Iambic Boobameter
Captain Kathryn Janeway wriggled in her command chair, more out of libidinous habit than being uncomfortable, and wondered why space had to be so boring. Sure, there were some terrible, harrowing adventures and plenty of sticky situations, but those only happened once a week, never lasting more than forty-five minutes, and most of the time they were just plain boring. Of all the things she had been taught at the academy, there was nothing, not a word, about what to do with all of the free time spent drifting aimlessly in space.
Though lately, she hadn't been so bored off-duty as she was on-duty.
She had been spending all hours of the night plotting, scheming, and planning the best course of action to get a glimpse of the most magnificent tits in the Delta Quadrant. Her last plan, involving comrades Celes and Torres had utterly failed, and she had chosen to exclude the duo…or rather, the duo had excluded her in lieu of their latest lewd acquisition: the Happy Cavity 2 complete with Pulse Ray Attachments.
Her latest plan was not one of ambush, but rather romance. She would sweet the young, naïve ex-Borg off her feet in a whirlwind of love, adorn her with tokens of her immense affections, and swoon her into unzipping that damned biosuit one way or another.
But how? What could she do? A song wouldn't do, for a Targ's death fart was thirty times more pleasant than her singing. She couldn't paint very well, and Seven wouldn't care about impersonal purchases. The only option that was left was…words. A poem! She would write a poem.
She grinned to herself, and excused herself from the bridge. Plopping herself behind her desk, she opened a drawer and removed a rarely used pen and piece of paper. Handwriting seemed far more romantic.
She bit her lip, scratched her head, and pondered where to begin.
Seven of Nine sighed and suppressed the urge to exhibit any further displays of emotion. A large, fragrant bouquet of roses lay on the base of her alcove, a long, handwritten note attached, doubtlessly another one of Janeway's attempts to wrangle her into revealing her breasts.
She rolled her eyes, picking the sheet up, and began scanning it unenthusiastically.
Heavenly orbs,
soft, full, luscious, and warm
Inspiring such lascivious intent
That my nether regions are thoroughly worn.
My heart thump-thrumps mightily in my breast,
Each time I glimpse at your exquisite chest.
My clitoris scorns me, and you as well,
For every time you pass me, my poor
Little nub endures a most heavenly hell.
As long as you dwell, I am compelled,
I fear I can't keep my naughty hands above the belt.
My nipples are always stiff, like fifth and sixth pips,
Panties wetter than Chakotay's pee-stained manties.
You keep your Captain at full attention,
With those big Borg titties, when you thrust 'em.
I stand transfixed, bewitched, struck dumb.
I'd abandon Voyager and throw myself into the sun,
Just to squeeze those breasts and fondle those buns.
Of course. It had been everything she had expected, and wholly unconvincing. She sighed again, and made towards the replicator, but as she did so, another sheet, much shorter and scribbled in a far messier hand, slipped from beneath the first one.
That's not to
say I don't love you, no, my dear.
My heart quiver-quakes, my knees shiver-shake,
And ghosts snatch my voice every time you stand near.
I long to feel your sweet, sweet breath grace my neck,
To hear your sultry voice so tender and clear,
Saying the three littlest words, wrought with blessed irrelevancy,
Because I love you, so very much, and I'd die,
I'd hurl myself into the deepest depths of hell,
Endure the vilest of tortures, do anything,
Everything, for you, my sweet ex-drone.
The range of emotions that fluttered through the ex-Borg's utterly confounded her. It was not the first time Janeway had proclaimed love for her, but oddly, it seemed far more poignant this time. She stood, for long, long moments, lost so far in thought that she did not hear the doors swish open, or the soft footsteps of her Captain.
Janeway wondered why she was here. The final page of her poem had sprung upon her, and she had scribbled it in a fit of uneasiness. She hadn't wanted to include it, but was compelled to, and now, as she watched Seven standing still, she regretted it fully.
"I…" was all she could mutter.
Seven turned, gazing at the woman before her, who looked so soft and unsure and so unlike herself, and in a bout of tenderness, stepped forward and stroked her cheek, looked her in the eye, and kissed her softly.
"I love you," she said, eyeing the other woman intently. "But you've still got a long way to go before I disrobe willingly."
Kathryn grinned, wrapping her arms around Seven's midsection.
"Still, mission semi-accomplished."