Title: Klingon Dreams
Fandom: Star Trek Voyager
Summary: When B'Elanna Torres has a disturbing nightmare about Seven of Nine, she decides to play a cruel trick on the former drone. But things don't work out the way she planned. Takes place after the events of "Infinite Regress".
Rating: NC-17. Drama/Erotica. This story contains violence, coarse language, and explicit lesbian sex.
Disclaimer: No profit is intended in the writing of this story. Star Trek: Voyager and its characters are the property of Paramount (a Viacom company).
Feedback is required for sustenance, so please email me. Archiving is welcome, but please try and contact me first. Thanks to Michelle (for clearing up a matter of the heart), Dragonchild (for a translation into Klingon), and Meagan (for her work as beta reader).
"Love does not exist for a Klingon, only different forms of combat." - M'nea.
From Women Warriors at the River of Blood by Rthar, daughter of Noven. 4th Federation Standard edition (2348) translated by Ada Ling, with additional annotations by Curzon Dax. A Beijing Unicentral Database Project.
Her back struck the bed hard, making it shake.
"Ouch," said the form lying next to her. A tousle of sandy-blonde hair poked out from beneath the sheets.
B'Elanna ignored him. Staring at the ceiling, she let the tension of the sixteen-hour shift ebb out of her, fatigue seeping from taut muscles into the mattress beneath. That vinculum had been a real bastard to get a handle on. Every time she thought it'd been shut down, it would regenerate and come back at her. But she'd won in the end. Resistance was bloody well futile as far as B'Elanna Torres was concerned.
"So," came a casual voice. "When are you and Seven getting married?"
"Don't start Tom," B'Elanna muttered, her tone warning of impending bloodshed and broken bones.
"All that snapping and snarling at each other. I should have known it was just flirting."
B'Elanna grit her teeth, determined not to be goaded. Her cheek still tingled from the dermal regenerator. That Borg petaQ!
"I mean, I remember when you bit me on the Sikari planet. Look what that led to."
B'Elanna whipped out the pillow from beneath her and hit the smug bastard hard. Yelping, Tom Paris leapt out of bed. The pillow bounced off his back, followed by the sheets, bedside objects, and anything else B'Elanna could get her hands on. Tom dived for cover behind the couch.
"And you can stay there!"
"Isn't this Klingon foreplay?" asked the voice from behind the couch.
B'Elanna gave a disgusted snort, turned on her side, and went to sleep.
She was in Engineering but something was different, tense.
The Borg faced her across the room. She looked like Seven but the words were alien, guttural, thick with sexual hunger. "Do'Raq Merash!"
B'Elanna's hands were in the attack posture, fingers ready to grasp or claw. She could smell the Borg's excitement, the heady scent of pheromones and sweat. Even from five meters away she could tell Seven was wet.
"QaneHQo'," she snarled back. "QamuS!" The Klingon words came easily, like they always did in dreams.
"jIH dok," said Seven, those ice-crystal eyes stripping away B'Elanna's uniform, her underclothes, cutting straight to the soul, leaving her naked and exposed. The sheer arrogance of what Seven proposed infuriated her, a dark rage boiling up from beneath. "I am not mating with you, Borg!"
"Resistance is futile," replied Seven, her voice cold once more like the emotionless drone she was. She studied them from the top of an access shaft, padd in hand - an entomologist studying insects. B'Elanna gripped the ladder as Tom took her from behind, roaring her pleasure and fury. Chased the Borg onto the bridge, blood oozing from the bite mark on her cheek.
Chakotay was there with her mother, going over the sensor logs. "I'm not going to bond with her!" shouted B'Elanna. "I do not have to make her my be'nal. Traditional Klingon crap!"
Captain Janeway sat in her chair, the detested Borg at her side. She looked at Seven with eyes full of love. A gentle hand stroked that perfect cheek. B'Elanna felt her gut clench at their intimacy; she gripped her bat'leth tighter.
Seven raised an exoskeleton-covered hand, mimicking the captain's gesture. Metal-tipped fingers brushed those auburn strands, red like lava fire. Twin assimilation tubules punched into Janeway's neck.
B'Elanna watched in horror as black lines advanced across the captain's face. Janeway's head turned toward her. "Seven of Nine is a member of this crew. You will learn to work together. That is an order." Her voice was cold. She was Borg now.
