Contains adult relations between two women.
As always, I don't own these characters. No copyright infringement or disrespect is intended.
There is a companion piece titled "What am I doing here?" But read this one first. =)
You're not as naive as everyone thinks.
You know what it means, this longing. This burning need to be close to her. The fumbling way you are impatient to be in her presence, but then can't seem to find the words when she's near. The hyper awareness you have whenever she's in the room. The awkwardness of desperately trying to gain her attention, and then the abrupt shyness when her grey eyes turn your way.
You know what it means.
But you don't know what to do about it. Your attempts at human socialization have been awkward at best, outright embarrassing at worst.
Only with her have you ever felt comfortable, but recently that comfort has been stripped away, leaving behind this push and pull of naked emotions.
Sometimes you wish that you didn't have these horribly human feelings. That you could be confident and content with the friendship this woman offers you.
And yet at the same time you feel a sense of pride. After all, hasn't she always told you that love is the pinnacle of human existence?
You only wish that you could share it with her.
You round the corner on Deck Fifteen and come across two crewman conducting repairs. Or more accurately, two crewmen gossiping while idly poking around in an open panel with a box of tools at their feet.
"…out of Chakotay's quarters at oh-two-hundred last night!" one of them is saying. His voice is low, whispering, but your acute hearing has no trouble picking up his words.
"You don't think they two of them are…?"
"Well, of course they are!" exclaims the first crewmember.
Ensigns Brandt and Davies, your eidetic memory supplies helpfully.
"But if the captain's shagging her first officer…" Ensign Davies breaks off as he notices you approaching. He nudges his companion discreetly.
Both crewmembers stiffen as you pass by. Ensign Brant's face is slightly flushed, but they both nod formally before grabbing tools and applying themselves to the exposed circuitry.
Your return nod is cool, composed. You heard nothing.
As you round the next corner, you can't help but catch their furious whispers.
"Do you think she…?"
"No, she couldn't hear us. Besides, even if she did, she wouldn't have a clue what we were talking about…"
They're wrong, of course. On many levels. You know exactly what they were speculating about, and you also know just how incorrect their assumptions are.
You asked the captain once, back before these confusing feelings made these sorts of conversations difficult, to define the nature of her relationship with her first officer.
She had confessed to an early attraction to the commander, which then faded to a warm friendship. She told you that truthfully she found him kind, but not particularly stimulating. A non-intellectual.
You also know that she's good at procrastination, particularly around the monthly crew evaluations, and that she had plans to work late last night to finish them with her first officer.
She had told you this yesterday in Astrometrics, a hand on your arm, leaning into your space as she made her confession. You recall how your heartbeat had sped up at the openness in her eyes, the warmth from her body close to yours as she relaxed in your presence, telling you about her day. Friendly. Playful.
You find it strange just how… special… having the captain's confidence makes you feel.
She had rolled her eyes, sharing the fact that apparently Chakotay is prone to getting distracted, off topic. She wasn't particularly looking forward to the chore of the evaluations, expecting it to take twice as long as it should while her first officer chatted and generally made a whole evening of the event.
You wonder if he does this on purpose as an excuse to extend his time with his captain. You wonder if his feelings are anything like yours.
You experience a flash of something, a twisting in your gut. Jealousy. It's not pleasant.
You remind yourself of the words the captain had used to describe him during that conversation many months ago. Stuffy. Boring.
And you remind yourself how the captain looks at you. You know that to her you are not stuffy, not boring.
Your mind races through the words that other crew members have used to describe you. Arrogant. Abrasive. Cold. Machine.
But the captain doesn't seem to perceive you that way. When she looks at you it is with affection. Sometimes challenge. Sometimes a spark of something… more.
Arriving at your destination in the bowels of the ship, you firmly push all non-work-related thoughts from your mind to focus on your task. For your captain, you will be nothing but efficient.
You are in the empty holodeck, having just completed two rounds of velocity with your captain. She is in your space again, flushed with her recent victory. You believe the most accurate word to describe her current attitude would be 'cocky'.
She teases you with her words, touting the virtue of human intuition over Borg calculation. And she teases you with her body, an elbow in your gut, a gentle shove against your shoulder.
