The BLTS Archive - Under The Milky Way by Sileya (sileyathesultry@gmail.com) --- Disclaimers: All hail mighty Paramount. They own it all, I just aspire to. The inspiration for this story was the song "Under the Milky Way" by Seven Nations . They own the lyrics, I just stuck most of them in some sort of order in here. They're billed as America's premiere Celtic rock band. . . and they are awesome. I was definitely inspired. WARNING: Some material included in this story may be considered sexually explicit and is not for children. Please click HERE to go find somewhere more appropriate if this is not for you. The material of this story is in no way endorsed or authorized by Paramount, Seven Nations, or anyone else but me. So there you go. Forewarned. -- I've been watching him for. . . months - months and months now. I'm sure he hasn't noticed. He's been preoccupied, involved in his work. His discipline is to be commended. But I'm sure it's because he knows he must behave in order to fly Voyager. He does so love to become a part of her. Just like a lover. ‘Tom the Helmboy' some of the crew call him now. I know that Harry calls him that. Probably screams it at the top of his lungs as they make love. I wish I could hear it, just once. . . hear it and see Tom's face in that state of passion. A curious, heavy warmth just pools and stirs, swirling deep within my loins to think of that look on his face. A face of pure emotion and pleasure, unfettered. Perhaps, someday, his eyes might turn to me. There is time. There is space, and many choices, even among this crew. I watch how they pair off, and I'm always left alone. I know they feel that I hold myself aloof. Perhaps I do. I want only one of them. No reason to lead the others on. I watch them all, here in Sandrine's. How they interact, and what occurs between them. I should write a book. . . it might be a sellable product someday in the future. Sometimes when this place gets kind of empty, Sandrine's, or the hallways of the ship, I think about what the future might hold in this wide expanse of galaxy, and what my part in it might be, and what I might stand to gain in the future. Either through action, or nonaction. Through patience and passion. I can wait. It will mean many long, cold nights, but I can wait. For him. --- They fought last night, I can tell. They are both stiff, and their eyes skulk across the bridge as they try to watch each other. Their work is being done, but not much more. No one else has noticed, I think. No one knows the play of his features as I do. I've studied every nuance, every twitch of muscle across the high, pale cheekbones, the stretch of his smile across one cheek, the fall of his blonde hair every time he runs his left hand through it. Sometimes, I am transfixed by the play of his hands across the helm. The way the muscles in his hands twitch and shudder underneath the skin, moving in some twisting harmony to stretch across the board, his skin a mottled pink and white, with finely manicured nails. I believe those nails go quite a ways toward scoring Harry's back. They went through five dermal regenerators last month. I remember catching sight of one faint bruise which didn't receive quite enough attention. . . it slid slightly back and forth out of the collar of Tom's uniform, just under the slim curve of his chin, the shadowed area moving and teasing me as I tried to focus on it - determine its shape. Was it made by Harry's mouth? A deep vicious bite in some wild fuck match, or a purpled bruise brought to color on Tom's fair soft skin by a loving suckle from Harry's dainty tongue and teeth? I may never know. But I do know that Tom blushes wonderfully, a full warm blush of effusing color which spreads across his cheeks from just under his eyes out over his cheekbones and culminating at the tops of his white ears. They turn deep, blood red, those ears. I have so often repressed the urge to lean over and lick at one, slightly, with flicking action, before running my tongue fully over the curves and crevasses, learning its shape, and watching him blush from some other reason than embarrassment. I could feel the heat in those ears if I were close enough. We could stand anywhere. . . a turbolift, the mess hall line, and sometimes I can just lean close enough. . . but then I hold myself in check. The sound of the breath fades with the light of my own passion as he moves away, not knowing any inkling of what I'm feeling. I know I hide it well. No one would think it of me. So I have time. They fought last night. Perhaps that means good things for me in the future. --- The Captain asked me for my opinion on Tom and Harry's relationship this morning as we drank tea over breakfast and crew reports. I think I covered my surprise well. Tom and Harry have been very discreet, to the point of not touching each other in public unless they think no one is looking. I wasn't aware of the fact that she had noticed. I told her some dry details, which is all that I could really comment upon without letting her gain some insight into