Howling with rage B'Elanna swung her bat'leth. The sword jarred in her hands as it struck, the blow slicing the Borg clean in two. The halves instantly rejoined, conduits snaking over the body like gorging bloodworms. She hacked away in fury but the abomination continued to adapt, sprouting implants like a biomechanical Hydra.
"I want this thing out of my engine room!" B'Elanna screamed. The others stared at her dumbfounded. What was wrong with the idiots! Couldn't they see how dangerous she was?
"You have neglected to remove the autonomous regeneration sequencers," Seven intoned.
B'Elanna thrust the blade at her head, those too-perfect features slicing apart to reveal what lay beneath, what she had always known was there: the infinite ranked alcoves of the Collective.
B'Elanna woke up shivering, trying to clutch non-existent bedsheets to her chest. The mattress underneath her was damp with sweat.
Even though the lights were off she could just make out Tom on the couch, sheets wrapped around him. She could hear the slow, relaxed rhythm of his breathing.
"Computer, state location of Seven of Nine," B'Elanna rasped. Her throat was dry.
"Seven of Nine is in Cargo Bay Two."
B'Elanna slipped off the bed, moving quietly so as not to wake her boyfriend. She located the cabinet by touch. A tap on the front made the drawer hiss open.
B'Elanna didn't have much left from her time with the Maquis, just the clothes she'd been wearing when they'd beamed over to Voyager. But the knife had been tucked into her boot. Its handle was made of priceless Jemonite, the shining blade marked by tooth-like serrations. Beautiful yet deadly, like Seven of Nine. Not a Klingon weapon but Cardassian - she'd taken it off the body of a dead Gul.
Taking the knife in her hand, B'Elanna walked out the door.
It was cold in the corridor. She didn't like the cold.
Her bare feet padded on the deck as B'Elanna walked to the turbolift, the crimson nightgown brushing wraith-like against her legs. Both arms were folded tightly across her chest to hold in the heat, the knife hidden under her left armpit, blade to the rear. She could return to her quarters and get something warmer, but she didn't want to risk waking Tom. She did not want to answer his questions.
Voyager was on 'night' and things were quiet. She saw only one crewman, giving an abstract nod in reply to his greeting.
In the turbolift B'Elanna closed her eyes, remembering the dream.
B'Elanna started awake, cursing as her head smacked against the open Mees panel. There was someone else in the Jeffries tube, a familiar yet unwelcome scent. She could see faint highlights reflecting off the ocular implant.
"What is it, Seven?"
"Captain Janeway said you required my assistance recalibrating the EPS manifolds. Are you all right, Lieutenant?"
B'Elanna rubbed her scalp, frowning in annoyance. She must have fallen asleep. First the struggle with the vinculum, then hours spent patching up the damage from the alien attack. There'd be even more work tomorrow when they brought the ODN relays on line. "I...I'm fine. Bad dreams, that's all." B'Elanna slid to one side, tensing as the Borg clambered past. There was a moment of awkward body contact, a crackle of static electricity making her flinch. With the memory of Seven's assault still fresh in her mind, this was too close for comfort.
Seven removed the manifold cover, her movements precise as always. Nothing wasted. B'Elanna studied her carefully. If the traumatic events of the past few days had changed the Borg in any way she couldn't tell.
"Do you have dreams, Seven?"
"Yes." Twin tubules erupted from Seven's left hand and interfaced with the manifold's subprocessor.
B'Elanna secured the Mees panel. "What of?"
"That is irrelevant."
B'Elanna snorted, turning to climb through the exit hatch.
"When we were crossing the radioactive nebula, the Doctor and I had to run the ship by ourselves."
The comment came out of nowhere and B'Elanna stopped in surprise. "I remember."
"You could not, you were in stasis at the time. I began to have...disturbing dreams."
B'Elanna could hear the faint hum of energy conduits, a murmur of unintelligible conversation in Engineering. Seven continued to work without looking at her.
"I dreamt that I had been abandoned in the middle of a cold wasteland. There was snow, ice, tundra - but no birds or animals or other individuals, no-one. For as far as I could see I was completely alone. I realised then that I would always be alone."
B'Elanna didn't know what to say. She'd never heard Seven talk about her feelings to anyone, let alone her. Acting instinctively, B'Elanna slid her arms around the young woman's shoulders.
"Lieutenant Torres, I cannot work with you restraining me in that fashion!" Seven snapped, irritation clear in her voice.
"I was just...well sorry!" She let go, giving Seven a shove in the process. B'Elanna turned and clambered through the hatch, growling under her breath. 'Cold wasteland! Probably her own heart!'
