STAR TREK: VOYAGER
by Patricia L. Givens
October 2007
Disclaimer #1: This story is an original work of fiction set in the
pre-existing universe of Star Trek: Voyager.
As such, many of the characters and references used within belong solely
to Paramount Pictures. I have borrowed
them for the purpose of creating this scenario and promise to return them
unscathed, and smiling, as soon as I am done.
No gain, monetary or otherwise, is expected from their use and no
copyright infringement is intended or should be inferred.
Disclaimer #2: All original characters and storylines contained herein
belong to the author. (Like anyone else would claim them! J
) This story may be archived upon
request with the stipulation that it must be posted exactly as it was written,
with all disclaimers intact.
Disclaimer #3: This story suggests a romantic pairing between two
women. That can’t possibly bother you
can it? I mean, oh my god, I am not even
putting in sex scene (only because the story doesn’t call for it) so it
shouldn’t get your panties in a wad too badly.
If it does, then you are really wound too tight for living. Try deep breathing exercises. Take in a breath and hold it until you pass
out. Then repeat over and over. Trust me, everyone will be better off.
ADDENDUM:
I was informed by Intala that not including a love scene would be cruel and
unusual punishment and since I finally got her to read something J/7, who am I
to argue? So, all you intolerant people
out there, get ready to feel your bra start to bunch…
Who To Blame: Thanks
must go out to Ky, for being a complete pain in my ass on a regular basis. Thanks must also be extended to Annie and
Andrea for beta’ing my mental drabble into something resembling a story.
Another new format
for me, apparently my muse wants to stretch her legs. We’ll see if it works.
This interlude is
dedicated to anyone who has ever been in the position of not knowing what to
say, not knowing how to say it, or thinking that they shouldn’t.
Janeway’s sense of
duty was not harmed during the writing of this story. Sadly, the bug up her butt did have to die.
To all that makes us
unique!
DAx =/\=
There are times when silence
has the loudest voice…
-Leroy Brownlow
I don’t know
if I can keep doing this.
She’s only
been here for two years and I am already making myself crazy. How am I supposed to survive another forty?
It’s my
fault. I wanted to help her, to make her
see what an incredible woman she is.
Is it so
surprising that I discovered the same thing?
The crew...
most of them think she’s cold, distant, unfeeling and uncaring. My god how can they not see the warmth that
shines in those bright blue eyes? She
can say more with one look, with one quirk of that damn ocular implant than
most people will say in an entire conversation.
And her
honesty… sometimes I think she can see right through me. That all she has to do is look at me for more
than a moment and she will know just how deeply she has worked her way into my
heart.
And she has.
She walks onto
the bridge and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. I can feel my heart start beating harder in
my chest and it takes everything in me to not turn around, to not drink in the
sight of her.
Today in the
staff meeting, I could feel it every time she looked at me. It was like her glance burned itself into my
skin and the only way to ease the ache was to look at her, to meet her eyes.
I admit I did
once or twice. It was a mistake. I fell into them, felt myself get lost in
them, felt the warmth of them.
I can see the
curiosity in them too, the confusion.
Like there’s a question she knows she should be asking but she can’t
quite find the words to make it make sense.
But she’s trying. I know she
is. It’s that damn Borg
single-mindedness. She’ll work it over
and over in her head until she finally figures it out.
Then she’ll
come to me.
She’ll find me
when I’m somewhere alone, in my ready room or, for the love of god, late at
night in my quarters.
She won’t
dissemble. She won’t clutter up the
landscape with small talk or meaningless conversation. There won’t be any
hesitation or embarrassment. No, that
isn’t Seven’s style.
She’ll look at
me directly, her beautiful blue eyes full of trust and feeling.
And then
she’ll ask.
And no matter
what I say, no matter how convincing I sound, she’ll know.
God, I can’t
do this! I’m the Captain. I can’t feel this way about a member of my
crew. I can’t!
I think I’m
going crazy.
* * *
I am malfunctioning.
That is the only logical
assessment of my current situation. What
other possible explanation could there be?
She is small. She is singular, even among her own
collective. She holds herself apart even
while attempting to draw all the others closer together.
