Author’s Note (11/01): This story takes place a few days after the final moments of Season Four’s “Vis A Vis.” It is merely a harmless piece of P/T smut, not intended to carry significance greater than that. If this sort of thing offends you, or you are underage, please do not read it. Written soon after the episode aired, whenever that was.
Disclaimer: Paramount owns it all. Always has, always will. I accept this.
by Diane Bellomo
Tom Paris stood by himself in the corridor outside Holodeck Two, toolbox in hand, coveralls on body.
“Computer, access Paris program ‘Alpha One Grease Monkey.’”
:::That program is already running.:::
:::That program is already---:::
“Yeah, heard ya.” He cut off the computer and squinted at the readouts. I thought this holodeck was empty. Who the heck’s usin’ my program? Guess I shoulda locked it, but why on Earth would anyone but me want…
He began to get a glimmer of who might be in there, but decided it would never do to walk right in without first checking to be absolutely sure.
It warbled melodiously, waiting for a command.
“Activate video to interior of this holodeck.”
A tiny screen came to life, revealing his garage program, focusing directly on his precious ’69 Camaro to which he was planning to provide an oil change. He couldn’t see anyone, but he could hear a clanking noise.
“Computer, scan entire garage, floor to ceiling.”
The computer’s video eye obligingly began to dip towards the floor and immediately he could see a pair of black-clad slim legs sticking out from beneath approximately the center of his beloved vehicle. The clanking noise continued, accompanied now by a distinctly feminine growl.
“Computer, hold eye and zoom in.”
The camera zoomed in on the legs just as a particularly loud clank issued from beneath the car, followed immediately by the clatter of some tool hitting the floor. Directly after that came a Klingon roar of indignation as the prone body of B’Elanna Torres came shooting out under the manual power of an old-fashioned wheeled creeper.
She had pushed too hard, of course, and it skated her nearly the entire length of the garage before she had the presence of mind to put her feet down. The front of her uniform was blackened with grimy oil.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!”
Against his better judgment, Tom Paris began to chuckle. He knew the only failsafes he had engaged were the big ones, like not letting the car fall on him. Little ones, like oil spills or whacking ones thumb with a hammer, were allowed to occur without a safety net. He knew he’d pay dearly for his mirth, but he figured it’d be worth it. This was funny.
“Computer, end video, open holodeck door and engage lock behind me.”
The door wheezed open and he stepped in, put the toolbox down and looked up in time to see B’Elanna trying to get up off the creeper. Because of her frustration, she was not concentrating hard enough on finding her center of balance in order to stand, which only made it worse. The creeper just kept, well, creeping, with her rear end still firmly upon it. She finally came to her senses enough to simply roll off the thing, sending it skittering away and ending up on her hands and knees on the garage floor. She huffed in victory.
Tom lost it.
When she realized she was no longer alone and who it was she was no longer alone with, she huffed again and bellowed at him.
“Thomas Eugene Paris, you complete pig! Quit laughing and get over here!” She wasn’t really angry, but she wasn’t really amused, either. This mix of emotions was rarely allowed to display itself in B’Elanna Torres. She was always too busy trying to maintain either complete Klingon rage or complete human neutrality to ever permit emotions to surface naturally, in whatever combination they so desired. Tom savored every occurrence, but he’d never ruin it by telling her.
He came to her and helped her up, still chuckling. “Yer busted, Torres.”
Once on her feet, she shrugged from his grip and turned back to look at the car on the other side of the garage. It occurred to him to ask the obvious.
“What were you doing fooling with my car, anyway?”
She turned back to him, dark eyes sparkling, pointing one arm back at the car, the mess on her uniform forgotten.
“Tom, this car is fantastic! Why didn’t you tell me?”
Recalling their recent rather heated rendezvous in this very vehicular unit, he narrowed his eyes, reached out to caress her cheek and rumbled, “But I did tell you, Bella. Don’t you remember the other night…”
She swatted his hand away, ignoring the sexual innuendo, and spun around to walk back to the car.
“No, loverboy, I meant the engine. Why didn’t you tell me more about the engine?”
She heaved the hood up and began poking at the innards, mumbling something about why she never thought to ask him more about the engine.
Following her back to the car, Tom Paris realized he was in a bit of a bind, caught between his favorite car and his favorite girl. Problem was, his girl was no 1960’s flower child, she was the best engineer in the 24th Century and could probably engineer his car into the next dimension.