Cargo Bay Two.
B'Elanna hesitated outside the doors, looking both ways before entering.
It was dark inside; the lights were kept on half-power to conserve energy. B'Elanna could see the curves and lines of cargo containers, stacked equipment, biological specimens shining faintly in their carboplex domes. To the right a green light flickered, alien amongst the blacks and grays.
"Seven?" B'Elanna whispered. If the Borg was awake she'd have to make some excuse for being here...
There was no response. B'Elanna could feel her heart thumping in her chest, broadcasting her presence to anyone listening.
"Is anyone there?" Louder this time.
'No-one here but us drones.'
"Computer, lock cargo bay doors. Authorisation Torres Gamma-Nine."
Seven of Nine was regenerating in her alcove. B'Elanna approached her cautiously, moving from one patch of darkness to another as if stalking an animal. Without realising she'd crouched low, nostrils flaring as they drew in air, scenting for danger. The knife was in her right hand now, thumb on the crossguard, the cargo bay lights raising dim points off the serrated edge. A brief pause at the foot of the alcove. The Borg was like a statue, a beautiful goddess imprisoned in a technological cage. The marriage of feminine perfection and Borg cybernetics looked obscene to the hybrid engineer.
B'Elanna stepped onto the alcove's base so that her face was level with Seven's. She leaned close, staring at those closed eyes for any sign the Borg was aware of her presence. The eyelids flickered in REM sleep.
She placed her blade against the Borg's neck.
Seska had nearly shoved her knife up B'Elanna's nose.
"So you're ex-Starfleet." The words were spat out through a sneer. "Well that's just what we need. All you lot can do is make the subroutines run on time."
"I got kicked out of the Academy," B'Elanna shot back, trying to mask the tremble in her voice. The Bajoran's eyes were dark, cold as the blade against her cheek.
"Oh, so you can't make the subroutines run on time." Nobody laughed. Few were even paying attention. The newcomer could either handle herself or she couldn't. The Maquis wasn't a nursery and it certainly wasn't the Federation. You either learned to cope or walked out...or someone phasered you in the back before you got everyone killed.
"Well listen to me, you half-breed bitch! Starfleet people are worse than useless. You can only fight with starships and holodecks and endless bloody protocols. We Bajorans are the only ones cut out for this; we've been fighting the Cardassians for fifty years. And you know something, turtlehead__"
B'Elanna didn't wait to find out what she knew. Her fist enhanced the corrugations of Seska's nose. It took five men to haul them off each other.
B'Elanna was a qualified engineer but there were no ships to work on, despite what the Maquis recruiters had claimed. So for the first three months she carried a phaser rifle (when there were phasers - sometimes all she had was a length of pipe). For thirteen hours a day, seven days a week B'Elanna learned contact drills, ambush drills, electronic countermeasures, biochemical warfare, political indoctrination, field medicine, living off the land. As Seska had pointed out there were no holodecks, it was all real - slogging through swamp water with a backpack full of burnt-out power rods, the Bajoran Militia instructors firing over their heads and InI bugs crawling into every orifice. And then (so weary she had to hold open her eyes with her fingers) having to absorb a lecture on the installation of Cardassian Ground Fire-Support Systems in Peregrine-class couriers, or diagnose a malfunctioning power generator or sensor matrix. Once B'Elanna had spent four hours trying to pinpoint the fault in a Breen plasma-dump chamber before she realised there was nothing wrong with it - the instructors had simply reconfigured her tricorder.
But for the first time no-one cared if B'Elanna lost her temper, or didn't fit in. For the first time the Klingon hybrid felt at home. She could work out her aggression on the long marches and constant drills, lose herself in the problems of adapting civilian vessels of myriad origin to interstellar guerrilla warfare. And when she flattened somebody no-one hauled her before a tribunal and told her to seek 'counseling'.
If two people had a serious dispute Chakotay would set up a fighting ring with them all taking bets on the winner. B'Elanna ended up in there on more than one occasion, usually with one of the Bajoran instructors - former Kohn-Ma terrorists who didn't like Starfleet any more than Seska did. They tended to avoid Chakotay though, when they found out how well he could throw a punch.
"She'll do," Chakotay had said, after B'Elanna was hauled from the ring with her right hand broken and blood streaming out of her nose. "If she learns to keep her temper."
Seska had looked down at her unconscious opponent and said only, "We'll see."
