A story for Sira and Ria. :) Thank you ladies, for fuelling my next obsession, and for taking on the VAMB secret gift exchanges. As always, grateful thanks to my wonder-betas, Brianna and Mary S. (Soooo sorry about all those sentences starting with 'she'!).
Feedback? Please. Shayenne
She'd seriously misjudged him.
As her head thudded into the bulkhead, alarm coursed through Janeway's body. Her first officer leaned over her, his hands on her shoulders.
Chakotay's mouth curled upwards in amusement. "What makes you think I want your ship?" he inquired.
Janeway lifted her chin and stared him in the eye. The back of her head was sore--her bun had protected her skull from the bulkhead, but the impact had forced several of her hairpins out of alignment; they scraped her scalp with enough discomfort to border on pain. She studied his powerful body, the way his sturdy thighs filled out the black pants. His mouth, that devilish, handsome mouth, was quirked in a half smile, and his eyes bored blackly into her own.
"Don't you?" she asked, even as the words filled her with alarm. "Forcing me against the bulkhead implies you want something."
He laughed, a short, dry rasp. "Something, yes."
Theirs had been an uneasy alliance from the start. A leap of faith on her part. Or maybe she was just adhering to the old proverb of keeping your enemies close. But in the shock and desperation of being stranded in the Delta Quadrant, as she'd walked the corridors hearing the angry words some didn't bother to suppress, suffused in the sinking dread that she'd never see Earth again, it was the only way out she could see.
Torres' words still echoed in her head, sometimes waking her out of fitful sleep. "What right does she have?" Torres had snarled, and Chakotay's quiet answer, "She's the captain."
Right now, she wondered if that still were true.
Chakotay's fingers lifted to touch the pips at her neck. "Do you think I want your baubles?" he said, and his hand fell away, brushing her breast on the way down to his side. "You don't know me that well, Captain."
Her mouth suddenly dry at the passing touch of his fingers, she lifted her chin. "It would be logical. I hear the talk; some of the Maquis want you in command."
"They do," he agreed, with a deceptive amiableness. "Did Tuvok tell you that? Or Paris?" The last word was spat with venom.
"What makes you think I didn't hear it for myself?"
He smiled, but it wasn't an easy one. It slid over his face like shadows over the moon: dark, fleeting, intangible. "We've been in the Delta Quadrant for nearly three weeks. In that time, you've barely exchanged two words with any of my crew."
"Our crew."
"If they're ours, Captain, then start talking to them."
The denial rose swiftly. "I've been in engineering-"
"Talking to Carey. Fleet."
"Sickbay-"
"That collection of Fleet photons that is the EMH."
"Security, to arrange-"
"Tuvok. The man you trust most on this ship. Fleet. Tell me why you didn't make him your first officer?"
"I hear the crew talk," she said passionately, ignoring his question, as it was one she'd asked herself, and one she preferred not to answer.
"If we're to get home, we need to work together. One ship, one crew. That means you have to talk to all of them, not just the Starfleet subset. Talk to them. Not merely brush away the murmurs of the dissatisfied."
"And what about yourself?" she challenged. Her shoulders shifted underneath his hands, restless at his touch. "You've been just as insular."
"I've been in engineering as well-"
"Talking to Torres, who seems to be welded there at present."
"Transport room, overseeing-"
"Baxter. One of your problem children."
"The mess hall," he challenged.
"Chell. Who, I might add, is annoying Neelix with his suggestions."
"You like Neelix's food that much? Believe me, Chell would be an improvement."
Janeway slipped out from underneath his hands, pacing to the far side of the room. His eyes burned into her back like liquid fire. Her shoulders straightened. "This conversation is getting us nowhere."
His eyes glittered. "I wouldn't say that. We've just established that our crews are still two separate identities, and it would seem that their leaders aren't doing anything to help."
She spread her hands wide, absently noting her torn and ragged nails. Hard work, manual work. Not a captain's work, but what could she do? "What do you suggest, Commander?"