Despite the twinges of frustration, for you lost yet again, you find her energy compelling. Addictive.
Her voice is low and husky, confident, and she looks up at you through dusky eyelashes. Can she not feel the energy building between you? The electricity? Surely she's not immune to this.
Overwhelmed, you retreat behind your Borg persona. Stoic, calm, controlled. Cold.
However this seems to spur her on more. She steps into you, bringing her body flush against yours. Her chest against your arm, hips pressing into your thigh.
What is she doing? Does she not feel the hitch in your breathing? Can she not feel your heart beating wildly?
You avert your eyes, staring at a spot somewhere beyond her right ear. You fear that she will see everything if you allow her eyes to meet yours. Naked hunger, desire, and a dose of desperation.
She issues her challenge – another game, next week, same time. It takes a moment for the words to register through the blood pounding in your ears.
You nod curtly and she steps back, allowing you to catch your breath. She flicks your abdomen with the back of her hand. Her voice is still playful and light as she thanks you again for the game. Then she is gone, leaving you alone with your confusion.
The next week, the same time, another velocity game. Despite your best efforts she has defeated you again. Truthfully, you played a poor game. You were distracted by the muscles in her forearms and the competitive glint in her eye.
Again she invades your space, half-gloating, half-encouraging you for next time. Her warm body pressed against your own.
Today you are ready for her. You push back, subtle but firm, leaning into her. Her hips are hot against your thigh and today you dare to meet her eyes. A challenge, but of a different sort.
You are nervous but determined not to let it show. What if you're misreading the situation? Will this lead to more humiliation? Disappointment and embarrassment?
But you take the chance. You channel the arrogance and raise an eyebrow, meeting her eyes firmly. This time it is your captain who looks away, dipping her head to bury her face in your neck.
Your victory is short-lived however, for you feel her tongue flick out, so gently and briefly that you think you might have been mistaken. But then it comes again, more firmly, licking the sweat from your skin.
Your confidence vanishes as your body shudders, out of your control.
Her eyes come up again to meet yours, expression unreadable. And then she's gone. The holodeck doors shut firmly behind her, leaving only the lingering burn in your body and the cool, damp patch above your collarbone.
You are on the bridge, working at an aft station above the command center. The captain is chatting companionably with her first officer, inane chatter about the current sector of space and Nelix's latest mess hall creation.
You find your eyes drifting repeatedly to graze the top of her head. A most illogical, inefficient behaviour, and yet one that you cannot seem to control.
You don't quite understand how she can be several meters away and completely unaffected, while you are beyond distracted. You long to stride down to where she sits in her chair and demand answers. Does this not affect her too? How can she be so collected while you are falling apart?
You watch with narrowed eyes as she wraps up her conversation and pats Chakotay on the hand, standing to excuse herself to her ready room.
The bridge suddenly feels empty. You finish your work quickly, remembering to request permission from the first officer before disembarking the bridge. You seek refuge in the comforting order and precision of your Astrometrics lab, dismissing Icheb quickly. You need to be alone.
Your solitude doesn't last long. Within an hour she's standing behind you, gazing over your shoulder at your current star chart projection. She's left some distance between the two of you, but your body still betrays you, sending tingles across your shoulders and the back of your neck.
You use the motion of turning to address her as a cover for your step away, facing her now with a meter of safe space between her your body and hers. Her face is calm and collected, her eyes polite. The woman who teased you on the holodeck isn't present. Standing in front of you is the captain, and you find yourself straightening under her professional scrutiny.
She has questions about Voyager's course over the next month, about the possibility of stopping for shore leave, about the possibility of picking up more supplies.
You have questions too, about what her skin would feel like against yours, and what it would be like to taste her mouth. But as you answer her questions, yours wisely go unasked.
When she has run out of queries she gives you a polite smile, then turns to leave the lab. She hasn't touched you once, and you find yourself torn between relief and disappointment.
It's twenty-one hundred hours. In your right hand you are holding a PADD containing the completed data she'd requested during her visit to Astrometrics earlier in the day. You find yourself tapping the edge of the PADD against your thigh, a very human, very nervous habit.