A week later they were planet-hopping by interskiff to an M-class rock called Novena IV, though B'Elanna didn't find out the name until long afterwards. Just two hours after beamdown she was lying in wait to kill someone for the first time in her life. It was supposed to be a defining moment for a Klingon.
She was scared to death.
Their target was a Cardassian troop carrier, fully shielded, patrolling the highway between Terlak Gena and its transfer station. The vehicle was supposed to travel a different route each time but they'd gotten careless, fording a shallow part of the river to return to base fifteen minutes earlier. The Maquis were hiding in the t'ini, their thermal signatures masked as the day's heat radiated from their sap. Earlier she'd helped bury a massive charge of explosives in the river bed. A 'land mine' Chakotay called it, a remnant of Earth's violent past. It seemed stupid to B'Elanna. The mine wouldn't detonate unless the carrier ran over the exact spot where they'd placed the pressure detonator. Chakotay had pointed out there was no electronic signature for the Cardassians to pick up either.
Ten hours, just waiting. B'Elanna hadn't slept properly in months, but each time she started to nod off Seska would slap her over the head. Even so the explosion took B'Elanna by surprise. She'd been staring at the river but her mind was elsewhere, a waking dream about warm fires and banana pancakes, then the blast jerked her awake and Chakotay was shouting GO GO GO DAMMIT! and they were up running and stumbling across rocks and prickly vine. Though twice her age Chakotay was racing ahead decathlon champion my ass her lungs burning in the smoke and steam and the scent of blood and roasted flesh in the air. The carrier had been gutted like a targ at the feast; no-one could have survived but the whine of disrupters was all around so B'Elanna threw herself down, crawling with her rifle cradled in her arms like she'd been taught but then Seska was kicking her in the ribs shouting GET UP AND KILL THEM YOU STUPID BITCH! and they were moving in short rushes one covering the other, fire from the support cannon lighting them in jerky strobe movements, plasma sweeping over Mendal and burning his flesh away the animal scream to be replayed in constant nightmares, rolling naked in the river to quench his pain but she knew it would burn underwater right down to the bone, Starfleet regulations on the correct handling of hazardous materials running through her mind: 'Why the hell am I thinking about this NOW?'
B'Elanna didn't even see the Cardassian - she tripped over him instead.
He'd been playing dead in the prickly vines but was up in an instant - a combat veteran, the knife in his hand to kill her silently before the others noticed. She blocked the first blow with her rifle but he went underneath it and stabbed for the stomach, the blade deflecting off a power pack on her belt. All the unarmed combat training had gone straight from her head and she'd struck out blindly, trying to smash his face in but he just pushed the barrel aside and threw himself on top of her, crushing her lungs under his weight and the blade against her throat and all B'Elanna could think was that she'd been in action for five minutes and really fucked up and now she was dead - some Klingon warrior. Then the Cardassian opened his mouth and vomited blood all over her face.
As she pushed the body off her, B'Elanna realised that everything had gone quiet except for the crackle of burning t'ini and the sound of clapping. It was Seska, striking the back of her hand against her palm in the Bajoran manner.
"You're supposed to kill him not have sex with him, but I suppose it's all the same to you Klingons."
"Fuck you," B'Elanna replied, and promptly retched into the river, spewing until she thought both her stomachs would turn inside out.
It wouldn't be the first time Seska would save her life. Only Seska, who'd later become her best friend, had turned out to be a Cardassian agent.
She knew better than to trust anyone now.
B'Elanna traced her knife across Seven's throat, watching goosebumps rise on the pale skin. She leaned close, sniffing the blonde hair, lips brushing the star-shaped implant. "So you want to mate with me, do you Seven?" Her fingers slid across the suprasternal notch, hooking the neck of the biosuit and pulling it down. "You wanted to fuck me in front of the whole engineering shift!" B'Elanna slipped the tip of the thin blade inside Seven's collar, and began to slice downwards.
"You are so beautiful," B'Elanna whispered, as her knife split apart the blue dermaplastic. "I bet the captain thinks about making love to you all the time. She's always spending time with you, touching you, smiling at you. Her pet Borg. The Captain's Woman - you like that don't you, stuck up petaQ!"
B'Elanna had to move very slowly to avoid cutting Seven. The biofabric kept sticking to the skin and had to be pulled away as she worked. Little by little she carved open the Borg's uniform, revealing in short intimate stages the unblemished flesh of her cleavage. Placing the knife between her teeth B'Elanna used both hands to ease the biosuit down over the breasts. They came loose with a soft pop, twin succulent fruits of perfection, the nipples stiffening in the cold air. She couldn't resist flicking her tongue over them, licking each dun-coloured nipple until it extended to its full length.