She is frustrating, infuriating,
and obstinate in the belief that her way, the Starfleet way, is always the
correct course of action. Even when
logic dictates otherwise.
She is mercurial, driven by her
human emotions. She uses words when she
should use force, diplomacy when she should retreat, and she prolongs the time
her crew is lost in this quadrant for the sake of upholding a standard of
exploration that leads to confrontation more often than not.
And yet, with all the faults she
so obviously displays, I still find myself drawn to her.
When she speaks, my mind is
fixated on the shape of her mouth. The
way her lips move to form the words. On
more than one occasion I have had to rely on my eidetic memory to respond to
her queries, because I have lost myself in the tableau of watching her speak.
The sound of her voice is
tangible to me; it creates a sensation that moves along my spinal column and
travels outward to all of the nerve endings in my body.
There have also been occasions
when I have focused too intently upon the resonance of her voice and I have
experienced a lapse in my thought processes.
How can the sound of someone’s
speech affect my cognitive abilities?
I am attuned to her
footsteps. My auditory senses can detect
them before she even enters a room.
When I see her, I find myself
unable to focus on anything other than her.
I am fascinated by her movements, by the energy she radiates, by the
strength she emanates from so small a form.
And her scent…
I can detect her scent in a space
she has vacated hours before. When I
enter her ready room or her quarters and she is there, I feel as though I could
drown in the smell of her skin, the fragrance of her hair. When we play velocity, the scent of her
exertion washes over me and I feel a hunger I do not understand.
One I do not know how to sate.
And then there is the matter of
my physiological responses when she is near.
My pulse accelerates and my
pulmonary muscle increases the frequency of its beating. The palms on my hands begin to tingle, as
though they are being touched lightly by a very delicate object. It is quite disconcerting that this
phenomenon seems more pronounced in my Borg enhanced appendage. I would have surmised that it would be immune
to such frivolous sensations and yet I find it difficult to keep the fingers on
that hand from becoming tremulous.
Additionally, I find that I am unable to salivate, as though all the
moisture has evaporated from my oral aperture.
These occurrences have only
increased in frequency the longer I have remained on board.
I cannot quantify this data.
I am malfunctioning.
*
*
*
We ran into
each other in the corridor this morning.
For a moment, we merely stood there, smiling at each other like two love
sick cadets. She opened her mouth to
speak and I nodded and stepped onto the turbo-lift.
I ran! For the love of god I actually ran! I don’t even remember what deck I requested
just that I needed to be somewhere she was not.
What is wrong
with me?
It’s always
been men, in the past. In truth I’ve
never even considered being with a woman.
But with her, there is no consideration, no conscious thought at all. I see her and my entire body wants to fold
itself along her curves. When I see her
lips, oh those lips, my tongue comes out to moisten mine through no volition of
my own. My fingers tingle and my palms
sweat when I think of how soft her skin must be under that suit, that
ridiculous cat suit the Doctor makes her wear for whatever reason. I suppose I should count my self lucky for
that. If I were to see her dressed more
casually, in blue jeans and a t-shirt… I honestly don’t think I would be able
to stop myself.
I know this is
desire. It is want, pure and in it’s
most primal form. But there is also an
emotional resonance to it that I can only classify as love.
I’m forty four
years old. How can it be that I am
finding myself truly in love for the first time… with a woman... on the other side of the
galaxy from everything I have ever known?
It can’t be
love… can it? Can’t it just be
lust? That would be so much
simpler. Lust I can fight, lust I can
defy, lust I can turn off or ignore.
I’ve done it before, a hundred times.
Duty has always been good enough to stand up to lust.
But this…
whatever it is, I feel my sense of duty crumbling beneath it, like a wall
that’s stood still and strong until one little crack appears. And then the whole thing comes tumbling down.
She is that
little crack, and I feel it widening every day, threatening to tear through all
of the barriers I have so carefully constructed these past six years. And she does it without even trying, without
so much as a word, just a look, or that heavenly little smile, the one that
just barely makes the corners of her lips curve up.
I see it and I
want to kiss the corners of that mouth. I want to feel those lips open under
mine. I want to feel that tongue, the
one that infuriates me with its insolence, slide into my mouth to play against
my own.