my own studies. I wonder if she watches Tom on the bridge, watches how the deep red of his uniform jacket pulls ever so slightly at his shoulder blades when he sits back, how it bunches in the middle of his lower back when he hunches over the helm, how he thoughtlessly tucks it in on the left front side, whether it needs it or not, as a nervous gesture to be presentable. I wonder if she watches him leave the bridge for lunch, watches how his trousers cling to his strong thighs, skimming those legs and firm buttocks so well. . . as they are meant to. . . and revealing that he has nothing to hide. Those legs. . . the muscles just grasp and pull as he twists his chair around at the helm to look at the Captain, his feet remaining forward as he twists, and the fabric pulls across his generous groin, revealing the bulge there even when his passions are at rest. He's a well-endowed man, I must grudgingly admit, especially for one of his height and trim build. Kathryn's eyes go distant at times when she speaks of the men in her crew. I think about the loveless fascination, how she must deal with her wants and desires in solitary darkness, as I do, our minds on some unattainable object, some drifting memory. I am growing tired of waiting, but there is time, enough time. --- I've been studying the star charts from Astrometrics for three hours now, monitoring Tom from the corner of my left eye as he happily sits making minor course corrections around spots of cosmic dust and fragments of long-demolished meteors. The joy he takes in the simplest actions is evident in the tilt of his chin, the bright flicker in his eyes, the square of his shoulders, the way one foot taps rhythmically on the floor, barely audible. Sometimes he even hums a slight tune, something French, I believe. Something warm and sultry, husky. I wonder what his voice would sound like, singing it to his lover. His voice would caress the ears, a heavy, damp, soft caress which melts through to the muscles and farther down through to the core of your soul - and then you begin to shiver at each growl, at each change of tenor, and the sound becomes just like a vibration through your very existence. It would echo in my ears, the high and the low, the very tune of each syllable savored as he speaks loving words of commitment in a gentle embrace or hot words of encouragement during a wet grapple. He just received the coordinates for another course correction from Harry. . . his voice was oddly stiff, stilted. They are still fighting. Still cold. How unfortunate. He's not at ease now, again reminded of his domestic trouble. Tension is coiling at the base of his back, and his hands are clutching the sides of the helm. This tension will have to come to some fruition. I've seen the dark shadows under his eyes. Perhaps I shall invite him to the Gallery this evening, to look at the extraordinary star formations we have passed. We should pass under the milky way tonight. He might appreciate the phenomenon. It would appeal to his sense of adventure, and the sense of beauty which he normally hides as ‘good taste'. Perhaps I shall invite him. . . perhaps not. He's still watching Harry covertly. I have time. --- I've considered inviting him to my quarters. It's rather austere, and probably not to his taste, but I know he has an appreciation for things foreign to him. He was raised half-French, after all. I've monitored his choices in holovids and novels, as well as music, and he exhibits an eclectic range one would only expect from an educated scholar. . . or a rootless wanderer. I suppose he is, in his way, both. I'd gone so far as to tidy my quarters, selecting a new piece of art to display, one with some cultural significance in the ancient Egyptian culture on Earth. It has some meaning of fertility, of life, and the look of the curvature of the stone relief is very erotic to the eyes. The lovers strain together, desperately, in the throes of pleasure, one facing forward with his hair trailing freely over his lover's shoulder, the base of his neck glancing there, his eyes wide open and amazed, two hands held out against some unknown wall. . . the other arching his engorged member into his lover's ass, his hands fiercely gripping his lover's cock, pumping it, driving them to ecstasy with his own eyes shut so tightly. I can imagine, those centuries upon centuries ago, how someone would lower the curtain down in Memphis, lower the curtain down all right, providing some shade to give them a measure of privacy in that hedonistic world. It's a small thrill, knowing that he might see it. I wonder if I would explain the statue, or offer any qualification. I wonder if he would ask. I wonder if it would make a difference. Would his hands with those long, nimble fingers lightly stroke and slide along the smooth marble lines, tracing the entwined figures, feeling the jolt of energy which they must have felt, pulled together by some undeniable desire? My own blood heats at the thought of him caressing the statue, and I shudder as some rudimentary pleasure