The BLTS Archive - The Little Death
by Orlando (ajfgdm@globalnet.co.uk)

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Warning: Sex and the clergy.  DS9 set the precedent, I think; don't be
surprised to see it repeated here :o)

Disclaimers: Paramount owns _Star Trek_

Archive: ASCEM/L; BLTS

Feedback: If you like.

Enjoy! :o)

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Will Riker's bed is in disarray; his sheets trail onto his bedroom
carpet like spilled communion wine.  Will is like a supplicant: on his
belly and naked.  His face is pushed into the deep creases of skewed
pillows.  Will is dog-tired, but he can't sleep.  He flexes tired
shoulders and stretches his aching jaw.  His nerves are stretched taut
like harp-strings. Will's been living on his wits all day.  In the
last hours,  _Enterprise_  has lost more good men and women than Will
cares to count.  Still, he knows that it's more than the Purgatory of
a war that seems determined to never be won and the relentless loss of
friends that's keeping him awake. Something else is disturbing him.
Something else won't let him sleep.

There's a shot of whisky on Will's bedside table.  He poured it over
ice before stumbling into a shallow sleep.  The ice is melted now and
the liquor diluted.  Will hauls himself from his bed and asks his
replicator for a replacement.  As he picks up the glass to return with
it to his bed, Will catches sight of himself in his mirror.  He looks
ragged and resentful.  He notices how the reflected rooms around him
are monochrome, how all the colours seem to have drowned.  The world
seems one-dimensional.  It seems flat and only half- made: the way it
always does 4 a.m.  Will watches the room as if he's tired of seeing
it this way.  His eye is drawn to warping starlight.  He sees it drill
into the cool, glossy surface of a mirror.  Will knows that what he's
seeing is a phenomena, that the sharp streaks of white light are an
optical illusion and do not really exist in his own space and time.
Still, he appreciates the show.  He always has.  Before the war, he'd
see something magical or magnificent and remind himself to never take
his life out here for granted.  Now he sees things that make him
desperate for, and doubtful of, survival.  Once Will needed to be in
the service of his uniform more than that uniform needed him.  Now he
knows he is fast food for hungry guns.

After a moment, Will touches himself.  It feels good.  It always does.
Will enjoys the way he can make himself feel. He spent the good years
of his youth lost in the exploration of his own body.  He can work it
with finger-tip control. Still, he prefers not to think for how long
now he's been jacking off to end the day.  He knows that most nights
the only way he can fight his way into sleep is with his own firm hand
around his cock.  He knows that since the war started he's become
hooked on masturbating.  It's analgesic for his smarting soul.

Will cups his balls.  He weighs himself in his hand.  He feels his
balls tighten.  He feels his cock lengthen.   Will closes his eyes and
leans one shoulder against the mirrored wall.  He remembers the faces
of this day's dead.  He gives his mind permission to forget them.  He
lets his mind's-eye follow where his imagination leads.  It returns
again to a morning barely a month ago.

A Bajoran priest forms on the _Enterprise_ transporter pad.  Stepping
down, the Vedek is almost as tall as Will. He is slender and supple
like a riding whip.  His skin is translucent, like shavings of ivory;
his lips softly-arched like Cupid's bow.   He makes Will's blood
thicken.  He has to bite back the urge to open those wicked lips and
get inside that beautiful Bajoran mouth.  The Vedek's hair is a
flurry of restless curls.  They spill over his collar and some
corkscrew against his soft, smooth jaw.  They are the colour of rose
gold.  Will's fingers itch.  They can't help but imagine what that
ruby hair is like to touch.  His lips can't fail to imagine how it
might taste.  Will's imagination renders, in the finest detail, how a
cluster of russet curls between the Vedek's legs might decorate him
like priceless ormolu.  The Vedek steps closer, and no doubt
remembering the Human customs he's been taught for his ministry on
this predominantly Terran ship, extends his hand.  The Vedek is a
novitiate.  He wears umber robes.  They drape his narrow shoulders in
thin, brushed silk.  They are open at his slender neck.  They hang off
sharp hips and undulate over a tight, high ass.  The orange silks
sweep to his ankles, and when the trainee-Vedek moves, Will can see
how the matte fabric lightly grips the demur mound of his cock.  Will
tries to distract himself.  He speculates on what words of comfort
this man of faith can offer those in need of solace aboard the
_Enterprise_.  Will shakes the hand that's offered to him.  He tries
hard, but the only thing he can think of is that he needs to fuck this
Bajoran priest.

---

Will's fingers leave his cock.  Will moans... it's too much, too
soon!.  His eyes snap open. The surging threat of premature orgasm
rushes away, but Will's tongue still tingles.  His mouth is filled
with the anticipatory taste and texture of Bajoran boy.  He turns in
the opaque light of his cabin. He comes face-to-face with himself in
his bedroom mirror. He already looks like he's been fucked, but his
body knows better.  Will's cock stands up-right, and strains against
his belly.  Will watches his reflection dip two fingertips into the
bourbon in his glass.  He feels it drizzle over his glans.  He
inhales.  He likes how sex and liquor smell - even if the alcohol is
fabricated and the sex self-inflicted. Will turns his hips.  He
presses them against the cold mirror; it's smooth, and after a moment,
begins to steal his body warmth.  Will tilts his hips and rocks
against glossy glass.  He applies more pressure.  A gratifying chill
snakes through his belly and thighs.  His cock is trapped.  It's
becoming numb.  His balls relax.  He catches his own gaze reflected in
the mirror.  He looks back at the man looking back at his own
masturbation.  He is not an impartial observer.  Will's balls tighten
again.  The voyeur in the mirror smiles and encourages him to
continue.  Will has always enjoyed watching himself do this.