She continued her task, her questing blade exposing slanting metal ribs melted into the flesh of the Borg's abdomen. B'Elanna scratched one with the knife, but it made no visible mark. Hands trembling now as she reached the crotch. What would Janeway do if she caught her at this moment, playing games with her property? Indulging in forbidden pleasures - Captain's Eyes Only.
"I've seen you watching us, Seven." It was difficult now; the dermaplastic was pulled tight between the Borg's thighs. B'Elanna had to move with excruciating care, slicing an inch at a time. "Do you touch yourself as you listen to Tom making love to me?" Another tiny cut - she pulled it away with her teeth, her nose tantalisingly close to the puckered lips of the Borg's sex. The painstaking slowness at which she had to work was driving B'Elanna wild. She hadn't felt this aroused since that time on Sikari IV. There was a sticky wetness trickling down her thighs, soaking into her panties. 'Oh Tom, when I get back I'm going to screw you 'til your blood screams!'
B'Elanna realised she couldn't make Seven completely naked. There was no way of getting the biosuit down past her boots. But she was fine the way she was. 'What will that stuck-up Borg think when she wakes up and finds herself half-naked? She'll think she's been sleepwalking again!'
"You look like a complete idiot," said B'Elanna, sneering up at the quiescence blonde. Maybe she could con Harry into going to the cargo bay just as Seven's regeneration cycle finished. That would be hilarious!
On her knees, B'Elanna's face was level with Seven's vagina. She was surprised to see the Borg's sex glistening in the half-light. 'Do you have wet dreams, Seven?'
B'Elanna extended her tongue, touching it to a bead of clear fluid that had formed on the apex of Seven's slit.
"Lieutenant Torres. State your intentions."
"Regeneration cycle complete."
B'Elanna leapt backwards, a lance of pain shooting up through her spine as she landed hard on her buttocks. She looked up in horror to find Seven's eyes wide open and staring right at her.
OH SHIT SHIT SHIT SHE'S AWAKE!
B'Elanna scrambled off the alcove base and pulled herself to her feet. There was a slight click as Seven stepped out from the regenerative mechanism, only to be stopped by the material bunched tightly around her legs. She raised an eyebrow. "My uniform is damaged. Explain."
"Uh, that-that was...that was just a joke." Oh fuck how could she have been this stupid?
The Borg stared coldly at her. How she'd seriously thought she could embarrass this ice-goddess B'Elanna didn't know. "And the cunnilingus?"
"Cunnilingus - oral stimulation of the vulva or clitoris. I believe that was what you were about to do with your tongue. Do you wish to copulate with me, Lieutenant?"
"No! I was just...I...well...look just forget it, OK?" B'Elanna turned and fled the cargo bay as if the kos'karii of Gre'thor were snapping at her heels.
In the turbolift B'Elanna stared at the flashing light panels and forced herself to think. It was worse than when Tuvok busted her making out with Tom on that console. What if Seven reported this to the captain?
B'Elanna tried to calm her breathing. This wouldn't do at all. She had to get a grip on herself.
'I can't let that Borg get the upper hand. She'll be smirking about this all the way to the Alpha Quadrant.'
"Take me back. I mean...Deck Eight."
The dream always goes this way.
She lies naked on the metal slab, as the padding has been removed. A Klingon warrior does not require comfort. Her back is numb, her nipples and body hair rise in the chill temperature. Legs lie apart for examination, exposing herself to the Borg Queen. Seven of Nine stands at the foot of the biobed, hands clasped behind her, an eyebrow raised in cold contempt. B'Elanna doesn't like the cold.
"You are passionate, insecure, ruled by your Klingon biology. It is a weakness."
Tom is sorting through some test tubes - busywork set by the Doctor. He winks at her like there's nothing to worry about. But it should be Seven on this bed, B'Elanna knows that. She has to run a diagnostic on the Borg's cortical node. Janeway's fancy woman is disobeying orders as usual.
"Take off your clothes and lie down on the table, Borg!" B'Elanna snarls. A sudden fear: if Seven complies she will be lying on top of her, their naked bodies against each other, what then? It's almost a relief when the Borg makes no move to obey.
"I will demonstrate," she says in that familiar arrogant tone. A hand comes out from behind her back, bound by sterile metallic implants. She places it on B'Elanna's crotch, barely touching. There is a humming sound and the implants begin to vibrate. The warrior feels the pressure building up between her thighs. The pelvis lifts of its own accord, rubbing against that detested Borg technology, demanding assimilation.
