Here's a fanfic I wrote waaaaaay back when RB was doing Hamlet. It's a bit unusual...its an RB fanfic, not a Chakotay piece. And it's a parody on all the NC17 stuff.... in other words, it SOUNDs NC17, but nothing really happens (kinda like the series, huh?) Enjoy!
DISCLAIMER (Kinda...)
OK, ladies, this is my first "fanfic" posting, but its an RB piece, rather than a Chakotay piece. Hope he'd take this in the tongue in cheek way it's meant (preferably his tongue in my cheek, but...) This came to me in my sleep, so don't blame my conscious mind. I spent 20 years working in the theater, often doing makeup. Just think, as I sit here and type, he's in LA sitting down in a chair to get his makeup done for his performance of Hamlet tonight....
He saunters in, casual, not yet intensely focused for the performance. There's still two hours before curtain, but it's our time...my time with him. He searches for me, and catching my eye, smiles with a sensuousness that can only be a gift from above.
He touches my arm and grins, asking if I'm ready. I nod, and we move into the quiet privacy of his room next door. He moves to the couch, unbuttoning his shirt then slowly shrugging out of it, tossing it on the back of the sofa and turning back to me. His chest, so smooth and defined, draws my eyes. Unable to resist, I move towards him and he smiles as he sits beside me in the chair. He closes his eyes and gives himself over to me.
I lean over his lap, my body brushing against his as I deftly apply the bronzed base color, gently massaging his face with my fingers, blending the color into his hairline. With feather like kisses, my fingers add a touch of color to his eyes, though I think it impossible to improve on those dark, liquid pools of passion that follow me as I work.
Deftly, I brush a deep sienna into the hollows of his chiseled face, reveling in the roughness left even after a fresh shave. I add the gentle pats of powder to set the color, unable to ignore the rugged beauty beneath my hands.
Then close and closer, my hands grasp the sides of his face and I draw nearer. His warm breath is on my neck, his pulse under my fingers driving my own heartbeat. My lips just inches from his face, I lean into his chest, willing him to look at me. Aware of his every breath, the movement of every muscle, I give him the whole of my attention. Carefully I add the details--a line to open up eyes, mascara ( a blaspheme unnecessary on those lush lashes).
Finally, I touch his lips, tracing the fullness that beckons, marveling at their softness. Such pleasure they give me.
Unwilling to part from him yet, I have one last act of love to perform. I reach behind me and grasp it, firm and made to fit my hand. I pick up the brush and move into his side, running my fingers through his thick salt and pepper hair. Our bodies near, he turns to talk to me and blushes, finding his eyes and lips nearly touching my breasts. Our eyes meet and without words, our message is clear. Later. Later.
Later. Intermission. He'll be back for my touch, for my ministrations again.