Title: Normality
Category: Romance, smut.
Pairing: Janeway/Chakotay
Rating: NC-17
Archive: Anywhere.
Disclaimer:
Don’t own them, never will. Promise to put them back in the state I found them.
Author’s notes: I made the
jump from the Stargate fandom to Voyager yesterday, so you will all have to forgive me for not know the episode titles.
Feedback:
Hell yeah! Don’t make me beg, hit reply and stroke my ego please.
Dedication: As always, for LEW. For
![[info]](http://stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
triciabyrne1978,
divinejoker and
evangeline1138, My twinnie.
Date: 20-4-04
Copyright © to Venom, 2003
***
It’s the moment like this that she loves.
She doesn’t have to be His Captain, he isn’t
her Commander.
They are Kathryn and Chakotay. And Kathryn and Chakotay are in love. And they are allowed to be. Because
Kathryn and Chakotay aren’t in Star Fleet, rules and regulations and protocol don’t bind them, they aren’t
forced to hide what they feel. They can be themselves.
They are still limited, yes. They can’t hold hands in
public, they can’t kiss in the rain under a bright moonlit sky in the holodeck, fear of someone walking in preventing
them. They can go to dinner and snuggle in the mess hall. They can’t wander the ship hand in hand, exchanging words
of love.
But they can stay in their quarters, and kiss and caress and be themselves. And that is all that is important
to them.
Her is her normality in the tumultuous world that they live in. with him, she doesn’t have to be the
Captain and she doesn’t have to be strong. She can be Kathryn, she can be whoever she wants to be and he will love her
either way.
She loves his hands. Always has. She loves them when he is drumming them on the arm of his chair on the
bridge. She loves his hands when he is gesturing madly, desperate to get his point across. She loves them when he is telling
a story, or communicating with other races. But most of all she loves his hands when they are on her body.
He doesn’t
have to be doing anything other than touching her. Her hand, her hair, anywhere. She just loves how big they are, how strong
they are, loves that she feels safe when they’re touching her, when they’re around her, inside of her.
Like
now.
His hands are strumming her body like the violin she knows he keeps in his room. One hand is stroking her nipple
through the shirt and bra that she wears, the other is resting lightly on the crotch of her panties.
She’s wet,
and it’s soaking through the satin that covers her, but he is making no move to cross the barriers that separate him
from her skin.
“Please….” It comes out as nothing more than a choked sob, but she doesn’t care.
She’ll beg him if she has too, and she has before. She knows he loves it, he tells her so.
“I love it when
you beg.” And his grin is smug and she wants to shoot him for it. After his hands have worked their magic, naturally.
His touch is gentle, feather light, and she wants more but she also loves this pace so damn much. And he is good,
he knows it, because he knows when to press a little harder, when to back off a little and exactly when to pinch her nipple
until it hurts and rub her clit like mad.
Which is what he does when tears of frustration form in her eyes. Her nipple
will bruise a little, and she knows that when they go and shower together later he will caress the bruise and kiss it and
suckle until it feels better. Her clit will be sore later too, and she looks forward to the treatment she will receive for
it.
Tendrils of ecstasy grip her, and her body spasms as her inner walls clench around invisible fingers. He stops
his sweet torment then, and pulls her into his arms, smiling.
“Too good at that.” She mumbles, breathless
and panting.
“Thank you.”
“Love you.” Her voice is already tainted with sleep, and
she will surrender to it’s clutches, safe in his arms.
“I love you too.”
***
Fin.