courses through me. Just the thought of Tom is sometimes enough to push me over the edge. . . but I know that soon I will crave the real touch of his skin, the brush of his hand, the driving iron force of his cock which will be quenched only by me. Fevered dreams won't be enough. But I have time. A little time. --- They finally have stopped speaking to one another, beyond normal duty interaction. I saw Harry in the company of Jenny Delaney, and their actions and movements together bespoke of intimate knowledge. Tom saw this too, and his eyes filled with betrayal. I don't know what he expected. Harry is such a young man, an impressionable ensign. How could someone as experienced and widely varied as Tom expect him to pick and choose so early in life? Granted, the choices on board are somewhat limited, but he is in no hurry to commit to a relationship. Harry can be a good friend to Tom. His best friend. But he doesn't have what it takes to be Tom's lover. Tom's only lover. He just doesn't understand what Tom wants. He can't throw Tom against the wall and fuck him into sobbing submission. He can't tie Tom to the bed and torture his cock with a warm tongue. He can't do anything other than quench Tom's immediate needs. He doesn't understand the dark side of love. Tom needs more than just intimate dinners and gentle distractions. He needs strength and dominance, as well as a caring hand. He craves someone who will take turns being submissive, and not always leave him to control the passion. Passion. . . that is what Harry lacks. He is a loving, gentle man. But passion. . . passion born of heat and longing so severe that you burn incessantly with it, and cannot quench it. A passion which drives you to fuck your lover senseless, then do it again and again, even when they sob for some release. A passion which will take you through the coldest of nights and the loneliest of star clusters. A burning passion which engulfs your heart and brain equally. . . this is what Tom seeks. He has passed through a list of lovers as long as the duty exchange, yet he has not found what he seeks. Tom is listless this evening, sitting alone at that table, staring out the viewport as his dinner congeals in front of him. I've got no time for private consultation. I must move now, before he considers another. There are many of us on Voyager, seeking, perhaps finding for a little while, something to sustain us under the milky way tonight. It's time. Now. --- He is here, walking alongside me to the Gallery. Am I surprised? I do not know. He is still introspective. I am sure he does not suspect my feelings. How could he? Perhaps his soul will be revealed under the stars. No. . . his soul is among the stars. . . not under them. That is why he loves to fly. That is why his passions burn so brightly. It shows through now, in his choice of clothing. Dark slacks, fitted even closer than uniform slacks. . . they clasp his thighs and sweet ass which all clench with the slight effort of walking, showing the strength there. A loose shirt of ice gray drapes his chest, several buttons undone to reveal the slim build and fine skelature of his ribcage. I can see his nipples, a dusky pink, hard, poking at the fabric as we walk through the air-conditioned halls after leaving warm Sandrine's. His hair is combed back lazily, rakishly, the blond catching and holding my eyes as highlights catch in the subdued illumination of the Gallery. He moves forward immediately to the viewport, eyes devouring the starscape. The muscles flutter across his back as he folds his arms. Before leaving the door, I invoke the privacy lock. It is time. Finally. --- "I didn't know you were into off-duty star watching." Tom comments. "We've never spent off-duty time together. You have no reason to know." "Well, this is a great view. . . what is it? That sun over there looks familiar." Tom points to one corner. "This is sector 28447, which we passed three weeks ago. The cluster formations were exceptionally elegant." "Yes, I agree. You have an eye for beauty, too. I'm ashamed to say I hadn't noticed." "What else haven't you noticed?" "Well, you don't exactly socialize much. I was surprised when you asked me. . . I mean, invited me to star watch with you." Tom ventures. "Surprised?" "Sure. I guess I had never envisioned you spending off-duty time pursuing something trivial. I always thought you did reports, or exercised, or something." "I do those activities as well." Tom is a bit flustered. "Right. . . so. . . do you do anything interesting beside star watch?" ". . . . . . .I. . . .collect art. Statuary." "Really? I should have figured you for an artsy person. Cultural creativeness and all that. I don't suppose you sing?" Tom jokes. "A bit. I sang in the men's chorus at Starfleet Academy for a year." "Incredible. A rather piddly pursuit in the midst of academics, wouldn't you say?" "No. Music is a fine way to stimulate brain patterns and invoke particular states of being." Tom blinks. "Of course. . . so, you collect statues. What kind of statues? Got one of those