I’m
breaking. I can feel it. Every day she’s here, I break a little more.
And, god help
me, I love her for it.
* * *
I do not understand her.
She stood before me this
morning. There were words she obviously
wanted to say and yet she only nodded and walked away.
I… felt them. It is not logical. One cannot ‘feel’ another individual’s desire
to speak and yet I have no other way to describe the sensation.
And the response within myself… I
felt a yearning, a desire I could not explain.
It was as though my entire being was focused on the words she almost
spoke. It was as though the answers
would be so clearly found there.
But she did not speak.
And within myself I felt bleakness,
a dejection and despondency that I have never experienced before.
It felt as though I had missed an
opportunity for enlightenment.
No, that is incorrect. It felt as though I was denied an opportunity
for enlightenment.
And while I should be resentful
that this knowledge has been withheld, I instead find myself concerned for the
conflict that seems to rage within her.
I find myself considering the
possibility that she suffers from the same malady that I do; the inability to
know what words to use, what phrasing to set them in to explain everything that
I am feeling.
I find that I wish to speak with
her, to tell her of the way she affects me, yet I can find no parameters in
which to begin such a conversation.
I have never been reticent to
speak my mind before.
I do not understand myself.
*
*
*
We’re supposed
to play velocity in twenty minutes.
I’m supposed
to go to the holodeck and watch as her muscles flex, as that golden hair comes
loose from that austere bun and falls around her face, as she breathes hard and
her eyes flash fire at every shot she misses.
Sometimes they
flash when she doesn’t miss. Sometimes I
miss just to see the feral grin that appears so briefly on that normally placid
face.
That face with
skin like peaches and cream, her cheeks just touched by the faint blush of her
exertion…
That’s when I
wonder what it would be like to gaze up at that face as she moves against me,
pushing into me, riding me towards release.
Would her eyes
close? Somehow I don’t think so. I think she would stare into my eyes, the
bright blue burning into me as she pants and moans, whispering my name as her
sweat covers my skin, as her essence travels down my thigh.
What would she
sound like, in that moment, that moment when she reaches the peak of her desire
and tumbles over the other side?
She would
roar, like a big cat over its prey. Prey
it has fought for, long and hard and has finally claimed, as it’s own.
We’re supposed
to play velocity in ten minutes. Oh dear
god, help me.
* * *
She is waiting for me in the
holodeck. I am still ten meters from the
door and I can smell her… the scent of lavender and coffee and soap strong in
my head.
It invades my mind, permeates my
thoughts. I can feel my chest begin to
tighten in anticipation of seeing her arms bare. Of feeling the sweat from her
body splash on to me when we get too close.
My palms are tingling, my
thoughts are moving too fast for my cortical node to process.
If I feel her body, if she bumps
into me as she is wont to do, I know that I will no longer be able to focus on
our game.
I will focus on the way her chest
rises and falls. On the way her pupils
dilate.
She will be breathing hard before
we even begin.
She will look at me with her
normally gray eyes shaded into the blue that I only ever see when she looks at
me.
And I will do the unthinkable.
I will fail.
I will fail.
I will fall.
I am falling…
Seven of Nine strode
into the holodeck. She did not stop near
the console to begin the game. Instead
she walked forward to stand directly in front of Captain Janeway, well within
her personal space. Her eyes flashed
fire and she breathed in deeply, squaring her jaw stubbornly as she looked down
at the smaller woman.
She began to speak,
but felt herself falling into the deep blue eyes staring directly into
hers. Without hesitating, she lowered
her head, capturing Janeway’s lips with her own.
The smaller woman
made a single sound of protest and then melted, her arms wrapping around the
tall form, pulling her forward until they were both lying on the floor. Her hands slid up the Borg’s sides to the
back of her neck and then into her hair.
She pulled at the pins holding the pale golden mane in place and moaned
into Seven’s lips as it spilled down over her palms. It was softer than she had ever imagined,
like spun silk, and smelled faintly of honey and berries. Growling, she reached for the catch on the
back of Seven’s velocity outfit, releasing it so that she could pull it down
off of her body.