Annoyed, you bring the PADD behind your back and clasp it firmly in both hands.
You're suddenly regretting the impulsive decision that brought you here, outside the captain's quarters, at this hour in the evening. You're both off duty. The data could have waited until tomorrow. But you've already rung the chime and so you square your shoulders and wait.
You decide fifteen seconds will be sufficient. If she has not answered the door within that time frame you will turn and leave. No harm done, as she would say.
As your internal count passes fourteen seconds you hear her invitation to enter.
The door slides open, admitting you into a semi-darkened room. The captain has clearly just risen from the couch, a mug of coffee and a pile of PADDs scattered on the low table beside it.
She has removed her uniform jacket and is wearing only the grey, high-necked sweater. A quick glance down tells informs you that she is still in uniform pants but has removed her boots. The sight of her socked feet feels suddenly intimate and you pause in the doorway, uncertain.
"Come in." She grabs your upper arm and steers you into her quarters, settling you on the couch. Her gentle smile tells you that you're not intruding, but still you feel awkward and unsure.
"Tea?" she asks.
You nod, then remember your manners and find your voice. "Please," you reply.
She busies herself at the replicator, returning with a hot cup of herbal tea which she hands to you gently. Your fingers brush hers as you accept the mug and you're sure a flush comes to your face. You dip your head down towards the beverage, hoping to hide your reaction in the dim light.
She asks what brings you to see her and you offer her the PADD, happy to bury yourself in work-related matters. She seems pleased with the information you've provided and you feel your confidence creep back.
She chats with you about idle matters as you finish your tea, then stands to escort you to the door. Once again her hand wraps around your upper arm, holding onto you in a firm, friendly manner while you say your goodnights.
You mean to turn to leave, but find yourself hesitating instead. In the dim light your captain's eyes are a deep shade of grey and you're caught. The smile fades slowly from her face, lingering only slightly around her eyes.
And then she is drawing you in, pulling you close. Her nose brushes your jaw and your cheek drops automatically to nestle in her hair.
"Please." Was that desperate plea really yours?
Her hands come to your shoulder blades and she pulls you somewhat awkwardly against her, your hands tentatively coming to rest on her waist. She burrows her face into your neck and for a few moments all you know is ragged sound of breathing, both hers and yours, and the feel of her heart pounding hard against your chest.
She draws back slightly and brings her hands up to cup your face, drawing your mouth to hers. You go willingly, a small whimper escaping your throat.
One of your questions is answered - her kiss is electric, hot and wet. You feel it shoot straight to your groin.
One hand stays cupping your jaw possessively, the other begins to wander. You're barely aware of gentle fingers brushing your optical implant, then trailing down to your collarbone. As her hands continue to explore, you find the courage to allow your fingers to roam as well, worshiping this captain whom you adore.
Your hands creep under her grey top, and then suddenly you have her breasts in your hands. She breaks the kiss, arching backwards with a gasp. You take the opportunity to find the skin of her neck with your mouth, just below her ear.
You feel the weight and roundness of her breasts and words float through your mind. Breasts. Mammary glands. Boobs, tits, hooters, knockers.
Your research has been thorough, but so many of the words are crass and simply don't describe the amazing feel of warm, soft flesh. Your captain's breasts.
Her nipples harden against your palms and you pull away from her neck, fascinated.
She looks up at you with hooded eyes. Her hands splay on your back and pull you sharply towards her, trapping your hands between her body and yours.
Then suddenly she is backing off, sliding your hands out from beneath her shirt, putting distance between the two of you.
"I'm sorry, Seven." Her words are rough and broken. She won't meet your eyes.
You open your mouth to reassure her that it's alright. That the events of the past few minutes have been the most wonderful thing you've experienced since being separated from the collective.
But before you can get any words out she's ushering you out the door, mumbling a quick good-night.
You stand in the corridor outside the captain's quarters, dazed and confused, your body still humming.
A few moments later Ensign Brandt comes wandering past, holding his box of tools. You quickly straighten your posture and clear your face, wondering if this will make the gossip mill tomorrow. Seven of Nine leaves the captain's quarters at twenty-two hundred hours, looking flustered.
