Summary: Part of the unfinished "Small Screen" round robin from alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated. The premise: Picard and Q (occasionally joined by the female Q) search the multiverse to determine the nature of true love and/or lust, and become unseen voyeurs. Each segment is more or less open-ended. In this episode: A visit to Voyager.

Disclaimer: Paramount/Viacom (hey, is that slash?) own Trek of all incarnations. This is a non-profit venture.

Sex Disclaimer: You saw that NC-17? That means there be sex here. Unredeemed smut, in fact. Mostly m/f, but suggestions of m/m and f/f. If you aren't 18, you really aren't old enough to read this. If you can't cope with the idea of sex, um, well, you probably won't reproduce at any great rate. If reading about it just doesn't do anything for you, look elsewhere.
 
 

Captain's quarters, but not his. Picard glanced around at the room that smelled faintly of lived-in dust and coffee. Definitely not his quarters. Not a galaxy-class starship, either. The curve of the hull was wrong, the whole place was too small. Too desperate. It felt like fear.

"Why are we here, Q?" he asked softly.

"Forty-two?"

Picard did a double-take. "What?"

Q shrugged. "No, doesn't work. Never mind." He didn't continue.

Picard waited. The entity said nothing. Finally, "Q?"

"Hmm?"

"Why are we here? I mean, why are you and I here, on this ship, at this time, and what are we looking for?"

"You're no fun, Jean-Luc," Q sulked.

"Ignore him, Captain." The female Q stepped into existence with a very muted flash of light. "He isn't telling you because he doesn't know. This scene is mine."

"What is it?"

"Just watch," she said, and pushed him forward. He stepped into the light.

They were entwined on the bed, a baby-faced, blond-haired boy and a woman who felt too familiar for Picard to have never seen her before. His mind worked frantically and provided him with one name. Tom Paris, the rear admiral's scapegrace son with hands like an artist's and a form like mortal sin. He had a body like an animal, clean and bitterly sharp, with muscles clearly defined along his back and thighs. From the tension in that body, the boy could have been fighting for his life.

Picard didn't even realise what had struck him about the girl until her arms came up to rake his back and her left hand was defined in matte-silver implant tracery. She was Borg.

He found he could remember her, vaguely, from his time in the Collective. The small part of him that had remained individual had sought out this other assimilated human, looking for some king of familiarity in her, finding none. She was Borg, so thoroughly she frightened that part of him away into the darkness of his unconscious mind.

Seven of Nine, tertiary adjunct to unimatrix 01.

Seven of Nine.

He was quite sure she hadn't been so beautiful the last time they encountered.

In the dim light, he could barely make her out. He could only see that her Borg mechanisms had been reduced to a few stark metal tracers, that her skin was unnaturally pale, that her eyes were screwed shut. A spectral mass of blond hair had largely slipped out of its pins and fallen around her head. Gods, that lower lip was a sex crime waiting for a place to happen. And pressed against Paris' body, heaving with the rise and fall of her lungs . . .

"One word about her breasts, Picard," snapped the female Q, "and you will wish you had never been born." Picard ground his teeth and sank into the chair that Q provided for him. The female Q considered. "You too, Q. Not a word."

"Not a word, beloved," Q agreed absently.

Paris had been buried to the root in Seven's body when Picard first saw them. In full view of the unnoticed watchers, he withdrew almost completely, then drove in hard enough to rock the girl's body and drive her moan up the vocal register into a wail. Picard couldn't imagine a body wet enough to accept those thrusts without mind-crushing friction. Certainly not that body, hers, that must be nearly virgin, at least in matters of sex.

Paris was pounding into her hard enough to make the bedframe shake and to rock sobs out of her. Seven's long slender legs were locked at the ankles around his waist; even across the room Picard could see they were trembling. From the size of the penis he saw in flashes, he guessed her body must be seething like fire. He hardly noticed Q's arms coming around him from behind.

The pounding rhythm broke abruptly and Paris eased onto his back, maintaining his connection with Seven, cautiously bringing her up to ride him. For a long moment, she rested against his chest and shook, and he held her. Then he gently pushed her upright, resting his hands on the breasts that Picard wasn't supposed to comment on, but oh gods they were beautiful . . .

Q kissed the rim of Picard's ear. "Keep your thoughts where they belong, mon capitain."

"Shut up, Q."

Paris' hands dropped to Seven's hips. "It's OK," he whispered. "Just find the places that you like. That's it . . . . Oh. Oh yes."

Tentatively, Seven began to rock above him. Circling her hips a little, shifting her weight back and forth. Her eyes were still closed. Picard could read her face so clearly, marked by little flashes of pleasure and cringes when bruises from the earlier rough coupling exploded into pain. It made her, if such a thing were possible, even more exquisite.