"I have calculated the optimal amount of stimulation you can tolerate, Lieutenant Torres. I can keep you like this for many hours. It would amuse me."
B'Elanna's spine arches and a deep groan erupts from her mouth. Her legs and arms are restrained; she pulls against them until the flesh tears. She smells the blood and it is arousing.
"Touch me!" A warrior must not beg but she can't help it. "Put your fingers inside me! QamuSHa', bangwI'!" The Klingon words come easily, like they always do in dreams.
Seven's lips twist up in a sneer. They are full and sensuous, demanding one's kiss. To see them is to lust, to fantasise about them clasped to your flesh. The nipples strain against her tight biosuit - it conceals nothing.
"Irrelevant. This is for my own research. You are incapable of love. You wish to be human, but you are only an animal. A slave to your anger and lust."
And she places those lips against B'Elanna's sex, and turns her into an animal.
Back in the cargo bay B'Elanna found Seven of Nine sitting on the edge of a cargo container, removing her boots. The former drone looked up as she entered. For a second B'Elanna faltered before the intensity of those eyes, the light from the alcove reflected in the pupils, two flickering green fires.
B'Elanna took a deep breath. "Actually Seven, I do wish to...copulate with you." There was an odd formality to her words, as if proposing marriage.
"Here?" the Borg asked, as if talking about a routine shield recalibration.
"Sure, why not?" said B'Elanna, a hint of cockiness returning to her voice.
Seven stripped off her tattered uniform like she was removing the insulation from a power conduit. She stood up, indifferent to her own nakedness, and tossed the biosuit into a waste recycler. B'Elanna felt her eyes drawn to Seven's breasts. The nipples were still erect, like fresh rosebuds. She had the sudden urge to taste them again.
The Borg's expression didn't change. "And why should I copulate with you?"
B'Elanna stared at her in surprise that quickly changed to smouldering fury. It was not the type of question the attractive half-Klingon was used to. "Well you might actually enjoy it!"
The ex-drone's mouth curled up in a subtle yet definite smirk. "Pleasure is irrelevant."
She moved towards a clothing locker but B'Elanna stepped into her path. "What's wrong Seven? Aren't I 'perfect' enough for you? Not up to your lofty Borg standards?"
"This conversation wastes time. I have duties to perform." An arctic voice against her Klingon heat.
B'Elanna's lips pulled back over her teeth. "You were willing to 'copulate' with Harry." Her hand reached up and stroked the Borg's cheek, imitating Janeway in her dream. To her surprise Seven actually flinched. B'Elanna continued the movement, sliding her fingers over the star-shaped implant, tracing the line of the jaw, the hollow of her throat. "The captain said we should help you...explore your humanity." Her hand moved onto the slope of a breast, down the extended length of the nipple, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger. Seven's lips quivered - just for a millisecond, but B'Elanna caught it. She stepped close so her nightie brushed against the young woman's breasts.
"But I can understand how you might be reluctant, nervous."
Seven's pupils were wide. She seemed unable to break B'Elanna's gaze.
"Even a little...frightened."
The last part had the desired effect. Seven's chin snapped up, her eyes flashed with anger. "I am not afraid, Lieutenant Torres!" A spasm of fear as B'Elanna felt steely fingers clasp her neck black lines advancing over Janeway's face and their tongues entwining like lovers, Seven's retreating in panic when it brushed the serrated edge of her killing teeth. They sprang apart, their breath coming in rapid pants. With shaking hands B'Elanna yanked her blood-red gown over her head. Blonde strands brushed against raven pubic hair as Seven dropped to her knees, peeling away underwear sodden with sweat and vaginal juices. She stood up, the panties clasped in her hand like a trophy.
The two naked women stared at each other. For the first time B'Elanna saw uncertainty on Seven's face, as if she didn't know the next step in the procedure.
Or maybe not. "I suggest we engage in mutual oral copulation, Lieutenant. It would be the most efficient means of achieving orgasm. I will adopt the superior position."
B'Elanna snorted in derision. "So what else is new?"
B'Elanna refused to have sex on the cold floor, so they opened one of the cargo containers. Six months ago Neelix had stored some alien seeds in a biogel tube that hadn't been properly sterilised. The result was an entire container-load of purple tanglegrass that the Talaxian was dishing out as an unappetising stew. B'Elanna had been looking for an excuse to spoil it for ages.