Here it comes, she thought, he'll make his move, state his claim. Despite his earlier words, she still felt he coveted her command. She expected him to say why Voyager would be better, safer, under his control. She wasn't sure she could take hearing that, and she wasn't sure what she would answer. Janeway knew what her answer should be: she should assert her command, claim her ship, reiterate Starfleet protocols and how the Maquis needed to toe the line. But a small, secret part of her wondered if, indeed, she shouldn't turn her command over to him, take on the XO role herself. Let him guide them home, without rigid protocols. With a more fluid, flexible approach, surely they stood a better chance?
He didn't answer her immediately, merely stood watching her, a coiled, careful expression his face.
It was his caution that made her wary. Chakotay was a powerful man. Leashed, contained power; it was there in the silent grace of his walk, there in his quiet words. Had he been an arrogant, loud kind of man she wouldn't have worried, as she'd found throughout her career that the most vocal were generally insignificant blusterers. No, the ones to watch for were the stealthy, quiet types. For they waited for the opportune moment before making a move with deadly force. Her scalp tingled from more than the rasp of misplaced hairpins. With premonition.
And then she became aware of what he was hiding. It was there in the bunched fists at his side, there in his stance, the tension that radiated from him. It was there in the way his uniform tented slightly over his groin.
He wants me, she thought with a thrill that was both shocking and urgent. That's what he wants. Not the ship. Me.
She knew he was a handsome man; she'd have to be dead not to register that fact. And, despite the urgency of their situation, she'd caught the admiring glances from some of her crew, seen the way the Delaney twins eyed him with avarice, and seen how quiet Tal Celes blushed when he smiled in her direction. Seen too, how some of his crew treated him with the familiarity that only intimacy brings. It was obvious, to her at least, that he and Seska were lovers. Maybe Torres too, although Torres' prickly demeanor made that one hard to call. And he and Mike Ayala treated each other with the rough affection of male lovers. She'd filed those facts away much as she had noted that he didn't eat meat, and that he was obviously loyal to a fault, and that his word, once given, would not be retracted. He'd given his word that Tom Paris would be safe under his protection, and she'd believed him implicitly.
Her eyes narrowed as she absorbed this new information. He wanted her, but what was the price? Was having the captain in his bed an exchange for his compliance? Or was it a power game? The captain controls the ship, but who controls the captain?
Mark flashed across her mind but she dismissed his memory. Much as she loved Mark, she'd put longing for him to the back of her mind. That didn't mean she was ready to move on. The logical part of her mind had already accepted that Mark was lost to her, and that if it was going to take them 70 years to get home, then someday--maybe soon, maybe in a few years--she would move on and take a lover. She didn't dwell upon the minutiae of that fact; after all that was in her future, not now, and there were more immediate things to consider. Grieving for Mark, considering a possible future lover and partner, they weren't the actions of now. Now was for dilithium and food and repairs and crew and forging alliances of the non-romantic kind.
But as Chakotay stood in front of her, his arousal pressing against his pants and his eyes glittering with some undefined emotion--becoming more evident, she noted, as he in turn observed her reaction--she realized that she had to make this decision now, and that in turn, it would impact every choice she made about Voyager and the crew from this point forward.
"One crew," he repeated. "A united crew."
"And is this your answer?" she asked, and her eyes dropped deliberately to scan his groin.
He didn't dissemble. "Can you think of a better one?"
"What you and I do -- if, indeed we do anything -- in the privacy of our quarters is our own business. The crew won't know if we're lovers."
I'm talking as if the decision is already made, she realized with a thrill. When did that happen?
He noticed her wording. "When we're lovers," he stated quietly, "the crew will know."
"You plan on sending out a bulletin?"
"No need. It will be evident."
"As it's evident that you and Seska are lovers?" she challenged. "And Ayala."
He shrugged. "You'll be the only one, if that's what's bothering you."
She laughed, a low humorless grate of sound. "For 70 years?"
"If that's what it takes."
"And do you expect our crews to follow our example? Will Torres pick a Starfleet mate? What about Baxter? He barely can bring himself to sneer in their direction in the mess hall."
