Rated NC-17
Disclaimer: Paramount owns Voyager, I own this story. The characters have more fun in my stories, but Paramount makes a whooooole lot more money. Is that any fair?
You'd think that people would have had enough of silly love songs.
But I look around me and I see it isn't so.
Some people wanna fill the world with silly love songs.
And what's wrong with that?
I'd like to know, 'cause here I go again*
I don't know what made me do it. It's not as if I'd thought of her that way in years.
There was nothing extraordinary happening that I could blame my actions on. No recent run-ins with aliens hell-bent on exterminating us, no extreme supply shortage, although we're always short of something. B'Elanna was belly-aching for more help, more dilithium, more this, more that - perfectly normal. Tuvok had just finished running another training session, and as a result of "our poor performance", immediately followed it up with yet another security upgrade. At the last staff meeting, the captain muttered under her breath that he was being obsessive, which to me, means he was being Tuvok.
Neelix had been lamenting that every attempt he made at getting leola root to grow in the airponics bay was unsuccessful. I didn't have the heart to tell him that a couple of the crew, who should remain nameless (Dalby and Carey), took it upon themselves to make sure that every planting was thoroughly watered - with salt water. The rest of the crew consider their actions to be humanitarian. The only person ever to like leola root, besides Neelix, was Kes. It was the one thing I didn't like about her.
The holodecks were functioning fine, with Sandrine's still the most popular program. Overall, pretty quiet as things go in the Delta Quadrant. Even Seven and B'Elanna hadn't squabbled as much as usual. The captain actually managed to get Seven to apologize to B'Elanna for initiating an engine diagnostic without consulting her first. Kathryn told me with great glee that B'E was so completely flabbergasted, all she could stammer to the former Borg after a moment of stunned silence was, "Just don't do it again."
All in all, everything was normal. Merrily we roll along, roll along, roll along.
So I have zero excuse for kissing my commanding officer and hauling her to the floor of my quarters.
I'd invited Kathryn to have dinner with me, or more accurately, Kathryn had shown up at my door to ask me a question - I don't remember what - just as I was about to get myself something to eat. Funny how often that happens. I'd like to think it's my company she's after, but I'm pretty sure it's more likely that she's low on rations because of all the coffee she drinks. Anyway, as usual, I asked if she'd like to stay for dinner, and as usual, she accepted.
I returned from the replicator with dessert as she concluded the story about Seven and B'Elanna. With a flourish, I set before her a bowl of ice cream with a lit candle stuck in it. She stopped talking mid-sentence and stared at it. Let it be known, that I, Chakotay of Trebis, have accomplished something that no creature in any quadrant has ever done before. I managed to shut Kathryn Janeway up. Only for a moment mind you, but still, it is an accomplishment.
She blinked at it, then at me. "What's this? It's not my birthday, Chakotay."
I stood beside her, one hand on the back of her chair. "I know that. I just thought that (a) getting Seven to apologize for anything, and (b) causing B'Elanna to react mildly when her babies are messed with, are two things that should definitely be celebrated. Hell, I think we ought to let them know in the next transmission home. Starfleet will probably promote you just for that."
"By 'her babies', I assume you mean B'Elanna's beloved engines?"
"Of course."
She stared at the candle for a moment before blowing it out. "I guess it is a pretty momentous occasion. A promotion, you said?"
"Absolutely," I replied. "Might even get appointed as an ambassador. You know what a cushy life most of them have with nothing to do but be wined and dined every night."
"Ah yes," she stated solemnly with a nod, "just what I've always aspired to: a life of being polite and diplomatic 24/7 in the face of lunacy and childishness. Thanks so much, Chakotay." She took a spoonful of the ice cream, then offered me one. "Want some?"
"Sure."
And that's when I did it. That's when I kissed her.
I was long past being infatuated with her. In the first couple of years, I used to dream about her, and let me say, it's a damned good thing Suder was the only Betazoid onboard. After we got back from New Earth, I knew in my head that a relationship would never happen on Voyager. And I agreed. I only had to think 'Seska' and that settled it for me. It just took a little longer for my heart and my subconscious to accept it.
So, I swear on Bothby's boxing gloves that I hadn't been thinking at all of making a move on Kathryn. It was only when the cold sweetness of the ice cream overlaying the warmth of her lips registered with me, that I even realized I had done it.
While it wasn't a long kiss, it certainly wasn't a brief peck of friendship either, and when we stopped, I'm sure the shock on her face was mirrored on mine. Regulations began streaming through my mind. What I had just done could be construed as assaulting my commanding officer, and I could be facing brig time.
