#parallaxedcaptain

[afraidofchange]

👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩 j7

prompt. || @parallaxedcaptain

    Borg do not sleep. Regeneration cycles are perpetuated to ensure adequate function of drones for tasks. Even unto her new collective, Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero-One, retires to her alcove within the cargo bay of Voyager, to complete a “sleep cycle” to match that of the day time duty roster. It is not sleep, per se, but regaining her humanity has likened it as such. 

   Tonight, however, she does not retreat to her alcove. Instead, she lays amid the mussed sheets of the Captain’s bed, alongside Kathryn beneath the dimmed lights and amid the distant hum of the warp core. Borg do not sleep, so she remains conscious, aware of every twitch, every movement of her lover in the depths of rapid eye movement sleep. She supposes this is part of humanity she may never truly experience again, so she studies, watches, keeps guard for whatever dreams and nightmares haunt her paramour so. 

    For the first time, she lays still as Kathryn has curled up to her in the span of the night hours; one arm over her waist, the other buried beneath shared pillows, head upon her stomach. Out of recent habit, Seven strokes rust coloured hair between her fingers; a gesture so often appreciated in tender moments.  

   When ‘morning’ comes - 0600 hours - Kathryn stirs, beginning to wake by means of her internal clock rather than the computer’s set alarm. Seven’s attention shifts when her lover finally moves, resting on her back. Still peaceful. Soon, they will have to prepare for the day ahead, but for now, Seven allows them this grace -- until eventually desire takes over. She moves her slender body to lay upon her side, reaching over to press a kiss to soft lips that still bear yesterday’s dark lipstick and last night’s lovemaking. In response, she earns a gravelly hum, and a hand that slips into her hair, keeping her there for just a little longer. 

 “Good morning, Seven,” Janeway answers with that rasp-ridden voice and lidded eyes. In return, Seven stays close, trailing her fingers along her lover’s jaw before retreating. 

  “It is 0604 hours. You have slept in,” Seven points out, though done so as a joke. Met with a brief eyeroll, the same hand in her hair pulls her back in for another kiss, and she goes, willingly. 

[iamselfmade]

😊💚💙🤍

(From here, WHICH EVERYONE BETTER REBLOG I GOT A LOTTA LOVE TO SHOW)

You are the SWEETEST omg thank you!! My heart is very full right now omg

You’re such a delight and I’m very excited to write with you.

And Hugh loves you too.

[garakk]

@parallaxedcaptain // Captain Janeway

Ships docked at all hours every day on Deep Space 9, and none of them concerned Garak. Unless, of course, they were of some use to him. Occasionally, he tangled himself in the affairs of illegal traders or those willing to bring him things of value - information, news, even comfort foods from Cardassia Prime. These visits were few and far between, however and, of course, never involved Starfleet vessels. 

Despite having no connection to them and having no desire to know about them in any regard, Garak always seemed to know when a Starfleet ship was docking. An excited buzz took the station by storm, and twice as many officers in primary colours flooded the Promenade. Commander Dax often threw parties then, and Quark’s was teeming with Terrans or Vulcans or other groups that couldn’t pay the Ferengi directly. It often resulted in Garak losing his lunches with Dr. Bashir and hiding from the masses in his shop. 

Starfleet officers rarely appeared out of uniform, so he could never count on them to come in and make a purchase. Not that he wished they would. Most Starfleet types were notoriously naive. Doe-eyed and wistful with a disillusioned view of the Federation. Garak had a distaste for the whole organization in general. He was sure the crew of this Voyager would be no different.

[afraidofchange]

[ ear ] for your muse’s mouth to come really close to my muse’s ear for Shepard and Janeway

@tornsavior | @parallaxedcaptain -  (x) 

    As acting diplomat set to solve centuries’ old conflicts, the stress of negotiations in the midst of a galactic war brings unparalleled stress. For a woman normally so composed, the Commander’s voice holds a sharp edge with every word before parting the Normandy’s meeting room with anger in her step, going so far as to even bypass the security scan, much to the Privates’ surprise. 

  To the lower decks, Shepard roams, caring little for the look Lieutenant Vega gives her when she shrugs off her jacket, down to the undershirt to the punching bag, set up between crates in the loading bay. Pent up frustration, for the war, for the bullshit from all sides while Earth burns and humans die by the millions per day comes out in every punch. Sharp, precise, and hard, the bag takes the impact. Eventually, she feels Vega leave her at peace, retiring for the night. 