Will can hear breathing.  It is shallow and rapid.  He doesn't know
whose it is, but, the novitiate priest is standing in the tranquil
half-light of his lounge and his chest is rising and falling.  The
novitiate's hands are clasped.  They aren't fists, but they are
tightly clenched and so reveal the extent of the young man's
anticipation.  The young Vedek is nineteen years old.  He lowers his
eyes, and lush eyelashes flutter for the same reason as does a
peacock's fancy tail.  A virgin, Will pleads.  Make him a virgin!

Mossy eyes watch Will as if he knows what's on his mind, and as if the
prospect of his own compliance should frighten him, but doesn't.  Will
wants the Vedek to know that he's flattered he can still do this to a
young man, but he can't find the words. He lifts two fingers to touch
the Vedek's curls, and the moment Will touches him, the Vedeks's
eyelids shrink closed. Will's fingertips brush against the young man's
cheek.  They spread across his pretty jaw.  The heel of Will's hand
rests in the syncline of the young man's collar bone.  Will watches a
rosehip flush infuse translucent skin.  His ears catch the soft "oh"
of lips parting to receive him.  Cool breath invites him closer.  The
novitiate's mouth opens under his.  Will fills it with his tongue.

Will presses his hips against cool silk.  He hears it sigh. He presses
his knee between thighs waiting for him to part them.  His fingers
trace the collar of the Vedek's robe.  Its edges are trimmed with a
thin ribbon of dowdy cord.  It leads him to the tie secured at the
Vedek's sharp hip.  He pulls the knot and fabric slides open.  His
palms slip the Vedek's robe from pale, taut shoulders.  It shudders
to the lounge carpet like a gasp of outrage.  Will wanted the Vedek
to be naked underneath his robes, and he is.  The boy is bigger than
Will imagined; bigger in the length than Will.  That's okay. Will has
girth to fit the most voracious expectation.  The boy isn't cut.  Soon
Will's finger and thumb will make a circle and push back the boy's
pale foreskin, but for the moment, Will is content to just look.  He
looks at the long stretch of pale thigh.  He looks at the embroidery
of purple veins.  The boy's hips are bound by a sliver of fine chain.
It rides his hips and dips against his concave belly.  Although it
gleams in the light available, Will can't decide if it's silk or
precious metal. Whatever the ornament is, it embellishes the young man
beautifully like the finest gilding.  Will tries to remember when he
was this young.  He doubts he was ever, really, this beautifully-made.

Will cradles the boy's cock.  It flickers in his palm.  He feels the
young man's hand rest against his shoulder.  He hears him sigh.  Will
folds the cock in his big hand and gives it all of his devotion.  He
strokes the boy's belly.  It flutters under Will's touch.
Speculatively, Will's little finger inveigles itself past muscle, and
a long, low shiver spasms through the novitiate's body.  The muscle
clutching at Will's finger spasms like a guilty heart.  The priest's
face contorts and then slips back into serenity.

Will is touched.  The hands that stroke him are cool and knowing.
They forsake Will's prayers for a virgin priest. Will's hips buck.
His cock is kissed.  Will wants to cry.  His throat makes sounds like
an excommunicated soul. His hip is kissed.  Will presses the length of
himself against the priest's flat belly.  He wants to go home.  The
head of his cock slips under the fine chain stretched across Bajoran
hips.  Will is snagged there.  He leans back, but his cock is secure.
His hips rock, but he doesn't want to be freed.  The chain corrals him
while the priest presses his own cock back against his belly.  A spike
of electricity surges through Will's balls when the young man's cock
glides against his own. Together, the two of them step backwards until
the Vedek's back meets the lounge wall.  He lifts his shoulders and
spreads his arms against the wall.  Will presses his bunched fists
into the priest's splayed palms and nails him there with body weight.
He finds the cool mouth again.  A tongue rises to welcome him.
Fingers firmly pull him.  He rises and falls at the priest's
instruction.  Will's tongue takes tangled words of blaspheming
obscenity and twists them into a catechism of fevered worship.  The
chain binding his cock to the Vedek's belly begins to rasp.  It
becomes keener with each thrust of Will's hips.  Will's mind latches
on to it.  He focuses on the moderate but insistent hurt girdling his
cock.  It's all he is. It's all he wants.  He measures his strokes by
it.

For moments that span eternity, nothing exists for Will but how he is
trapped, and by how fine links of chain are threatening his skin.  For
moments that span eternity, nothing exists but how soon the storm will
come, by how good it will be.  His fingers grip slender shoulders.  He
doesn't want to be caught.  He doesn't want to die any of the deaths
he has seen.  He doesn't want dying to be the only way to achieve
peace of mind.  He doesn't want phantasms to be his only succor.

"Save me," he says to the priest.  "Save me," he shouts into the
Bajoran mouth.

The voyeur in the mirror speaks at the same time as Will does. He
shouts in orgasm just as Will does.  Gasping, he finishes a cold,
charmless masturbation just as Will does.  They have both wasted
themselves against frigid glass.

Will knows he's obsessed, but he doesn't really want to consider too
closely what's at the root of his preoccupation: the boy-priest's
immaculate physical beauty, or the surprise of the young Vedek's
sublime sagacity.

Will snags a towel from the bathroom.  He'll shower in the morning if
a red alert doesn't kick him from his bed before then.  He knocks back
what's left of the bourbon.  The ice has melted, but it no longer
seems to matter.  He falls into bed, and his prayers for a dreamless
sleep are granted.

"Save me."

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The End