The man stands silent and still, like a sentry or a deep thinker contemplating the horizon. He is a sculptor's dream rendered lovingly in flesh and bone. There are no clothes to conceal him. Every line and plane is on display. His body is well-muscled, compact, all pale glowing skin over hard muscle. There is a tangible sense of power to him, even at rest, like a panther caught just as it's poised to spring. The view is exquisite from where Jonathan Archer kneels worshipfully at the man's feet, gazing hungrily.

Eager to explore, to please, yet unsure of his welcome, Jon slowly reaches out. He looks hopefully at cool eyes above him, eyes that don't turn from the distance. There is neither encouragement nor censure to be read, simply neutrality. Those eyes promise nothing, but are open to persuasion. That's all right. Jon's up to the challenge, willing to do whatever it might take to please this man.

Jon caresses the firm thigh before him as if it is his most treasured possession. There's just the right amount of fur, enough to be delightfully masculine, but not enough to overshadow the warm, smooth skin beneath. He takes his time mapping that living landscape, his wandering hands focusing solely on the journey.

Equal care is lavished upon the other thigh. Every long stroke is crafted to inflame, an invitation to share in Jon's passion. His hands roam lower, behind the knee, and higher, to a taut belly. He purposely ignores the area between those thighs. Jon firmly believes that love shouldn't be rushed, only savored.

Despite that resolve, his tongue soon joins in the seduction, grooming like a cat. The taste is clean and fresh, of skin bathed not long ago yet with a hint of salt. Underneath that is a rich flavor he can't define. Like anyone else, this man has his own unique flavor, his own unique smell. Jon doesn't know any words truly fit to describe it; he only knows he can't get enough.

He is thorough in his coverage, lovingly licking his way up from knee level, switching legs every so often so that neither has the chance to get lonely. Jon is gratified to feel a fine tremor beneath his questing hands. Encouraged, he works his merry way closer to his goal. It takes a sweet eternity, but he finally traces the seam where thigh becomes torso with the very tip of his tongue. This area is his second favorite feature on a man. A fine example of the first lightly brushes his cheek, as if making a polite request. Jon's flesh seems to burn at that touch, both his face and his groin. He ignores this excitement in favor of spending all his attention on the task at hand. He leans back a little to get a good look, dragging his fingernails lightly up and down the man's hips and thighs as he admires.

Jon is no great authority on penises, but he knows what he likes, and he likes what he sees. This one is a perfect match for the rest of that mouthwatering body. It's just the right length. Long enough to fill his hand or mouth comfortably and fully, but not so long that choking on it is a troublesome issue. It's thick enough to be full and solid without being too heavy. Best of all, the foreskin is intact. Jon's mouth is watering now, so he leans back in.

The man doesn't make a sound as Jon takes him in, but his thigh muscles are tense and quivering. If Jon thought the rest of this man's skin tasted good, it was only because he hadn't sampled fully. This is the true delicacy. He slowly swirls his tongue everywhere it can reach, savoring the taste and texture. Green eyes fall shut to avoid distraction. Jon lets his tongue explore inside the slit, tasting salt.

Almost reluctantly, he begins to move, sucking like he never wants to let go. In many ways, he doesn't. Jon realizes his hands have fallen idle and begins to caress hips and glorious handfuls of the man's rear end. It's almost as satisfying as the treat in his mouth.

But nothing is quite as gratifying as the fingers that thread gently into his hair. Jon moans deep in his throat, intensely pleased by that simple gesture. The drops of cream, which begin slowly leaking into his mouth, taste something like victory.

Those gentle, wonderful fingers rub tiny circles on his scalp, making Jon shiver. He's suddenly very aware of his own body, flushed and aching. That provokes another moan out of him, low and long. Lightly massaging fingers seem to reach all the way down to his toes. It's too much to bear; yet he could spend his whole life in this moment. Gratitude wells up in Jon, and he sucks almost fiercely in his effort to share the feeling. The pace quickens until it's too much for both of them. Flavor explodes in his mouth at the very same moment he himself ignites. He shakes like a tiny toy boat in a sea squall and lights swim in his vision. Jon forgets everything else and floats blissfully until the waters begin to calm.

He comes back to himself to discover they're now lying down. He's draped bonelessly over two strong legs, head pillowed on a hip with now limp flesh still held safe in his mouth. Reluctantly, he releases his prize with a kiss to the tip in farewell. Jon heaves a contented sigh and nuzzles the body beneath him with his cheek.

Fingertips resume their slow dance on his scalp. Jon tilts his head upward and catches his breath. The man's face still hasn't relaxed much, but there is a slight smile on those sweet lips and his eyes-there's warmth in those blue-gray depths that are now willing to almost meet his gaze.

Consciousness hit like a brick. The scene shattered around him and fell away to reveal the darkness of his quarters. Jon drew an unsteady breath and let it out in an explosive sigh. The sound echoed back to him like an aftershock. Wearily, he scrubbed a hand over his face, absently noting the hard grain of stubble in contrast to the smoothness of sweat dampened skin. He sighed again, more softly this time, and rolled onto his back. The bedclothes felt cool against his heated skin. He lay still for a time, just breathing, waiting for his heart to calm.