Seven arched back,
shrugging her shoulders forward as the material was pulled down to her
waist.
Kathryn’s breath
caught as the perfect, pale breasts came into view. She reached up slowly, cupping them with her
hands, feeling their weight as her mind tried to grasp the fact that these were
Seven’s breasts she was holding, Seven’s body that was half naked and in her
arms.
Slowly, she leaned up
and brought her lips to the long, leonine neck, tasting the skin, traveling
across the pulse point before dipping lower to move in circles around a nipple
that pebbled beneath her breath. She hesitated
for a moment, and then closed her lips over it, running her tongue across it,
absorbing the texture of it as her fingers closed over the other.
Seven bit her lower
lip, whimpering at the exquisite feel of the rough tongue playing over her
sensitive flesh. She wanted… no she needed to see the body beneath
hers. With one tug of her Borg enhanced
hand, the Captain’s tunic parted and she moaned at the sight of the pale skin
and rosy tips of Janeway’s breasts.
She moved away
slightly and slid the velocity outfit off completely, watching as Kathryn did
the same. Then they came together again,
with nothing but bare skin between them for the first time.
It was as though the
oxygen in the deck had become dangerously thin and they both struggled for
breath, rocked by the passion that had built so quickly between them.
Pulling Seven back
down, Kathryn slowly brought her thigh up, snuggling it tightly between the
blonde’s powerful thighs, a small cry of passion escaping her throat at the
wetness that greeted her there. She bit
softly against one elegant shoulder as her hands slid down the smooth expanse
of back, lovingly tracing the receding ridges of Seven’s abdominal implant
before sliding over her buttocks.
Cupping them firmly,
she pulled the Borg forward, then pushed her back with her hips, loving the
feel of the wet, intimate flesh gliding over her skin. It was so soft, so unlike the hard muscles
and frantic movements she was used to.
Seven’s eyes
fluttered for a moment, her lips opening as a soft ‘Oh’ escaped them. Then her hips began to move, slowly at first
as she picked up on the rhythm of the Captain’s body beneath her, then more
quickly as the friction began to build.
She placed both her hands flat on the ground, using them to support
herself as her entire form began to sway up and back.
Kathryn looked up at
the face above her, her heart aching at the sight of the heavily lidded eyes,
the tongue that darted out quickly between heavy breaths. When she saw Seven bite down on her lower
lip, she felt a thrill of passion shoot down her spine, settling between her
legs with an intensity she had never felt before. Slowly, almost shyly, she slid one hand
around the Borg’s stomach, feeling the bands of soft metal under her fingertips
before they tangled into the pale thatch of blonde curls. Moving her hand lower, she slid into the
warmth between Seven’s thighs, the feel of the slick flesh driving all rational
thought from her mind.
This was a woman, and
while she had never been with one before, she knew what she liked.
Seven’s breath caught
in her throat as she felt nimble fingers play over the engorged ridge of her
sex, rubbing it softly, circling it maddeningly.
As the movement of
the fingers began to work in unison with the movement of her hips, she threw
her head back, groaning in delight, her mind a maelstrom of thought and
feeling. Somewhere in the chaos within
her, she finally understood… everything.
Whimpering, she
pushed harder and felt one slender finger enter her carefully, even as
Janeway’s thumb kept up her pressure on the bundle of nerves that was singing
in pleasure from the outside.
A huge wave of
rapture began to overtake her. It grew
within until her entire body was shaking, straining, pushing towards something
she did not know if she would survive.
And then she was
there. The ecstasy broke and she could
no longer breathe, could no longer think.
All she could do was hang on to the small body connected to her own as
her orgasm burned through her, leaving her shaking and weak, her skin damp with
sweat and the air around them thick with the scent of their love.
She collapsed
heavily, rolling slightly to the side so as not to crush the Captain who was
holding her gently, whispering words that made no sense into her ear as she
shivered in the aftermath.
She raised her head
slightly, her voice thick with emotion and her eyes heavy with tears. “Kathryn…” She whispered.
The older woman smiled at her gently, her eyes shining with emotion of their own. “I know, Annika.” She kissed the beloved mouth softly. “We need to talk…”
