horrified instant I knew that every smart remark, every defence I had thought prevented him from the knowledge I could not bear him to have had failed me. I couldn't stand the look in his eyes to become pity, and I dropped to the chair, dropped my head onto my arms on the table.

I didn't make a sound or a move, but somehow he knew I was crying.

"Tom, I'm so sorry," he said softly, so close to my ear I could feel the breath it was spoken on moist against my skin. His arm was around my shoulders, and he tugged, gently, until my head was buried on his shoulder, my arms around his waist, hands pressed against his back, the two of us holding each other awkwardly, and I wept until my eyes and throat were raw, and my head ached abominably. All that time he was there. Holding me. Murmuring nonsense. Rocking me. Every time that it began to soothe me I would remember that this was to be the only time, and my heart would seize in some terrible cramp. Finally I quieted. There were no more tears left and in his arms the pain didn't seem quite so unendurable.

I lifted my head to meet his eyes. He looked so sad. Not the unbearable pity that I feared, nor quite the hoped for yearning, but simply unhappy. That was the first time I seriously wondered whether he loved me.

I was still in the circle of his arms. They were wrapped loosely about my waist. One arm moved away, and a moment later a hand carefully wiped the tears from my face. I gave a watery chuckle and said, "I've made you all soggy," and touched the large wet patch on his uniform, trying not to see his expression.

"Mm. It'll dry." He took a deep breath, and tilted my chin up so I had to meet his eyes. "Tom, I promised Libby. I can't renege on that. I've tried, and I just can't make myself do it."

I thought he meant Jessen, Mareyna... anyone. Then his face came closer and he kissed me, and I *knew*.

My hands went to hold his head, I wanted to keep him this close until I died. He grabbed my wrists to pull them away, then somehow, impossibly, they were close around me, and the kiss deepened, and it was more than before, segued into another kiss. Then he was dotting desperate tiny kisses all over my face and neck and throat. I tried to reciprocate, but I could only murmur his name, "Harry, Harry, *Harry*..."

His hands fumbled at the catch to my top and I caught his hands up, and pulled his arms back around me, hastily undoing the fastening, pulling off the sweater and tank, then stripped him slowly, caressing each new inch of flesh with hands and mouth, lips and teeth.

He arched under my touch, "Tom... oh Tom... oh Tom..." I was absurdly happy. The rest didn't matter. I could make him want me.

I sucked carefully on one dark nipple, running my tongue across and around it, over and over and over until he was moaning helplessly. Then I attacked the other, leaving my fingers to pleasure the left one while my lips and tongue worked on the right. A hand tangled in my hair, and I glanced up at his face. His eyes were closed and a deep flush had turned his skin a rich bronze. I wanted that, to please him so utterly he forgot everything but me, my hands, my lips, my touch, my love.

I kissed my way down his chest, wet open mouthed kisses that caressed and marked. I reached the waist of his briefs and kissed along it, above the waistband, across his abdomen, then back again, the line drifting downwards, as I slowly, painfully slowly pushed them down. Finally they fell, and I leaned back, kneeling at his feet, taking in his whole perfect body, from top to toe. I have to admit my gaze lingered rather on his erection, standing proud, sure proof of his desire, hot and hard, with a little drop of pre-cum quivering on the tip.

I ducked my head forward and lapped at it. Just the tip of my tongue on the tip of his cock. It felt so good I did it again, and again, savouring it, the tight skin, the smooth flesh of the head, the tiny slit, until his breathing was ragged, with a moan on every exhale.

I paused as his hands almost fell forwards to hold onto my shoulders, then licked in one long stroke along the upper length of him, and kissed my way back to the crown, one hand fondling his balls, rolling them carefully between my fingers, soft and heavy in their wrinkled sacs, the other on his hip, holding tightly. Almost without volition it slid across his buttock till my fingers grazed the dip between his cheeks.

He shifted slightly, moving his feet apart a little. As a reward I stopped just licking, and took his penis deep into my mouth, sucking and caressing, relishing the heated flesh filling me. At the same time my fingers were pressing into his cleft, running from the base of his spine to the perineum and back again, stroking his sensitive opening with one careful finger. Each sweep was smaller, till I was rubbing him with increasing pressure, silently begging for admittance.