It was then he noticed the pool of black oil seeping out from underneath the car.
“Uh, Torres,” he waved a finger in the direction of the floor, “you’re supposed to put a pan under there to catch the oil.”
She flicked her eyes downward and then back into the engine. “Oh. Sorry about that. Why’d you tighten that plug so much, anyway? You saw what happened to me.” She jabbed her thumb at her uniform.
“Actually, I had it coded to loosen at my command. I’m amazed you got it off at all.” He was trying hard not to sound like a smart-ass, but he wasn’t sure he’d pulled it off. B’Elanna, thank god, still had her head inside the engine, so he didn’t think she’d heard him.
He needed to provide a distraction before she decided to either a) rebuild his car from the ground up, or b) tear him a new asshole. He much preferred c) none of the above, and quickly arrived at a distraction he was pretty sure would work.
“So tell me, Chief, what have you learned about this engine?”
She began to correctly spout off different components, pointing to them as she went. He repeated everything she said, dropping his voice seductively and approaching her.
He took one more step closer to her. “Motorrr,” he repeated, ending the word with the growl he had been practicing.
She approved of the sound. “Mmm, nice one. Carburetor.”
Another step closer. “Car-bur-e-tor.”
He felt the air heat up around her and knew for certain she had caught on to his trick. B’Elanna Torres’ arousal was a palpable thing. He didn’t wait for her to speak again but stepped up directly behind her, encircled her waist and blew a hot breath on her neck.
She leaned heavily against him, dropping her head back onto his shoulder, arms falling limp at her sides.
“Huhh…uh, spark p…p…”
It never took much to get B’Elanna going, this he knew. Judging by the way his erection was straining against his shorts beneath the coveralls, it never took him very much, either.
“Spark…” he nipped her earlobe, tasted blood, “…plugs.”
She turned in his arms, touched her earlobe and smiled. “Ah, right. Plugs, spark plugs.”
She tilted her head up as he leaned in to kiss her. Her lips were moist against his. He tasted sweet cherry and knew she was wearing the lip balm Jenny Delaney had given her. It was his favorite flavor.
Well, could he be any more of a dolt? No wonder she hadn’t ripped him to shreds for laughing at her. She might not have been expecting the oil spill, but she had certainly been expecting him. God, this woman owned him, every hair, every molecule, and every organ—one of which was now begging for release.
Possibly reading his mind, B’Elanna reached down at that very moment to stroke him. It wasn’t easy, since she couldn’t get much of a purchase through the coveralls, but it was enough to send little shivers of desire down his spine.
Breaking contact with his lips, she met his eyes and purred, “Say, Mechanic Boy, don’t you think the oil change can…wait?”
On the word “wait,” she gripped him as hard as she could, lifted one knee and applied pressure up between his legs. She was just tall enough to reach his balls.
He wasted no time with any more of a verbal response than a hefty grunt when her knee made contact. Instead, he jostled her back to her feet, put his left arm around her lower back and arched her over the engine, claiming her lips and moving his free hand down the front of her filthy uniform, carefully keeping his hand from actually touching it. He stopped when he reached the point where her legs met and applied circular pressure with the heel of his hand.
She dropped her head back, hair dangling into the engine. Rocking against his hand, she made a rumbling sound in her throat and her eyes dropped shut.
Oh, still playing that game, are we? Well, all right.
He stopped for a second to open her pants and slide them off her, taking the panties too. They lay in a puddle around her booted ankles. He returned his hand to its previous location, his fingers encountering damp curls. He could not stop himself from stroking her, dipping his middle finger into her warm slippery folds. Judging by the sounds she was making, she was not at all upset by it.
Himself distracted, he nearly forgot. “Distributor,” he repeated, adjusting his tone towards the lower end of the scale.
B’Elanna squirmed and shifted, providing his finger with direct access to her silky interior. He slipped the finger up into her, stirring gently, and she grunted in pleased response. Meantime, he kept his grip firm around her, trying to prevent her back from resting directly on the edge of the frame. He wondered if she were uncomfortable.
Guess not. Must be that rugged Klingon spine of hers.
“Fan belt.” He brushed his thumb against the hard nub of flesh directly above his questing finger and she squirmed more forcefully, smashing his left wrist between herself and the car.
In order to gain some balance, he had to remove his right hand from its happy place so he could yank his left out from behind her before the sharp edge of the hood could sever it completely.