The expression on her face changed, became almost amused. That familiar quirky grin appeared, and when she opened her mouth to speak, I kissed her again. It was the second time in as many minutes that I'd managed to shut her up. I should have thought of this a long time ago.
It was at that point I pulled her out of her chair and rolled her underneath me on the floor. As the old Terran phrase goes, in for a penny, in for a pound. Brig time just expanded to thirty-five years or so.
Now, I know Kathryn Janeway very well. I've seen her in action, and many are the foes who assumed that because she is small that she is weak. Wrong. And for some of them, it was dead wrong. I learned early in our journey that most of the time, not only were my protective tendencies unwelcome, but they were simply unneeded. During one of the multiple occasions when we were under attack, Kathryn flattened one alien with a round-house kick, followed by an extra flick of the same foot that clipped a second alien under the chin and dropped him like load of titanium. When I asked her about it later, her comment was, "It's the early ballet training. Helps with balance."
Occasionally, I've been her workout partner in the holodeck gym, and she can press more weight than anyone her size, other than Torres. And even B'Elanna has commented more than once after sharing a Klingon exercise program with her, that Captain Janeway is "one tough broad."
So I was quite confident that she could easily make her wishes known if she wanted me to stop. And indeed, her hands came up to my face and pushed me back from her. But instead of calling for security, or at the very least, a computer scan of her first officer for alien possession, all she said was, "What took you so long?" Then she grabbed my ears and pulled me back to her mouth.
To say that I was shocked is like saying the DQ has a few unfriendly inhabitants. My lapse of concentration was all it took for Kathryn to have me flipped onto my back, and straddling my waist with her legs. In another ten seconds, she had my shirt open and her sweater flung away. Then she lowered her body to mine with a contented sigh of, "That's much better."
Sensory overload. A brief glimpse of her naked torso, creamy white skin, rosy nipples, flaming tousled hair, flashing blue eyes, and flushed cheeks. Magnificent. Powerful. Triumphant, and me her willingly vanquished slave.
The feel of her skin on mine was like warm silk. Of their own accord, my hands moved over her smooth back. When she bent over me, the mounds of her breasts branded my chest, the heat of her body enflamed mine.
The taste of her, as her tongue probed my mouth, drawing mine into play was sweet and hot, a drugging nectar. Every long-buried dream and desire I'd ever had of her began flitting through my shocked brain like a fragmented collage.
Less than two minutes previous, I'd been standing beside her, serving dessert. It took a few moments for my frozen brain cells to catch up, and I rolled us again so she was underneath me once more. I broke the kiss to stare down at her. Although the sight of her breasts pushed up and together by the weight of my body made it hard to think, I managed to gasp, "What do you mean, what took me so long?"
Again, that classic Janeway smirk appeared. "Chakotay, you know the regs as well as I do. An officer cannot make any sexual overtures to a subordinate."
I stared at her in disbelief. All these years she'd been waiting for me to make a move. Anger began to pulse through me, and I pushed myself away from her. I was pissed, royally pissed. At her, at Starfleet, at the fates, and most of all, at myself. All these fruitless, empty years. Time is the most precious commodity in life, something that can never be redeemed, yet here was nothing but waste. And for what?
I heaved myself upright, bent to grab her upper arm, and hauled her to her feet. Sweeping her into my arms, I marched into my bedroom, and unceremoniously tossed her onto the bed. The "oof" had barely escaped her lips, before I had stripped off the rest of my clothes.
By the time she pushed her hair out of her face and propped herself on her elbows, I had her boots off and was working on her trousers. "I guess I can take it this is a sexual overture," she murmured.
"Yes ma'am." I threw her pants across the room. Kneeling before her, I ran my hands up her trim calves to her knees and pressed them wide.
She gasped as I blew a breath over her moist folds. "And I guess this could qualify as crunch time."
"Damn straight." I leaned forward to plunge my tongue into her, relishing her cry. Sweet, sweet, sweet. I stroked my hands up and down her elegantly muscled legs as they dangled off my bed. "You have gorgeous legs," I mumbled against her.
"It's - oh!" She shivered, then tried again. "It's the ballet."
In a while, I discovered another benefit of her early ballet training. She's very flexible.
The End
*Silly Love Songs, Wings At the Speed of Sound, 1976
There is a drabble sequel to this story... Read Pas de Deux, Anyone?
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© Brianna Thomas, July 2006 Please email me to post/distribute elsewhere.