A long-fingered pilot's hand snaked between their bodies and began to rub between Seven's legs. By that point, her clitoris would be surely insanely sensitive. Picard saw the change in her expression, frightened for a moment, then pleasured as she ground her crotch against Paris' cock and hand. And came.

The change in the atmosphere was palpable. Seven remained, as she had been the entire time, hauntingly wordless, only moaning a little deep in her throat and shaking uncontrollably. Paris pulled her down to him, kissed her and cupped the breasts that Picard could not help but think about. She wrapped thin arms around his neck and clung to him. Even in the unnatural silence of the bedroom, Paris' voice was faint.

"Wrap yourself around me, Seven, and hang on tight."

She did, locking first her arms around his neck, then her legs around his waist as he rocked into a sitting position and rose with the two of them still joined. He moved, gods, he moved as if she didn't weigh anything. Pressed her up against the bulkhead, locked around his body.

The first thrust drove her up sharply. He held her there with hands on her hips while he bucked down and then hard up, driving deeper. Seven groaned, scraping out vibrations from deep in her chest. Paris repeated the action, setting the long muscles in his back and legs dancing with the strain. He was absolutely edible, as beautiful as she was and carved magnificently into bitterness and rapture. He thrust once more, eliciting at long last a shriek from Seven, tensed, and came, moaning and sliding down to let her rest on top of him.

Picard hadn't noticed the embrace beginning, but he and Q were now so closely tangled that he doubted whether he could extricate himself without making a scene. That would be too much effort. He relaxed into the muscular shoulder and listened to the panting coming to his ears through the semi-darkness. He was nearly shocked when Paris recovered enough to guide his partner back to collapse with him on the mattress.

The room smelled like sex and sweat and salt water. Picard wondered which of the two was crying and which was unconscious. Paris and Seven of Nine had separated and lay without touching, the space between them electric.

Silence. Q's breath whispered past his ear. The female Q had seated herself cross-legged with her back against the wall.

The bedroom door opened and Kathryn Janeway walked in like she owned the place.

She did, of course she did. These were her quarters then, on the lost USS Voyager. And presumably her crewmembers in her bed. He waited, curiously unafraid, for Janeway's rage or laughter while she stood outlined in the light from the outer chamber.

Colour was restored with the light streaming in. She was in her dressing gown, dark raspberry silk that was nearly black, licking at her ankles as she padded across the room. For a moment, he saw her outlined against the starscape, a straight, slender, middle-aged woman with shoulder-length, tousled brown hair. A woman with an unreadable compassion on her face as she bent and brushed her lips to the Borg girl's temple, then her mouth. One functional hand trailed down to press into the blond hair at the juncture of the long legs and stroke a finger deeply enough to invite a groggy response.

"Shhh." Another kiss, consumingly deep, and Seven sank again into unconsciousness. Janeway rose and walked around the bed to Paris. There was a trace of blood on the forefinger that she pressed to her lips.

"Tom."

He stirred. "Kathryn?"

Janeway sank down beside him with her legs hanging over the edge of the bed. Immediately, Paris shifted his body and buried his face in her lap. She accepted the contact and rested her hands on his shoulders.

"You did a good job," Janeway said softly.

"I was too rough with her."

"No you weren't. She learned everything you were supposed to teach her. You did fine. She'll make a magnificent lover."

"I hurt her," Paris said.

"She'll live, she's strong. And you know she enjoyed it."

"Oh Kathryn I'm sorry," he whispered.

"No, no my Tommy, you have no reason to be sorry. It's all right."

Janeway loosened his grip and eased herself into bed, settling between the two blond figures. Paris twisted to face her and wrapped himself around her legs again, almost fetal and crying into the deep red silk in the Captain's lap. Janeway bent and kissed him, then settled against the pillows to rock him until the storm of weeping passed.

"Shhh. It's all right. You did fine. I love you. I love my Tommy, my lover, my beautiful boy." He continued to cry. Seven of Nine, deeply asleep, shifted to press against Janeway's side. Absently, the older woman accepted the embrace and freed a hand from the sobbing young man to twine in the girl's fair hair. "I love you, my Tommy. She's going to be amazing with us. Shhh. It's all right."

The female Q caught Picard's chin and firmly turned his gaze away from the scene. Her look was enigmatic to the point of being incomprehensible. "What *was* that?" Picard whispered.

"Were you watching?" she asked flatly.

"Yes. Yes, of course."

"Good," she said. The light she made in vanishing was almost to faint to register on his tired retinas.

Picard shook himself. "Q."

"Hmmm?" The sound came as a languid vibration against his neck. The captain on the bed still held Paris, only occasionally reaching out to stroke Seven's hair or face or body.

"Q, is it over?"

"Mmm."

"Come on, Q. Unless we're finished."

"Don't be ridiculous, Jean-Luc." Picard and Q were suddenly four or five feet apart, each with his own personal space, and that was how they vanished, leaving the captain and her officers in the dark.
 

 
 
 
 
 

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