She sighed as his hands left her, but then righted herself a bit, slammed her palms down onto the car’s frame, shook her left leg free of the clothing at her ankles and raised it to rest her boot on the bumper, supporting herself fully on the car.
Christ, she was fit. And she was glistening, gorgeous.
“Bumper. Eat me.”
Good God Almighty.
“Bum-per.” Tom expelled the word in a breath he did not know he had been holding, dropping on the second syllable and cracking both knees on the cement floor. A slight wince was all he gave to the pain. Eye level with the slick wetness of his lover, he noticed how very red it was with her arousal. He knew all about the biology of it, but right now it just reminded him of cherries.
Placing his left hand on the outside of her right thigh and his right flat against the smooth inside of her left, he licked his lips, inhaling deeply the blended scent of her and of the leather boot at his cheek. It was a heady combination. Then he leaned in.
The instant his mouth touched the musky, warm wetness, she growled and surged forward, mashing herself against his face. The sudden movement left him unable to avoid scraping his teeth along the tender inner lip of her labia. He felt her jerk, heard “Ah!”
Damn. He preferred his biting to be intentional rather than accidental.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, raising his head for a much-needed breath, wishing not for the first time that he could breathe through his ears for just ten minutes.
She found some coherence. “S’okay. Uh…uh…radiator.”
He resumed his feast, bringing his right hand over to join his mouth. He moved his lips against her warm flesh, whispering “radiator.” His concentration spiraled down into a single, burning focus: bringing his lover to orgasm, hanging on the edge of his mint condition 1969 Camaro.
The very thought stiffened his cock even further inside his shorts, and he felt pre-cum moisture soaking the thin material. His erection was becoming painful. Exquisitely painful, and he wouldn’t have minded one bit if he went off inside his clothing. Wouldn’t have been the first time for that, either.
Meantime, his fingers and tongue continued their probing attentions to B’Elanna, who was now twitching and moaning delightfully above him. He could feel her legs trembling, could feel the vibration of her arousal against his lips. His fingers slowed as he drowned in her. He was entranced, captured, imprisoned.
He was also numb from his knees to his toes, but he didn’t care. He was hers. He was hard. He was blissfully content to stay where he was forever.
But B’Elanna was not ready to allow him his dreaming. A subtle pelvic motion and huff of air brought him back to himself, and he began to attend with greater detail her clitoris, sucking, nibbling, rolling it between his teeth, once again focused on the goal he had lost sight of for a moment. He rearranged his hand to allow his soaked fingers to trace a damp path between her ass cheeks, massaging the tight little ring of muscle he found there, at the same time easing his thumb into her, pumping lightly.
Tiny contractions immediately began pulling at his thumb, causing him to smile against her. He diligently kept his mouth locked firmly on her clit, his tongue swirling around it, until she bucked, forcing him to let go. He kept his hand against her, looking up at her body as it rose to climax. As the contractions strengthened around his thumb, she bucked again, gasping, and took up a full-body shuddering, ending with a guttural cry that sounded like it had come straight from the bottom of her Klingon soul.
Tom watched B’Elanna with the awe he always felt when she came. That she, a half-Klingon woman with a violent, unhappy past, would trust him enough to allow such an unbridled release positively astounded him. It was so much more than just sex, it bound him to her, and he was determined that he would never, ever, give her reason to doubt this trust.
Placing tiny kisses on the patch of skin below her navel, keeping rhythm with her shudders, he kept his hand in motion until the contractions lessened and her cum had reduced friction to the point where his hand could no longer maintain an easy contact.
She fell from the car with a throaty sound of satisfaction and landed directly on top of him, bending him painfully backwards. His aching legs protested in a big way.
At his screech, she pulled away from him, allowing him to straighten out on the garage floor. The return of blood to his lower extremities only served to heighten his desire.
She unzipped the front of his coveralls and climbed back on top of him, parting her naked thighs across his hips and wriggling seductively against his erection, all the while grinning ferally at him. Her hair was everywhere, her nose was smudged with oil, and her uniform top was a complete wreck—but her black eyes matched his with bright, unfettered passion.
“Brake, Car Boy?”
Smirking, he wriggled his hips up into her, producing a lovely snag in her breathing. He wriggled again, circled his arms around her and rolled her onto her back.
“Nope, I’d say gas pedal.”