His hand was on my wrist, tugging my hand away, and I was coldly afraid I had made a mistake, but my fingers were in the wet heat of his mouth. His tongue on my fingers mimicked the actions of my mouth on his cock till the room vanished, and I had to pull away before I came, just from that. He guided my hand back behind him, and I pushed a finger inside, still sucking on his gorgeous cock and caressing it with my tongue.

He cried out, losing his grip on my wrist. He arched his back, thrusting forwards into my mouth. I worked the single finger deeper into his tight ass, concentrating on the tightening muscles that tried to push me out, then pulled me deeper, careful not to do too much, not to hurt him, moving it in careful circles before withdrawing. He protested wordlessly, pushing his hips back, and I grinned as best I could around his swollen penis, and added a second finger, simultaneously going down on him, sliding that long, hard shaft deep into my throat. He was lost in the sensations I was drawing from his body. His hips jerked helplessly, pushing back onto my fingers, then forward, into the wet warmth of my mouth as I finger-fucked him deeper and faster. One of his hands rested on my head, fingers woven into my hair again, holding me steady while he pumped wildly in and out of my mouth, the other on my shoulder, leaning on me so hard that I knew that he would collapse bonelessly if I took that support away.

I smiled around him and picked the pace up. He was slamming into my face, gasping and moaning mindlessly. He came unexpectedly as I slid those two fingers hard across his prostate. He cried out, then was filling my mouth with hot, salty liquid, his ass clenching and releasing repeatedly around my fingers, so tightly I thought they'd never feel again.

I swallowed and swallowed again, then sucked gently to get it all. From the low moan of pleasure I knew it felt good to him, so I did it again.

"Tom. Oh God Tom. Please. No more," he moaned, a laugh in his voice.

I looked up at him as best I could, his softening cock still in my mouth. His eyes darkened, and his hand lifted from my shoulder and caressed my hair. He smiled at me then, and, taking a shaky breath, pulled away and dropped to his knees in front of me. He leaned against me, resting his head on my shoulder, and said in a roughened voice, "That was incredible. Oh god. Tom." His lips were against my neck and I thought I'd pass out from sheer joy.

We knelt in silence for a long time like that, leaning together, arms around each other until he shifted uncomfortably.

"My knees are killing me," he said with a tiny chuckle. "I'll bet yours are worse?" They were, but it was worth it, and so I told him. He laughed and blushed together, and I gathered him in close and kissed him.

When we separated he was licking his lips thoughtfully, and I realised what those white flecks on his lips were. Somehow it was an incredible turn-on to see him with his own cum on his lips, transferred from mine in our kiss.

I bent forward to lick at it and he leaned back, away from me. <Not already,> I thought desperately.

"Please?" I begged him. He looked at me with the saddest eyes I've ever seen. Not pity precisely, nor heartbreak precisely, but some terrible combination of the two.

"Tom, I can't. I promised..."

I laid a finger across his mouth, closing my eyes briefly so I couldn't see him shape the name I knew was on his lips, then opened them again.

"Please. Don't say it?" I could see the refusal in his eyes and forestalled whatever it had been he was about to say. "I know. All I want... All..." I couldn't meet his eyes. "Please? Just tonight. Let me pretend..." I closed my eyes against the tears I couldn't prevent trickling down my already raw skin.

Suddenly I was enveloped in warmth as his arms wrapped around me, and pulled me close. "Tom, I'm *sorry*," he said wrenchingly, while cradling me so lovingly it was like to mend my heart. "I'm sorry," he whispered again, and kissed me. Sweetly, deeply, until I forgot everything and there was only him. Only him in the whole universe, keeping me together.

Loving me.

Mine.

Just for tonight.

© 1997 Temaris.
The sequel, Marseilleise

Magnificent Seven stories, Sentinel stories, Star Trek Voyager stories, The Ragbag

Page last updated 21:42 28/03/2006.