He nods politely. You choose to ignore him, moving quickly towards the turbolift. As you ride the lift back to your cargo bay, you wonder if he makes it a habit to wander past the captain's quarters at night.
Your duty shift begins the next morning with a staff meeting. The captain seems especially distant this morning as she listens quietly to her senior officers give their weekly reports. You try to catch her eyes, which you notice are sunken, tired. But her gaze slides over you, unseeing.
As B'Elanna runs through the inventory of the ship's systems, you feel your eyes begin to wander. They settle on the captain's chest, where your hands rested last night. You remember the softness of her skin, the weight of her breasts. Tits, boobs, hooters.
The fingers of your human hand twitch involuntarily, longing to feel her nipples hardening again against your palm.
Then suddenly the meeting is over, the senior staff filing out of the room. You linger by the door, hoping to intercept the captain who is always the last to leave. You need her to look at you, to acknowledge you, to explain to you what happened last night. You feel lost, and you need her to ground you.
When the captain pauses on her way past your heart leaps with anticipation. But her eyes are cold, her expression disapproving.
"My eyes are up here, Seven." She gestures to her face, her motion curt and sharp.
Then she strides out the door, anger evident in the crispness of her step and the tightness of her shoulders.
You feel the blood rush to your face. Evidently you have made yet another social faux pas. Your hands clench in frustration, for you have angered and disappointed your captain yet again.
You stride stiffly from the conference room, not pausing to acknowledge the officers on the bridge or the captain's deliberately turned back as you make your desperate escape into the turbolift.
After several days of stony silence you have begun avoiding the captain altogether. You can no longer bear the coldness in her eyes. Not after seeing the warmth, the teasing passion.
Somewhere near the aft section of Deck Fourteen you come across Ensign Brandt's legs sticking out of a Jeffries Tube. Ensign Davies is in the corridor, holding a replacement gel pack that is waiting to be installed.
"I tell you, I saw her!" Ensign Brandt's voice echoes in the Jeffries Tube. "Seven of Nine was on Deck Three other night, late. She must have just come out of Commander Chakotay's quarters. That's why the Captain is so pissed right now, and that's why she's not talking to her pet Borg! Not that I blame Chakotay. The Borg probably had no idea what she was in the middle of, but she's still one hot piece of…"
Brandt's voice breaks off as Ensign Davies sees you approaching and delivers a sharp kick to his shin.
"Ow! What did you do that for…" Brandt's head pops out of the Jeffries Tube and his face pales.
You slow as you approach the pair. Neither will meet your eyes, although Ensign Brandt's gaze lingers briefly on your chest before dropping to your boots. You suddenly understand why the captain found your behaviour upsetting the other day.
Both men mumble "ma'am" as you move past. You give them a brief nod before speeding up and continuing on your way. You have much to think about.
A week passes. You take care to treat the captain in professional manner. Your eyes either meet hers firmly, or rest somewhere over her right shoulder. You are efficient. No lingering gazes, no distractions. If your heart rate still increases in her presence, well that's something you can choose to ignore.
Another week passes. There have been no velocity games, yet you feel a softening. The captain is smiling at you again, dropping by Astrometrics just to "check in", inviting you to her ready room to discuss ship's business.
One day, at the end of a long duty shift, her hand drops to your forearm and you realize just how much you've missed her touch.
By ship's hours it's mid-evening, somewhere in the beta shift. A perfectly respectable time of night, when the captain should have had time to finish her evening meal but will not likely be in bed yet.
You're standing outside her quarters feeling decidedly nervous. You've missed her these past few weeks, missed her desperately. You have the burning need to reestablish your friendship, to ensure that they two of you are "okay". If friendship is all you can have, you'll take it. You need it.
When you press the chime she answers almost immediately.
Inside her quarters, it takes you a few moments to realize that she is equally nervous. Her discomfort shows in her jerky, clumsy movements, and in the way her eyes can't seem to find a place to rest, flicking from your face to the bulkhead, then back to your face again.
"Captain," you blurt out suddenly. "Are we… okay?"