"Torres is her own person. Always has been."
So they weren't lovers, she realized. And in the next breath, she wondered when she'd lost the upper hand. When had the conversation morphed from being a discussion about their crews to being a negotiation of a relationship?
Relationship.
He wasn't merely trying to bed the captain. He wasn't negotiating a bout of friendly fire, or a one night stand; he was trying to forge a more lasting bond. That she realized implicitly, even as she wondered what it was that made her trust him, and why, when he'd thrust her back against the bulkhead, she hadn't frozen him out with an icy word and a call to security.
Instead, she was considering his proposition, although as with any contract, she wanted the best deal.
"If we're lovers," he said, "our crews will realize that they can't drive a wedge into the command structure. That they can't play one of us against the other, or stage a takeover."
"We don't need to be lovers for that," she argued. "'Friends' works just as well."
"Friendship would be seen as a staged negotiation, a false front to portray exactly the sort of image you're suggesting." He moved closer to her again. "Is my idea such an unappealing proposition, Captain?"
"You're suggesting an alliance, not a love affair. In this context, whether it's appealing is irrelevant."
"I consider it relevant. And appealing." His eyes worked their way methodically down her body, lingering on her face, neck, shoulders, breasts and down further. His fingers touched her cheek, his thumb rubbing lightly on her lip. "Don't tell me you find the idea repugnant?"
Her pulse thundered in her ears. "And if I did?"
His body angled closer, and his thumb caressed her lower lip. "I'd say you're a liar. And not a good one. There's been an attraction between us from the start. I know you feel it."
"I have a fiancé," she said, but even as she spoke the words she knew them for a weak defense, a final barrier.
"I know." His words were quiet and sincere. "I'm sorry. We've all left people behind. It's hard. But we have to move on."
"Did you leave anyone?"
"Not a lover."
"No, yours came with you. What will Seska think of our arrangement?"
"It's none of her business". His hand dropped to her shoulder, ran down her arm to find her hand. "It sounds as if you've made your decision." He wound his fingers firmly through hers and tugged, and suddenly the space between them was gone, and she was pressed against him, chest to breast. His face came down to nuzzle her hair, and his hot breath warmed her. "This is about us, Kathryn. There'll be no room for anyone else in your bed but me. No Paris, for it's obvious he would like to have you. No phantom lovers. No Mark. No Torres-"
"Torres?" She stared up at him.
"As I said, she's her own woman."
"And what about in your bed?''
"Just you." Lean fingers tilted her chin and his lips moved over her face, brushing, caressing, until they rested over her lips. "Isn't that what you want, Kathryn?"
And then he was kissing her, and she realized that yes, that was what she wanted. Now she knew what he tasted like, how those full lips moved on hers, and how hot he felt pressed against her. One part of her mind whispered that he was moving too fast, that he hadn't left her time to analyze this decision, study the possible impacts, correlate the available data, make projections as to risk, but that was Kathryn the science officer talking. Kathryn the captain was a risk taker, one who worked on gut and instinct, and those instincts were rising up, and it was those instincts that had her wrapping an arm around his neck, pulling him closer, letting him deepen the kiss so that her lips trembled beneath his and his tongue plundered her mouth, much as his hands were already mapping her body.
He raised his head to study her. "I see you don't waste time," he said. "I like a decisive person."
"You seem like a man of talent," she breathed, "let me see what you can do."
There'd been heat and promise in his eyes before, but now the air was suddenly thick with it. Anticipation hovered in the pounding of her blood, in the taste of him lingering on her lips. I want him, she thought, and parts of her were swelling and liquid in anticipation, in a way that had seldom happened before. Mark had never stirred this urgency, this compulsion, this desire for another body. She'd never wanted to subsume herself in Mark, never needed to feel him inside her so desperately that she didn't know how she'd take her next breath without him.
His smile was feral, hard and fierce. "I take it that's a 'yes' then?"
"Was there ever any doubt?"
"No. But I had to be sure."