Seven watched with bemused impatience as B'Elanna struggled to unravel the mass of alien plant matter. After five minutes cursing in Klingon, Spanish and Bajoran she gave up and dumped the whole lot in one great heap. It sat there like a multi-tentacled monster from a Captain Proton holonovel.
B'Elanna glared at the Borg, pointing at the distinctly unromantic boudoir. "I'LL take the superior position, thank you very much. Lie down!"
With an urbane serenity that only served to piss B'Elanna off, Seven stretched out on the purple grass, her legs parted without shame. Swallowing to quench a sudden dryness in her throat, B'Elanna lay down beside her, balancing awkwardly on the undulating surface. Placing her cheek on Seven's thigh, she rolled on top of the Borg, supporting herself on knees and elbows.
There was a pause then, as if this was a moment of truth, a line to be crossed.
Maybe it was. "Lieutenant Torres, according to my research into human mating behaviour, infidelity to one's partner is regarded as morally improper."
B'Elanna stared at the shaved mons before her. She could see the blonde stubs where Seven had thermo-sealed the hair follicles - for efficiency in hygiene, no doubt. The lips of her sex were red, swelled out to conceal the clitoris.
"Your research is done with your hand between your legs," said B'Elanna, and bit into Seven's thigh, feeling the blood filter up through the epidermis until she could taste it. There was a startled yelp from her opponent, then a sharp pain in her own mid-thigh. B'Elanna growled in approval, licking the skin, tasting blood and salt. With slow nips and tongue strokes B'Elanna worked her way to the crotch, never taking her teeth or lips away from the flesh. She could feel Seven reciprocating her movements, placing gentle kisses where she did, caressing her fingers across the outer petals, blowing hot breaths onto the mons. At first B'Elanna thought she was copying her through inexperience, but then Seven changed tactics, moving straight to the clit, lengthy and thick due to B'Elanna's Klingon physiology. Placing her thick lips on the engorged bud, she began to lick and suck in precisely measured strokes. B'Elanna gave an evil grin. The Borg thought that orgasm was the sole objective, so she selected the most efficient means of achieving it. She had a lot to learn.
Sliding her thumbs down the full length of the Borg's slit, B'Elanna parted it to her hungry gaze, teasing the sensitive folds with the very tip of her tongue. Her ternary lungs enabled B'Elanna to pace herself without stopping for air. She danced her tongue along the valleys and ridges of Seven's sex, tracing patterns, spirals, tiny painted waves brought to life with the artist's brush.
"Just imagine you're polishing a Sacred Orb of the Prophets," Seska had whispered, and they'd giggled like children as they clutched each other in the hold of the ship, B'Elanna stifled by a breast pushed aggressively into her mouth...
Memory of the traitor brought a flare of rage and she intensified her pace, fingers slipping roughly inside the Borg, only to be stopped by an intact hymen. For a moment B'Elanna paused, her anger and lust replaced by guilt. Then slender fingers ridged by cold metal slipped deep inside her own hot flesh. They worked in exact increments, expert yet unpracticed, like something learnt from a manual. B'Elanna ignored the building pressure, the urge to go faster, to engage in a race to orgasm. Moving like a predator about to strike, she slowly curled a hand around the Borg's firm buttocks, stroking the cleft (Tur-besa-cami so. Tur-besa-se!) sucking on the silken button of the clit as B'Elanna (To rea di! Di, di!) gently but firmly inserted her index finger, feeling the sphincter clench then surrender to her relentless advance. B'Elanna slid in her digit to the second knuckle, using finger and mouth in conjunction, feeling Seven try to copy her ('Oh no this takes a lot of practice, Borg'). Moving to the rhythm of the Bajoran lovemaking poem in her head: Tur-besa-cami so, Tur-besa-se! Tur-mina-cula ta, To rea di!
She'd learnt a bunch of tricks from that bitch Seska, that's for sure.
Deep growls of pleasure erupted from the back of B'Elanna's throat, deliberately loud so her lover couldn't avoid hearing them, a sexual bombardment on the physical and aural level. The Borg was making her own sounds but they were more like tiny, sharp cries that Seven could no longer restrain. B'Elanna thought she'd come just listening to her excitement and helplessness.
Tur-besa-cami so, cami so, cami oh-oh-oh (oh fucking Kahless!)