  The sweat glistens Shepard’s brow, rolling in droplets down her face but she cares little for how it stains her shirt, or the way her knuckles feel raw. Every punch relieves pent up stress, keeping her reined in until the next mission that puts boots on the ground, and a gun in her hands. 

   Pneumatics hiss at the elevator but Alice doesn’t hear it. Only the constant thud of fist to punching bag rings out until, eventually, she hears a footstep, and a pair of ever familiar, stormy eyes watching her. “Shepard,” that rasp breaks the silence, and for once, she stops, lets her fists fall. A sigh heaves from her lungs, muscles aching, mind tired. “You’ll put a hole in that thing and Vega won’t forgive you.”

 “I’ll buy him a new one,” Shepard huffs, wiping at her brow, pushing back damp hair before finally, at last, turning to the Admiral. She shakes her head. “I’m not a goddamn politician. Why they want me to solve the galaxy’s problems when we’ve got a war on our hands is beyond me.” Unfolding her arms, Janeway approaches, regarding the taller woman with her head canted to the side. Careful hands reach out to take Shepard’s in her own, glancing over reddened, scraped knuckles. 

 “You’ll find a way, Commander,” Janeway begins, then looks up once more. Still navigating the war, and their new found relationship, she takes a bold step into Alice’s personal space, despite the sweat, leaning up on her toes to whisper in her ear. “But stress doesn’t look good on you. Get cleaned up. Meet me in my cabin in 10 minutes.” 

“Well I-” Shepard intends to protest, that Kathryn needn’t oblige her, but the look, the silent tut on her tongue shuts her up - just like the hand that slides across the lower half of her abdomen, just above the belt. “Aye, aye, Admiral.”

[afraidofchange]

💏 j7

fifty ways to kiss someone. | @parallaxedcaptain 

    a kiss in public --   Between strict Starfleet regulations and protocols, Voyager and its Captain drift between the lines and push boundaries to their limit. The Delta Quadrant proves a difficult sea of stars to navigate, and decisions that burden those in command will live with them for the remainder of this tumultuous journey - and for the rest of their lives.

   However, some decisions do not bear the continuous contemplation of making the right choice late at night, tossing and turning. Some decisions are made only in the best interests of the crew - they are like family, a collective of their own - like throwing a New Year’s Eve party in the off-duty hours, despite the circumstance. As their local morale officer would agree, celebrations keep spirits high. 

   And perhaps, the decision to follow Earth traditions in the depths of unknown space is made with good intentions, too. 

   As the count enters the final ten seconds, the Captain and the Astrometics Officer stand before one another - as Kathryn and Seven - despite the entirety of the crew filling the mess hall, counting down with the clock. Months have allowed for something tender, something loving to bloom. Despite the rules, despite the regulations, the plan comes into fruition with 5.33 seconds remaining. 

    Kathryn E. Janeway raises her hand to Seven of Nine’s cheek - and Seven doesn’t shy away. With a decision made, she offers her small, subtle smile. A confirmation without words as the chanting grows louder. 3... 2.... 1...... the raucous celebrations reverberate against the bulkheads, ringing in the next year of their journey together. A beat passes, and Captain Janeway leans up on her toes to press a gentle, but present kiss to Seven’s lips. Once she parts, the celebrations continue, albeit a little quieter. Even Tom and B’elanna take pause, but smiles soon follow suit. 

   Seven feels her heart rate rise marginally, though this human tradition has its merits. Flutes of champagne are passed around, which Kathryn takes two, and offers one to Seven of Nine with that charming smile. 

   “Happy New Year, Seven.” 

  And so she drinks to celebrate the new year and to their new found freedom. 

[afraidofchange]

Goodnight kiss for j7.

kissing prompts. | @parallaxedcaptain

    In the great sea of vastness that is the Delta Quadrant, Seven of Nine still finds comfort in normal routine. Even beyond the duty roster, she attends work well beyond after hours. Astrometics work is her own, and the lab, her most frequented ‘home’ aboard Voyager, amid her new collective. 

   Routine, too, involves the Captain - Kathryn, at this hour - finding her late in the night cycle. Her approach, albeit done in the quietest of ways, never slips Seven’s attention, despite her focus on the work that never seems to end. That same hand finds the small of her back, and that same sigh slips past her plush lips each and every night. She straightens herself in the same way - and at this point, Kathryn needn’t even say it. 

