The narrator in the tutorials of Chessmaster sounds exactly like Chakotay. That's my inspiration for this.
MS Word froze twice and it took forever to get done, so review it and make feel less pissed off.
I watch her as she lays there, her eyes closed, chest moving evenly with each equable breath. I know she isn't asleep. She can feel my eyes on her, and I know it's only a few more moments before she opens hers and tells me to stop looking at her. I'm surprised I've been allowed to do it this long.
In all of these years, I've never seen the woman sleep, and I know it's Kathryn's devilish little secret that she's the only one who has. Fifteen years. We've been together fifteen years, and for every one of them, the Admiral is the only one allowed to watch her drift in the blessed recesses of somnolence.
I've never seen someone so secretive so bad at being secretive. It's become an obsessive habit of mine to count the strands of long, white hair I pick off of Seven's clothes, our pillows, our couch, our chairs, the carpet, the kitchen counters, the dog, the showers and sinks –forty-five thousand, eight hundred and ninety-nine as of last night.
On the rare occasions I confront her about the dark lipstick stains on her uniform collar, she gives me the look that means if I even think about squeezing her breasts tonight, she'll forcefully give me a taste of my own anus…again.
I know about her ritualistic wake-up calls, where she goes into work an hour early to give Kathryn an oral briefing over coffee. I know why she's never free to go to lunch, and why she always stays a few hours late, and why she never passes up an opportunity to travel with her on intergalactic business.
I found them laying together once, Janeway, in a surprising pair of lovely black lace underwear, laying nestled against Seven, their legs entangled, Janeway's fingers tracing intricate patterns over Seven's exposed belly.
Apparently they had been worn out by that mornings work, and decided to take a short nap together. After all, they were just like sisters and it didn't matter if they were naked and it was just my imagination that the sheets smelled like that distinct mixture of coffee and sandalwood with a feint twinge of delicate musk.
It was never a big secret. Hell, at our wedding, Seven danced with Kathryn more than me.
But, as I grunt, thrusting myself into the unmoving receptacle of a woman beneath me, rasping my palms over her decidedly non-erect nipples, I remember that I'm the only man allowed to do this. As I come, pulling out and spilling in my palm (she would never even fathom letting me do it inside, regardless of how infertile she is), hoping hopelessly that she might lick it off, I remember that I'm the envy of every man in Starfleet, and the fact that she doesn't love me, and that I know she greedily licks up every last drop of Kathryn's essence when the old battle-axe comes, doesn't even matter. It's all about keeping up appearances.
I offer her my sticky hand, and suddenly her foot connects with my throat.