The Borg's cunt was steaming, the heady scent like ambrosia, B'Elanna slaking her thirst on the outpouring of love juices. There was a lushness to that young virgin body that B'Elanna needed to devour, the blood roaring in her ears like the thunder of distant armies, the pain of the ocular implant digging into her thigh a spur to her demands. Past and present, Voyager and Janeway, short-tempered engineer and arrogant astrometrics officer - they no longer existed, the universe consisted only of pain and pleasure. She sensed the orgasm swelling inside, an irresistible force and B'Elanna roared her victory as she brought them both to climax. "QACHARGH! QA-CHARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHH!"
It took a while for other noises to intrude past the sound of her heart. The hum of Borg alcoves, the click of a biostasis chamber adjusting its environment. Footsteps passing in the corridor outside. B'Elanna sat up slowly, enjoying the low temperature for once, letting it cool her body. She looked over her shoulder at Seven, a wicked smile on her face.
The Borg lay unmoving on the grass mattress, her expression belying her debauched state. The tightly bound pleat had fallen apart and hair framed her features, concealing the facial implants. She looked like a frightened child. Tears carved their own course through the sticky wetness of her cheeks.
B'Elanna was overcome by an all-too-familiar sense of self-loathing. It was that detested Klingon side, stopping her from being the gentle lover she wished. She reached out and pulled Seven to her, rocking her gently as the young woman sobbed onto her shoulder. Unlike in the Jeffries tube, Seven didn't protest her embrace.
"It's alright," B'Elanna whispered. "You're not alone any more."
"She was Cardassian," said B'Elanna. "A spy for their Obsidian Order. She killed that soldier just to maintain her cover."
There was a brown biosuit in one of the lockers. She helped Seven put it on, their movements stiff and awkward. After that brief moment of vulnerability the defenses were once again in place.
"I am unused to the idea of deception. In the Borg there was no opportunity; we were linked to each other's minds. 'Politeness', 'good manners' - they are supposed to help me interact, yet only increase the potential for misunderstanding. You asked that I tell no-one about this. Why copulate with me if the knowledge that you had done so would cause problems?"
"I guess that skin-tight biosuit is a metaphor then," mused B'Elanna, avoiding the question.
Seven frowned in annoyance. "Explain."
"This is who I am, Lieutenant Torres. Either learn to trust me or have the captain remove me from this vessel."
B'Elanna hesitated at the doors. You don't just make love to someone and walk away, especially if it's her first time. But the words didn't come easily, like in dreams. They never did in real life. So, as always, she chose the cowardly option. No risk that way.
"Well in that case, see you tomorrow then, 0900 hours. We can try bringing the ODN relays back on line."
Seven's reply was curt, as if she was already regretting her lapse into human weakness. "I will comply, Lieutenant."
"Where were you?" asked Tom sleepily, as B'Elanna slipped in beside him. He had returned to the bed sometime during the night.
"I was off screwing Seven of Nine, what else?"
"You're too hard on that Borg," Tom muttered. "It hasn't been easy for her either, you know."
"She'll adapt," said B'Elanna, adding quietly, "So will I, I guess."
B'Elanna rested her head on his shoulder, and went to sleep.
It had finally happened, the savage thing that lurked within had taken over and everything civilised in B'Elanna Torres - daughter, friend, lover, engineer, Maquis, Starfleet - was gone. She stalked her mate through the dark echoing tunnels of Sikari IV, the taste of his blood on her teeth, sharp fangs forcing their way from her mouth repelling those soft kisses and this was her true self, the monster that drove away all possible affection. Abandoned and rejected, lurking in these lower regions like the dishonoured dead. They howled to her, an insane chorus in a language she barely knew from her childhood, calling for her to sate her rage in the slaughter of her enemies. And thus she rejoiced in death; the smell of blood was exhilarating, an aphrodisiac. She would wake in the night with her heart pounding and vagina soaked, using her mouth and fingers on her mate until he took her again and again, not caring who heard their animal passion.
Tears came afterwards. "I'm a monster, a freak."
"You're beautiful," Tom would say. He didn't know the truth.
A wall of ice blocked her path, sealing the tunnel and the woman in a frozen cage. Her nipples were erect in the cold, hair like woven sunfire, metal merged into pale flesh, cut off from all her kind. There was a kindred spirit in that alien visage - she snarled and clawed at the ice to free her, talons skittering helplessly against the slick surface. Blue eyes stared out through the ice, lips curved in a smile that mocked her efforts, making what was once B'Elanna Torres howl in lust and fury.
It was a challenge.