little guys from Risa?" "I have not visited Risa, actually. I have a small collection of ancient art, from five different species and several cultures." "You know, I just never would have figured you for a collector." Tom is looking more interested. "Why not?" "I don't know. Guess I'd never thought about it." "What else have you not thought about?" "Spending off-duty time with you." Tom folds his arms and looks toward the stars. "Rather than Harry?" Tom stiffens. ". . . . . . . . . . . . .noticed, did you?" "Yes." "I guess I should have expected that." Tom shifts balance, a bit uncomfortable all of a sudden. "Perhaps." "You're not. . . repulsed, or anything weird like that, are you?" Tom looks at him sideways. "Of course not." "Oh. Well, just checking. Like I said. . . " "You'd never thought about it." "Right." Tom nods quickly. ". . . . . . . . . . . . About Harry." "Yes?" "I wish I'd known what you were looking for. I might have known what you would find." Tom raises an eyebrow. "Any particular reason you wanted to mention that?" "Yes. Would you like to see some of my statuary?" Tom really takes a hard look at him. "You're changing the subject? Now?" "Yes. Would you like to see. . . " "Sure. Lead the way. Is it in the storage compartments?" "No, my quarters." "Your quarters." Tom almost smirks. "Correct." "Are you going to tell me about what you think I was looking for?" "Perhaps. You may not like my taste in statuary." Tom frowns. "That's an odd answer." "Not really." "So you say." "Are you coming?" "Of course. You've got my curiosity going wild now." --- "This is great. I would never have thought you'd have such cool stuff." Tom walks about the room, touching lightly. "Thank you, I suppose." "Hey, where's this from?" Tom picks up a statuette of a female dancer. "Betazed." "Wow. Must have paid a bunch for that one. And this?" "Deneb IV." "Cool. You've got some great variety and. . . ." Tom's eye come to rest on a statue standing on a pedestal all by itself in front of the viewport. Away from the others. ". . . ?. . . " "Where. . . this is from Earth." Tom asks quietly, walking over to it. "Correct. Ancient Egypt, to be precise. It is a replica, of course. Something so old would not be allowed to leave the planet." "Ah. . . .." "Do you have a question?" "It's. . . ah, no, no question." Tom folds his arms, resisting the impulse to run his hands over the smooth lines. "The lines of the relief are so gently drawn, you must look closely to tell where one ends and the other begins." "I. . . don't understand." "The statue? It is two men in the process of. . . " "I know about the statue. I mean about why you would have this in your collection." Tom is definitely flustered. "Why not? It is a masterful work of art." "Well, yes, it is, but. . . " "But?" "But why? And why show it to me? Is this what you thought I wouldn't like?" "You aren't repulsed, or something weird like that, are you?" Tom blinks at being parroted. ". . . . . . . . . . . . no. Of course not." "I didn't think so." "Course not. You can read me pretty well, can't you." Tom turns to face him. "Some of the time." "Only some of the time?" "The rest of the time I am preoccupied by observing your movements and gestures, or the play of emotion across your face." After a silent moment, Tom replies, "I see." "You do." "I. . . think so." "I do not. Tom. . . ." "And it's something quite peculiar, that this would come up after I've just broken up with Harry." "Why peculiar? I didn't want to break your earlier relationship. It ran its course. . . and ran dry." "I don't know what to say." Tom really doesn't. "I told you I might have known what you were looking for." "Yes, you did. Then you started off an a tangent about art. . . well, I know where that was coming from now." Tom shakes his head. "Do you want to know? What I think you are looking for?" "This will change everything between us." Tom answers. "I'm sure it will." "I'm not sure I can handle that." Tom shifts his feet. "I believe in you." ". . . . . . . . . .all right. Tell me." Tom looks straight into his eyes, waiting. "It's something shimmering and white, blazing and pure, yet burning and dark as blood. It can consume you and nourish you at the same time. It will tear you to pieces, yet make you whole. It will change your life, yet make everything settle into place. It courses through your veins, feeding the muscles which splay under your skin, brightening your cheeks and ears to that rosy glow, and coloring the tune of your voice. It drives you in so many directions at once, but it's a road that leads you here. . . to me. . . despite your destination." Tom is riveted, studying the man in front of him. ". . . . . . .I'm not sure I got that." "Passion, Tom. Passion." "Passion." "Yes. Passion." "Passion?" Tom looks skeptical. "Yes, Tom." "And you know about passion." A hint of humor carries in Tom's voice. "I want to give you the passion which you crave, and in doing so make us both whole again." ". . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ." Tom is stunned speechless. "If you don't care for my proposition, you're free to leave, of course." ". . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ." Tom nods, making a decision, and begins to move. "Tom. Why are you looking at me like that?" --- His body moves against mine, rough and hard, such a contrast to Harry. I can feel the heat in him, driving, building, burning through our clothes. I don't know what made me do it, but all of a sudden, I needed him. I needed him close to me, against me, in me. I craved his touch. I had to have him. My lips met his, soft at first, both sets growing harsher as minutes of exploration passed, trying our patience. They meshed, a sliding of slick flesh, and I bit at the straining vein in his neck. How it must have been a struggle for him to conceal such feeling - he is literally fiery to the touch, his eyes the only reflection of that need coiled so tightly within him. How long has he watched me, and dreamed? How long ago did he notice me? How much time have we missed out on? His hands move slowly down my chest, slightly caressing the flushed skin through the collar of my shirt. I grow impatient and pull back just enough to pull off the constricting fabric. His eyes flare with some element of joy, and his hot mouth drops to suckle at my nipples, turning them impossibly harder as he sucks roughly at them, tongue bathing them with warm moisture. My hand clench on his shoulders, and I notice that he's still wearing his uniform. Not for much longer. I pull myself back by force of will, separating his voracious mouth from my chest long enough to pull off his jacket and drop it on the couch alongside my shirt. Soon to follow is his undershirt, exposing a smooth expanse of chest, heartbeat throbbing and pumping there, visibly, a testament to his control. His hands smooth down my shoulders, feeling, searching the contours as if memorizing them, his eyes hungrily devouring every inch of skin. Both our hands move to trousers, and soon we are nude, rubbing desperately against each other, hot flesh against burning skin, thick cocks bumping for space between our legs. He's incredibly thick and long, much more so than I would have thought. . . my eyes widen and he notices, his hands turning conciliatory and gentle for a bit before coaxing me back to exploring his body. His carved muscles stand in a sharp relief edge against my hands, they slide under the molten skin like lava flow, his passion for me just burning barely under control. I am. . . stunned by the intensity of his emotion. It's barely visible. . . yet so engulfing. I want to jump in and let go. My hand smooths down his back to clutch at his firm buttocks as his cock slips between my legs to nestle underneath my balls. It's so hot, like a forged steel pipe, its size forcing my legs to pull apart some inches so I can keep my balance. The pressure it just skyrocketing inside me, and I feel as if my groin could explode. . . the heat, the tension, I'm shaking with desire for him. I want him inside me, more than anything, his hot cock ramming into my ass as he jacks me off. I want him so badly. . . and he wants me as well. I can see it in his eyes, feel the frenzy in his hands. Will he take me, like I want so much, forcing hard into me with no mercy and every bit of passion we have? I want so much to be used with loving intent..oh please. Oh please the fire is out of control, I feel as if I'm about to burst and my cock is burning so much, my legs are cemented to the deck, and his body is so hard yet so giving and consuming, wrapping around me. What do I have to do. . . .I'm out of time. . . . --- He suddenly jerks Tom nearer to him for a deep, passionate kiss, and then throws him against the wall, stomach flat against it. Tom pushes away just enough to be able to move. He moves in, hands snaking around Tom's trim waist to pump his cock in deep, even thrusts, wringing a hoarse cry of pleasure from his throat. After a few moments, the lover wipes his hands all over his own cock, wetting its iron length and thickness before leaning forward to capture an ear between his teeth with a growl as he forces Tom over double and impales his ass on his throbbing cock. Equal cries of anguished passion echo off the walls as they grapple, the lover plunging into Tom with all his strength from behind, coring his lover's ass, Tom barely holding himself away from the wall as his lover jerks his cock heavily. Within some moments, their anguished cries become twin screams as they reach the peak of their combined passions. The lovers strain together, desperately, in the throes of pleasure, Tom facing forward with the base of his neck glancing against his lover's shoulder, his light eyes wide open and amazed, two hands held out against the wall. . . the other arching his pumping engorged member, jerking loads of passioncreme into his lover's ass, his hands fiercely gripping his lover's cock, pumping its come across the wall in front of them in thick, milky spurts, driving them both to ecstasy with his own dark eyes shut so tightly. --- The End