   It’s late, Seven. 

   So, she turns around with perfect precision, to face her Captain with that subtle smile reserved for her eyes alone. 

   “I do believe I am... owed a kiss goodnight,” Brilliant blues fall to their stormy equivalent, noting that ever familiar, mirthful smirk that crosses Janeway’s wine-stained lips. Like routine, this has become part of their normal - and for the better. 

  “Last I checked,” Janeway murmurs, closing the space between them with a firm hand to Seven’s waist. “It’s your turn, Seven.” And so, the tease becomes habit; she relinquishes the semantics of keeping track (and she is correct in her initial assertion) in favour of gently taking Kathryn by the chin, to lean into her soft lips that have become her comfort, her warmth. The act of a kiss goodnight is as much routine as is checking the sensor array and mapping the stars. 

  “Goodnight, Kathryn,” Seven announces when she departs, though her lips and her hands linger longer than before. Becoming closer together, loving deeper is routine, too. 

[afraidofchange]

no one ever lets Shepard forget about the incident at the sushi place. 

@parallaxedcaptain​

[afraidofchange]

dancing on my own for Janeway and Seven

@parallaxedcaptain (and @isabellashepard who sent this too!) | naughty prompt list.

  From afar, Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero One watches the crew members of her collective aboard the starship Voyager, take to the dancefloor of a dimly lit club, projected in Holodeck 2.

 Among them, even the Captain has allowed herself the unusual pleasure of indulging in tonight’s off-hours. The bridge, left in the hands of Ensign Kim for the night shift has allowed the Senior Officers a much needed reprieve. As one of Lieutenant Paris’ suggestions, the setting of the bar is from that of the early 21st century, with music that pairs accordingly, even going so far as to find remixes of certain songs that add to the atmosphere.

Holo-characters and crewman alike have dressed for the part, and while such an endeavor would prove fruitless and inefficient by Seven’s parameters, the request from the Captain (read: an order) to have fun has brought the former borg to partake - albeit, without any of the ridiculous articles of clothing that her colleagues and friends adorn on their bodies.

Past research cannot quite decipher just what kind of ‘dance moves’ the crowd partakes in, but Seven scans the room and finds a familiar face - Kathryn - who has taken a moment to take a drink from the bar, parched from her earlier engagements on the dancefloor. It’s then that the Captain makes eye contact with Seven, and takes little time to approach the taller, younger woman with a hand outstretched. 

 “You can’t just stand here all night, Seven. Come on. Dance with me.”

It’s a bold request, but off-duty with time for a rare celebration of success allows Janeway the opportunity - and she’ll take it. 

 “I am quite content to simply obser--”

 “Nonsense, you should experience the real thing.” 

Not wanting to argue, Seven gives in and takes Kathryn’s hand. Soon, the Captain leads her to the middle of the dance floor amid the hot, sweaty crowd that begins to move their bodies and dance to the rhythm of the music. She watches to emulate, though her gaze fixates upon the Captain - dressed casually in a dark blue dress and heels - who moves just the same. Intrigued, she mirrors the movement, allowing her human-borg body to fall into a kind of rhythm that takes a moment to get to speed, and then, in the pursuit of perfection, she begins to understand.

Yet, as the song continues with heavy basslines and nonsensical pop lyrics, a different kind of closeness transpires between Captain and Officer, Kathryn and Seven. Their eyes meet as their bodies move and while a hand dares not rest on one another, they stand mere inches apart, closer than ever before. Bright, curious blue eyes fall to the oceanic depths of her dance partner’s gaze, studying her expression, the way her burgundy lips remain slightly parted, the way her auburn hair frames her freckled face beneath the low lighting. 

The song changes, blends into the next one and time no longer feels relevant; instead, this exchange of dancing together continues without a word, even as sweat begins to cover her skin and her hair comes loose from its trademark hold. A certain intimacy lingers in the unspoken, and it makes Seven feel flushed, far more than their games of Velocity ever have. 

Several minutes pass that feel like an eternity, though the magnetism between both women keep them going, fuel such a desire for something more, something beyond them, no longer constrained by rank and file. When they do finally part, hot and in need of a beverage, smiles accompany lingering glances.

Perhaps, Seven asserts, this is what she needed after all.