She wished he'd stop talking She wanted his hands on her skin, wanted him to trace her flesh with assurance, with skill, with passion, and yes, with tenderness. If they were to be lovers for the next 70 years, then this wouldn't only be about their bodies and how they fit together. It would be about more than sex. Inevitably, caring, and yes, love, would steal in like morning mist, but that wasn't for now. Now was for passion and forging alliances of steel in the furnace of their lust.
Deliberately, she pushed him away. The momentary confusion in his eyes was replaced by sparks as her fingers moved to the closure of her jacket. Shrugging out of it, she placed it carefully over the back of a chair. The turtleneck came next, pulled off in a deliberate gesture. When her hands moved to the hem of her tank, he tried to stop her.
"Wait," he said, hoarsely. "Go slower."
The fire in her blood wouldn't let her wait. She wanted completion. Decision made, she wanted to race to the finish line--him, buried within her; her convulsing around him, their juices mingling and spreading, sticky on her thighs, his sweat cooling on her body, his scent in her nose--rather than waste time with words and explanations and delicacies. With suddenly shaking fingers, she fumbled with the closure of her pants.
As they fell, Chakotay lunged to his knees, pressing his face to her exposed belly. Impatiently, she pushed at her pants, and his fingers were there tangling with her own and together they dragged her pants to her knees, her underwear with it. The cool air of her quarters licked at her exposed sex as she struggled to part her legs, pushing against the bunched clothing impeding her. She was wet with arousal; already she could feel it slick on her thighs. And he has yet to touch me properly, she thought, as the crimson waves of lust pulsed in her head. He has yet to touch me in any way that matters.
And then his mouth was between her thighs, nose nuzzling into her curls as he worked his tongue into her sex, sweeping around, finding her clit, caressing--hard, too hard for her liking, too fierce and direct. But it didn't seem to matter that it was different because, instantly, she was coming, his fast flicks pushing her up and up, over into the abyss, her knees trembling underneath her and her body shaking with the intense, blinding sensation.
Even when the ripples receded into muted waves of pleasure, it wasn't over. Chakotay stayed between her thighs, his tongue idly exploring her sex, softer, more gentle now in contrast to the fierce friction of the moment before. He noticed when she flinched, where she was too sensitive, and instead, he concentrated on indirect pleasure, tasting her juices with noisy appreciation. She thought she should stop him, pull him to his feet and undo his pants, rub him to his own completion, but the deliciousness of his face between her legs was too good to stop. Mark had only gone there unwillingly and, sensing he was not comfortable with the act, she'd never pushed him. But Chakotay seemed to take genuine delight in what he was doing. And that earthiness was arousing her more than she could believe. So when his tongue started circling her clit again, when he added a finger to the mix, pushing first one then a second into her sodden channel, she gave herself up to the selfishness of the moment, and joyfully reveled in his mouth and tongue. She came for a second time, if anything harder, more intense, the spasms longer, deeper within her belly.
He sighed, and withdrew with a playful nip to her inner thigh, a sharp bloom of pain that she knew would bruise. Encouraging him to his feet, she pushed her damp hair out of her eyes and kissed him, a long, sloppy kiss that tasted more of herself than of him.
Her body was relaxing down in the aftermath, but there was a hopeful look in his eyes that she couldn't--didn't want to--ignore. Bending, she shucked herself of the confining clothes; boots, the crumpled and bunched pants, the damp underwear. His eyes licked down her partially dressed body.
"And the rest," he said. "I want you naked."
"Later," she replied, and kissed him again. Right now, she wanted to see if his body was as golden and smooth as his face, if his cock was firm and dusky, and if he knew how to use it as well as he used his tongue.
His hands were in her hair, deftly removing the pins, freeing the weight of hair so that it spilled down her body in a curling damp mass. She was sweaty, both from the pressures of duty, which meant she hadn't had a shower since the day before, and from the excitement of his lovemaking, but he didn't seem to care, burying his nose in her hair, in the crook of neck and shoulder, his hums and sighs telling her he was as involved in the moment as she.
