Messhall Meditations

I swear to God, Malcolm eats the weirdest crap.

Sliding into the seat across from him, I put my tray down and just stare. He's buried in a padd as usual, incompatible foodstuffs in front of him which hardly make a decent meal. He's so deeply engrossed in what he's doing that I don't even think he knows I'm here.

I start to tuck into my supper. Biscuits and gravy. Meatloaf. A small side of peas and carrots. A well rounded and balanced meal.

Good, normal fare.

As much as I hate seeing what new and grotesque combinations he's eating, I love watching him. Especially when he's like this, concentrating on whatever the hell he's doing, oblivious to his surroundings. Unabashed Malcolm inspection is one of my favorite duties.

His hand reaches out and snags a french fry. Chips he call them. I've told him a thousand times that chips are kind of round and thin, sometimes smooth, sometimes they have ridges. He says those are crisps. I swear, I think the UT was invented just so we could understand those damn Brits and their crazy way of speaking English.

He dips the fry into mayo.

Whoever heard of fries and mayonnaise? That's disgusting if you ask me. And I saw him eat potato chips once.

He put mustard on them.

I watch as his tongue darts out, licking a dab of mayo from the fry, then his tongue kinda wraps around it and pulls it in. It's a little freaky. A little sexy too, to tell the truth. His tongue just looks so damn supple, and I have to concentrate on my dinner before I think too much about what else that tongue could do.

He punches in a few things on his padd and I look at him again. He's got that adorable little smile on his face, that little half grin you know? The one that's partly a snotty smirk and partly just a show of sheer delight. Like when he blows the shit out of something. Yeah, that's the one.

Looks like he's pleased with himself. I realize I'm smiling in response to his grin and I quickly lower my eyes again. I spear a piece of my meat loaf. I just stick in my mouth. My tongue doesn't do any tricks.

I risk another look at him. He's pouring lemon juice into a cup of Chef's finest chicken and rice soup.

Lemon juice.

He stirs it around a bit, licks the spoon, then brings the cup up to his mouth, his other hand busy with the padd, and there's that tongue again.

I see it dip into the cup, kind of lapping a little, probably catching some of the rice. His eyes are still on his padd, inputting something else. I watch as he purses his lips, like he's puckering up to give you the biggest, deepest kiss. He slowly brings the cup to his mouth.

I wish I was that cup.

I concentrated on my peas and carrots.

Peas and carrots are so goddamn boring.

I eat, trying not to think about Malcolm sitting across from me. Trying not to think about the way he plays with his food. He's absently twirling a french fry like some kind of damn cheerleader's baton between those strong fingers. I marvel at how dextrous they are, how nimble and quick.

He finally dips it in the mayonnaise and bites it in half. Goes to dip it again and stops.

Now he's tapping in something else on his padd and he's running that fry over his knuckles, like a magician does with a coin. Everybody's seen that trick, but it's still fascinating to watch. He runs it up and down twice more, then catches it on his thumb. Grabs it and dips it in the chicken soup. Then the mayo.

That's just wrong.

I start in on my biscuit, wiping up the rest of the gravy with it. I catch myself thinking what it would taste like if I leaned over and dipped it in his mayo.

That leads to other images that my overactive imagination just has to hit me with. Tongues and talented hands.

I kind of space out for a moment. Day dreaming.

One of my favorites is being together in decon. He likes decon. It's about the only time I've ever really seen him relax. Which is odd, `cause he's a little introverted and you're mostly naked in there. But he never seems to mind.

I think about smearing that gel all over his tight hard-packed body; I'd start at his shoulders, which are pretty wide considering his frame. I'd rub my way down that strong back of his, paying special attention to the nape of his neck. He's got a sexy neck. Most guys in security don't have a neck, their heads just kinda sit there on their shoulders. I'm sure you know the security type. Brick shithouses with no necks. You know, broadcast weathermen don't have necks either I've noticed. I've always wondered about that; maybe it's a prerequisite to getting your meteorologist credentials or something. But Malcolm's neck is…well. It's…graceful. I bet it's sensitive too. I think I'd like to kiss my way down it, maybe biting just a little. Before I apply the gel, of course.

Then I'd turn him around and get my hands all over his chest. It's well defined, and again, it looks broad. It's `cause his waist and hips are so slender, and even though he isn't the biggest guy on the ship, he's pretty strong and has a lot of muscle under there. Not that you could tell in these damn uniforms. I'd play with his nipples. They're perfect, you know? Nice tight little buds, just a touch darker than his creamy white skin. I'd like to get my mouth on them. I bet he likes them being sucked on, maybe pinched a little. I bet that makes him moan.