"Damn," his awed voice rang out in the darkness. "That was intense." He chuckled mirthlessly, wondering how in hell he was going to be able to face his bridge shift in the morning with such a vivid fantasy still fresh in his mind. It was hard enough to keep his composure around the man under normal circumstances, but this.this was going make it even harder.

It wasn't unusual for Jon to have erotic dreams, especially during times when his work kept him too busy or too isolated for dating to be an option. Sometimes, the dream was simple. There would be an attractive, willing stranger with whom he would disrobe and have sex. That sort of dream was enjoyable enough in the moment, but so purely focused on the act itself as to be ultimately forgettable. Other dreams were imaginative and fantastical in nature. Jon had fond memories of floating in space without the encumbrance of an EV suit with an ethereal creature he'd encountered. Her body was long and delicate, propelled by something very like wings. Thin, broad and colorful, they looked like butterfly wings but moved more like fins. She looked insubstantial, like a mirage, but she'd been soft and solid to the touch. Her skin had burned his in the way cinnamon candy burns the tongue.

Sometimes his dreams would be more about sensation rather than actual interaction. These often tended to involve water. Jon might be on a beach, soft sand cradling his nude body, warm sunlight caressing him while waves lapped at his legs, and the sea sang to him. Or maybe he'd lie down on smooth rock under a waterfall and let the rushing water pound into him.

Then there were times he dreamt of people he knew. Often it would be a familiar face, like the waiter at his favorite restaurant, or Admiral Forrest's redheaded secretary, people Jon was acquainted with but wasn't close to. He'd fallen asleep once on the trip to Jupiter Station. His seatmate, Ensign Belladonna, was on Trip's team of engineers but had been a stranger to Jon at the time. He had dreamt they were riding a horse together, loping across an open field full of vibrantly colored vegetation. The close contact and gentle rocking of the horse's gait had provided all the inspiration the dream pair needed.

Those dreams were fun, mildly embarrassing in the light of day, but perfectly normal. It was only when someone he truly cared for showed up on the dark side of his eyelids that a dream had any power. Other dreams satisfied his body, and sometimes his mind, but these engaged his heart.

Even on a subconscious level, Jon was the faithful sort. When he was seeing someone, he didn't even dream of anyone else. If he was lucky, he'd wake up beside his dream partner and have the opportunity to make a little reality out of his fantasy. If he woke up alone, that wasn't as nice, but still satisfying in it's way. The anticipation simply made his next date with the person that much more special. Waking alone was only a bitter, aching experience when he was healing from a break-up. When that happened, Jon would invariably spend the remaining twilight hours curled around a spare pillow, staring at the wall until the alarm went off. If the break was fresh and still cut to the quick, you'd probably find him out pacing the neighborhood with his dog.

He was never quite sure how to feel about the times he dreamt of people he was interested in, but hadn't approached. It was like taking a sip of fine wine. The pleasure warmed his insides, but the taste lingered on his tongue and left him thirsting for more.

Jon had certainly had his share of erotic dreams about a variety of men and women, but he couldn't recall any that were as intense and moving as the one he'd just woken from. This was not the first time Malcolm had paid him a nocturnal visit, not by far. He had been dreaming of the man with ever-increasing frequency since their first meeting. Jon smiled, thinking back to that strange dark planet they'd encountered a while back. What had those hunters called it? Dekala. T'pol had asked if Jon would be so determined to find his elusive new friend had it been a scantily clad man, and his subconscious had settled that question decisively the next time he had had the chance to sleep. Malcolm had been even more alluring in an abbreviated boy scout uniform than the alien woman could ever hope to be in her diaphanous gown. Malcolm was always at least two steps ahead of him, close enough to be seen but not to be touched. The chase was so exhilarating, it hadn't mattered so much then that his quarry stayed out of reach.

His past dreams were no comparison to this latest dream. Jon's dearest wish was to be allowed the chance to show Malcolm what they could have together, how good it could be. To be given the chance to touch him, to taste. Jon shivered with the memory. Seducing Malcolm, even in the realm of fantasy, was uplifting, reinforcing the feeling that he had something worthwhile to offer for Malcolm's affection. This dream made him feel sexy, while the Dekala dream had made him feel more like a hound hunting a fox.

A wistful sigh broke loose. Malcolm was foxy to be sure, but the man showed no sign of wanting to be caught or even pursued during Jon's waking hours. Even friendship seemed beyond his reach at times. Jon envied Trip his ease with Malcolm, but welcomed the insight his best friend was able to provide. Every time Trip happened to share something Malcolm said or did, Jon listened intently, eager for any new information. Understanding Malcolm Reed was the key to winning him over.

Jon shifted onto his side, curling around his spare pillow. Circumstances dictated that he dare not make a move unless he was certain his interest was returned. Even then, he'd have to tread lightly. For now, and possibly for good, things would have to remain as they were, his desire on a short leash, only Porthos and the bulkhead knowing the depth of his feelings for Malcolm.