She wanted to return the pleasure he had given her, wanted him to experience the immediacy, the shock of instant pleasure. And there was something fitting about it too; this decision had been an impulsive one, on her part anyway, so what more fitting celebration than coming straight to the point, without the dance of foreplay? Dropping to her knees, she fumbled with the clasp of his pants, pulling them roughly apart, delving inside with her fingers, pushing cloth out of the way.
He inhaled sharply, with delight, she hoped, and his hands came down again to tangle in her hair.
Palming his underpants--damp, his cock already leaking in anticipation--she finally freed his erection. Her fingers stroked his length, learning the silken contours, feeling the vein that bulged on the underside, the purple mushroom head. Touching her lips to the end, she delighted in his startled reaction.
"Kathryn," he breathed, "would you...?" and his words disappeared as she took him in her mouth, tasting the musk and salt, swallowing him down until her nose pressed against the wiry curls in his groin.
His hands tightened in her hair until her whole scalp burned from the pressure of his touch. He wasn't forcing her, merely holding her there, letting her know what he liked. Glancing up through her lashes, she saw him, head tilted back, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, breathing hard with the pleasure of what she was doing. Sitting back on her heels, she worked a hand through the opening of his pants, enough so that she could stroke his balls. They were hard and tight, drawn up close to his body.
"Kathryn," he said, hoarsely, and his hips reflected the urgency in his voice, the subtle to and fro movement showing clearly how close he was. "Kathryn, I want to come inside you."
But she wanted him where he was. The power of her mouth, even the musky-sour taste of him, the feeling of him drum-tight underneath her fingers, they all added to the thrill. No, she wanted her first officer to come right here. Yes, there was an element of control in her decision; she wanted him to fly apart much as she had done, but it was also that she was enjoying this, enjoying his grunts and urgency and helpless, fractured pleasure.
And then his fingers tightened so hard in her hair that she feared he'd rip out whole chunks of it by the roots.
"Oh," he said, "Spirits..."
And he was coming, flooding her mouth with his salty spend, his hand pushing her mouth onto him, not that she would have moved away, and she swallowed his essence, sucking him dry.
"Oh," he said again, and then, brokenly, "Oh, Kathryn."
Her knees ached from the deck, and she sat back on her heels, only now feeling her thighs cramp from the position she'd been in. Chakotay's cock drooped out of his pants, a trail of semen--or was it her saliva?--glistening on the black of his uniform.
He was watching her, his dark eyes inscrutable as moonrise.
What now? she wondered. What is he waiting for? She glanced at his cock again. Part of her wanted to coax him back to full arousal, take him by the hand and lead him to her bed, let him thrust into her over and over, his rigid pole filling her belly, stretching her open, truly claiming her for his own. But a larger part of her simply wanted to lie with him on her bed, let him stroke her hair, kiss her temple, and hold her until she slept.
Standing, she took a tentative step forward, just as he did, so that they met halfway, their arms rising instinctively to hold each other. He was still dressed, she wore only her tank, and he enfolded her into his big body, pressing his face down into her damp hair.
"Kathryn," he mumbled again, and this time she followed her instinct and extricated herself to lead the way into her sleeping quarters.
They were untidy--she'd left that morning in a hurry--the bed not made, the sheet and cover hanging onto the floor. There was a jumble of hairclips scattered on the dresser, and her nightdress tossed over the pillow. Chakotay looked around, then moved to the far side of the bed, shedding his jacket, pulling the turtleneck over his head, and toeing off his boots.
"Confident," she murmured, even as she enjoyed the view of smooth golden skin, and pleasantly bulky muscles.
He smiled, and then her breath caught, as he was naked, and thoughts of sleep flew out the viewport at the sight of his belly, and what hung beneath. Not erect now, but turgid, stirring.
Naked, he rounded the bed, back to where she stood. Cupping her bottom, he rubbed a thick finger through her juices. She must be a mess, she thought, all sweat and sex, and a disheveled tank top that didn't come lower than her belly and nothing beneath, but he didn't seem to care, and his fingers explored for brief moments, passing over her clit in one long sweep until she gasped and the longing for him to fill her welled up again.