I'd grease up his arms next. The man's got some biceps on him, I'll tell you. Some guys, they work out and get all bulked up, and it's like that can't move, can't get their arms down at their sides, they're so huge. It's just a turn off, you know? Give me lean and sinewy muscle every time and Malcolm's got plenty of that. That line of thought leads me down to his legs, and those thighs.

I bet he could wrap those thighs around you and just squeeze the come right outta you.

By now I'd rip those skivvies right off him and get him down on the bench. Which leads me to a dilemma. Do I want him ass up, so I can glide my hands over those tight globes of flesh, just a nice handful each, squeezing and kneading them, maybe parting those mouth-watering cheeks and shoving my tongue into that hot little sweet hole of his? Or do I want him on his back, that hard stomach of his just begging to be rubbed and licked and nibbled on. He's got a tasty looking little belly button on him. `Course there's that cock of his.

I've seen him in his drawers and he's definitely got a package there, just waiting for me to unwrap.

Sometimes I dream about sucking him, licking him, getting all wet and wild with his cock. I bet he's loud in bed. I've always found that it's the quiet ones who surprise you. He'd taste good too, if the way he smells is any indication. A little spicy, maybe a little sweet. I'd suck him dry, and I'd watch his face when he comes.

I'd make love to him, chest to chest, skin on skin. Our sweat mingling, making him slick and smooth, me looking into those eyes. Listening to the sounds he'd make. Maybe he screams, or curses. Or quotes poetry in that amazing accent of his. Hell, he could read Starfleet regulations on the proper care and cleaning of plasma ducts out loud and make it sound like one of Shakespeare's sonnets.

I bet he's a real mover under you too. All that energy making him writhe and squirm, meeting you thrust for thrust. Legs wrapped around you, that nasty tongue of his busy. I bet he gives great head too. Hot and deep, his hands busy squeezing your balls, fingers playing with your ass…

Other times I think about him making love to me. I bet he's careful, not one to rush things. Nice and easy, taking his time. Probably build you up `til you're about fit to pop. He probably likes watching too `cause he's very observant. I suppose it comes with the territory. I can image that thick cock of his, sliding in and out, filling me, his eyes burning into mine. I wonder if they'd be more blue or grey when he's making love. They're more blue when he's blowing things up and enjoying himself; turn more grey when he's mad or arguing or worried. Probably a smoky blue when he's inside you, whispering to you. Maybe dirty, smutty things; maybe words of love.

He's flexible too, you know. I've seen him in the gym with Jessy. Both in those tiny black shorts, tight white tee-shirts, working out.

There oughta be a law against those two dressed like that. Makes it difficult for a man to concentrate.

Last week, him and Jessy were warming up and stretching before they started trying to beat the crap out of each other. Only they call it sparring. They were doing some weird yoga-like stuff.

I didn't know humans could do that. My legs sure as shit can't bend that way. But there they were, arching and twisting, on their backs, on their stomachs, their legs going all over hell and yonder. Holding these pretzel positions. At one point I had a perfect view of two finely defined his-and-her butts, those clinging black shorts clearly delineating flawless, tight, round, just wanna sink your teeth into `em mounds of flesh, right there in my face.

Damn near fell off my bike. Good thing I didn't have shorts on too, `cause I'm sure I would've busted right out of them.

Gifted hands, agile tongue and limber as a sideshow contortionist. And he's damn easy on the eyes too.

Put them all together and it's a wet dream come true.

I realize that I'm now as hard as a goat in a pepper patch and I shift in my chair, shooting a few glances around, hoping no one's noticed. Maybe I better wipe my mouth, just in case I was drooling…

I look at Malcolm again and I must have been really caught up in day dreaming, `cause now he's finished his soup and fries and moved on to dessert.

Maraschino cherries. With cream and brown sugar.

I'm just in time to see him pick one up by the stem. He plops it in a little bowl of cream, then dunks it in the heap of brown sugar he has in a small saucer. Keeps dunking it just like a tea bag, not looking, preoccupied, still working with his padd. I don't think he realizes exactly how big a wad of sugar he's built up on it.

Now I like sugar as much as the next guy, but I think that's way too much. No wonder he's like a hyperactive squirrel on amphetamines sometimes. I mean, you've seen him going point on missions, his arm stuck straight out, phase pistol in hand, darting around, ducking and weaving and bobbing. It's kinda of funny to watch, he's so…kinetic. Then again, you can't say he isn't ready. And that hyper alertness has saved our asses more than once.

It just looks so…weird. Sometimes I wonder if he needed Ritalin or something when he was a little kid.

He guides the cherry to his mouth, the sugar just hanging off it. That tongue darts out again and licks it, then he…

Oh, god.

He's sucking on it.