"Oh Seven…" She seems to melt, moving smoothly into your space. Her eyes fix on yours now, searching. Then her arms are on your shoulders and she drops her head against your chest.
You move your arms around her tentatively, trying to quiet your breathing, still your rapidly beating heart. You desperately try to ignore the fluttering in your abdominal region.
She's trembling. A faint shaking that emanates from her core and spreads out to her legs, nestled against yours, and to her hands, resting on your shoulders.
And then she's kissing you. Slow and deep. Her arms slide to your hips, pull you close.
You want to touch her, more than this light hug, but you're unsure if that would be acceptable.
You break the kiss, trying to find the words to ask. "Captain…?"
"Kathryn." It comes out mumbled, barely intelligible.
You have never heard such a small, tentative voice from this woman. She looks up at you, shyness in her eyes. "Kathryn," she forces out, a little more clearly.
"Kathryn…" You turn the syllables in your mouth, tasting them. They are very agreeable.
"Kathryn," you breathe. "May I touch you?"
"God yes," she moans. You find yourself suddenly pressed back into the bulkhead, cool wall at your back, soft curves against your front.
Somewhere on the way to the bedroom you wonder if perhaps you should stop and ask her to talk about this. You worry that you may commit another error. That you may drive her away even further next time.
But then she's divested you of your clothing and the feeling of her bare skin pressed against yours is too much. You stop worrying.
You allow her to lead this dance, to settle you into her sheets, to guide your hands into her wetness. You watch, fascinated, as her eyes roll back into her head and her body surrenders to your touch.
In a shocking moment of clarity you realize that you're in love this woman. You look up at her in wonder as her eyes slide lazily open and a satisfied grin spreads across her face.
Then her hands are on you, pressing, teasing, touching, and suddenly you lose any hope of forming a coherent thought.
The next morning you tense involuntarily as you step onto the bridge. The captain is already seated in her command chair, running her daily check on the ship's systems through her command panel. Her shoulders are squared, her posture straight.
You have no idea how she's going to react to your presence. Things seemed fine this morning when you slipped from her quarters to get ready for your shift, but the apprehension almost paralyzes you.
As the turbolift doors shut behind you she glances back casually and catches your eye. Her nod is professional, but the slight curl at the corners of her mouth and the sparkling glint in her eyes is not.
Relief. You resist the sudden inexplicable urge to smile.
You school your features carefully and return her nod before moving to your station. She glances up at you one more time, hot passion in her eyes, before returning her attention to the morning reports.
A warmth starts in your belly, spreading outwards. You love this woman, with all your human heart.
Perhaps you will visit the captain's quarters again tonight.
At the end of your duty shift you return to cargo bay two with the intention of taking a short regeneration cycle before seeking out the captain. Kathryn.
Approximately thirty seconds later the cargo bay doors open. From your position by your alcove you cannot see the people who have just entered the bay, but two sets of footsteps and their voices give them away.
"…good mood all day!" Ensign Davies's voice echoes in the large bay. "Even when Lieutenant Torres told her that we still hadn't fixed that manifold, she just smiled and shrugged it off. Just yesterday she was ripping into us because the damn thing's been broken for over a month now."
"I told you, the captain got laid last night!" Ensign Brandt's voice is triumphant. "Chakotay must have been in rare form! Lucky bastard."
You step around your alcove, causing the two men to fall suddenly silent. They are wheeling a large cargo box, ostensibly replacing it after utilizing whatever contents they required.
"May I be of assistance?" Your voice is smooth but hard.
"No ma'am." Ensign Brandt's voice is calm, dismissive.
Evidently they think nothing of gossiping about their captain in a relatively public space. Kathryn's face flashes in your mind and you decide to push the issue.
"What were you just discussing?" you demand, all Borg. Your feet are spread, your hands clasped behind your back. You tilt your left eye, the one with the optical impact, in their direction.
They both have the courtesy to look slightly sheepish as they return to their cargo box, wheeling it to its space on a lower shelf.
Ensign Brandt mutters under his breath, "Nothing you'd understand, anyways…"
You manage to keep your face blank until they've disappeared from sight. Then a rare smile curls the corner of your mouth.
You're not as naive as everyone thinks.