Withdrawing, he pulled the tank over her head, and unclipped her bra so that she was as naked as he. Rising up on her toes, she drew his head down to hers, and kissed him again. He tasted of her still.
She broke the kiss to ask, "I taste of you. Does it bother you?"
He smiled. "No. Mike Ayala, remember? Does that bother you?"
"Mike? No. Unless it's not over."
"It's over. I give you my word. From now on, it's just you."
"It's just you," she echoed, and then they were kissing again, long, lazily, slowly.
And then, inevitably he was hard again, and the imprint of his length branded her belly with its steel. He kissed her breasts, touching them with assurance, circling her nipples with his tongue, biting gently, enough to give pleasure, feathering on the edge of pain. It was he who moved to the bed, he who lay on his back, encouraging her to straddle him. With his powerful body recumbent beneath her, deceptively relaxed, only his cock pointing upwards, she sat on his thighs, her hands resting on his chest. Rising up, she grasped him, shuffling forward so that the tip brushed her sex, then sank down, taking him inside in one movement.
It had not been so long since she'd last had sex--Mark, only a few short weeks prior--but Chakotay was large and long. She was slick and wet with arousal, and he filled her completely, stretching tender tissues. He thrust up, a long arc with his hips, joining them to the hilt.
Looking down along their bodies, she saw how their hair mingled: curls of wiry black with softer brown. Janeway started to move, rising and falling on his cock, taking him all the way in. Eyes closed to better absorb the sensation, she jerked at the feeling of his finger on her clit once more. He knew just how to touch her. But she wanted to see him, wanted to see his face at the moment of completion, so she opened her eyes and found he was already watching her, glittering eyes and all that warm brown strength.
His hands gripped her hips, and he held her hard, setting the pace beneath, so that while it was she who was nominally in control, the movement and direction came from him. Each thrust, each swelling movement of his cock brought her closer to an edge she thought had passed, for this night at least.
As she rose on golden wings, closer to her climax, a thought wound through her head: he completes me. We are good together. And then she was coming hard, clenching around him, his fingers stilled, as it was enough to feel him inside her and his convulsive, urgent movements. He was coming too, his face contorted, yet his eyes still locked with hers.
He lay limply beneath her, all the urgency gone, and suddenly she felt as boneless as he. His chest was damp beneath her palms, and she idly smoothed her hands over it, feeling how his heart beat strongly against her fingers.
They should sleep, she thought, there was still much to do, too many battles and negotiations and quarrels and positions to fill, too many repairs to patch together with spit and willpower, too much to do. But this oasis of calm was appealing, and she didn't want to let it slide just yet. So she lifted herself off him, seeing the shine of his seed and her juices matted in the hair on his groin.
He was watching her. "Content?" he asked her.
Was she? It was a strange choice of word. Not "happy"; that implied a luxury of feeling they simply couldn't afford, but "content". Yes, she was, and she told him so. Things had shifted for them, these last two hours. From a touchy truce, a forced sharing, they had advanced, blending more than their bodies. Not love, not even close to it, but there was something. Something to build upon, something that could grow, if they nurtured it, if they took the time. If they had the luxury of that time.
"It won't be easy for us," she murmured, as she lay down next to him, resting her cheek on his chest.
"No," he agreed, "but I think this way it will be easier than any other."
She sighed into his skin. "I hope you're right."
His arms tightened around her. "We will survive, Kathryn. The two of us, our two crews. Our ship. I think we're good together."
"Us or our crews?" she asked.
"It needs work," he said, "but we'll get there. Together."
"Together," she echoed, even as her body was sinking down into sleep, more relaxed than she'd been since they arrived in the Delta Quadrant. "We're stronger together."
Even as she drifted off, she thought he was probably awake, arms around her, staring into the night.
(((FIN)))
© Shayenne, December 2008 Please email me to post/distribute elsewhere.