After damn near giving me a heart attack he sucks it all the way into his mouth, stem and all. I figure I should say something, but maybe British people eat the stem too. I dunno, any group of folks that eat 'spotted dick' and 'toad in the hole' have some funky strange habits. Give me a good old corn dog any day. Or maybe some pigs in a blanket doused in maple syrup with a side of hush puppies. And there's nothing finer than a fried twinkie if you ask me. Or a moon pie. Least we don't have weird names for our food.

He leans forward, now really concentrating on the padd, scrolling through and making changes, mouth working on the cherry.

I see him swallow, but his mouth's still going. I can see his cheeks move as his tongue's doing gymnastics in there.

I wonder again what it would feel like to be inside that mouth. That tongue working my dick. Those hands busy and nasty. I'm pretty sure by now that he'd be a nasty boy in bed. Considering the way he eats.

He takes the stem out of his mouth and tosses on his plate.

It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to come in my pants.

The stem's tied.

A perfect little knot. And he's reaching for another cherry.

I look at my plate. I can't leave; everyone in the place would see exactly how I'm feeling. I'm surprised that I haven't lifted the table up, I'm so stiff.

I kinda scootch around in my chair, trying to find a comfortable position. I must have been squirming for quite awhile `cause when I glance at his plate again, there's six little stems sitting there, all tied into those knots.

Just slap butter on my ass and call me done.

"What the hell are you working on?" I say. I'm just a mite irritable right now.

He startles.

Damn. And here I was almost convinced he was just teasing me. Isn't it nice to know that your presence for the last twenty minutes doesn't make an impression on the guy who you just want to throw across the table and fuck?

He blinks at me. I watch those long lashes brush against his skin and I feel a stab of envy directed toward them. They get to touch him.

"Sorry?"

"I've been sitting here long enough to finish my dinner and you don't even know I'm here?" I know I sound pissed off and petulant, but I'm horny and frustrated. And feeling kinda rejected.

Then I feel bad when I see an expression of guilt flit across his face. He ducks his head a little and mumbles an apology while he shuts off his padd.

"It's all right, Malcolm. I'm sorry; I could've at least given you a holler when I sat down."

That shy little smile appears and I can see he feels relieved. He turns his full attention on me and I try not to get lost in those astonishing eyes.

"I'm sorry, Trip. I was writing to my Aunt Sarah. It's her birthday and I just wanted to make sure everything was shipshape before I sent her my letter."

"She in the Navy too?"

Malcolm snorts. "Hardly. She's an author."

"Really?" And here I thought every Reed was in the military, sticks up their ass, all Bristol fashion. "What does she write?"

Now I suppose I should learn never to drink anything while talking to Malcolm. Especially on the subject of his family. `Cause I damn near choke to death when he answers.

"Porn. Her latest was 'Gay Boys in Bondage.' A follow up to 'The Weeping Cock of Desire'."

When I can finally breathe again, he's just sitting there, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, that sly smirk on his lips. Enjoying my impression of a drowning man. Should've done a spit take right on him, the smug bastard.

"Black sheep of the family, Malcolm?" I manage to gasp.

"One of the few." That smirk becomes more smirky.

"Pretty engrossed for just writing a letter," I say, taking a small sip of my drink.

"I'm attaching photos."

I put my drink down. I make sure I swallow good too, because I'm going to ask -

"Photos of what?"

He flips the padd back on, calls up a few things, and passes it over to me.

Damn good thing there's nothing in my mouth.

I scroll through the pictures, sure my eyeballs have popped right out of my head, sure my jaw's hit the floor, and I know for sure that parts south have re-awoken, and this time I think the table does rise a bit.

"You're sending these to your Aunt? Where did you get them? My god, is that a double ridge?" I take an extra long look at one of them. "And how the hell do you get into that position?"

Now I'm squirming like a goldfish on a hot griddle, trying to find a position that relieves the excruciating tightness of my shorts. He leans over to check out the pictures I've asked about. I look up at him just as he absently dip a finger in his mayo, then stick it in the brown sugar. He brings it to his mouth and I almost die when he sucks on his finger. Slow and real dreamy, not paying attention.

Dear Lord, put me out of my misery.

He rubs his finger against his teeth lightly, in and out of his mouth, scraping off that white creamy mayo and he makes a little humming sound.

Oh, damn.

His tongue is back in action.

Slowly circling the tip of his finger.

Must. Not. Come.

He leans back in his chair, takes his finger out of his mouth and wipes his hands on his napkin.

"Yes, I collect them for her, that's a Karmathen penis, and if you'd like, I can show you how to get into that position."

I goggle at him and damn if the little son of a bitch doesn't have an amused gleam in his eye.

He licks his lips.

Aw, shit.

I'm not gonna be able to walk out of here any time soon.