The BLTS Archive- One Night in the Captain's Quarters
by Jeanita Danzik

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Paramount owns all.  Except for Lestat who belongs to Anne Rice.

Well, I saw that pretty picture of Patrick Stewart in  _Entertainment
Weekly_ (thanks for the heads up, Ruth), and I'd been thinking nasty
thoughts about Picard and Q anyway... hence these little vignettes.

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Q lay on Picard's bed, moaning, delirious with sensation.  He hadn't
intended to let things go this far; had, in fact, assumed that
omnipotent immortal that he was, he would have no trouble maintaining
the upper hand in this relationship.  Picard, however, was easily
proving him wrong--so much so that Q felt embarrassed for being so
weak and vulnerable.  That he could be so easily mastered was simply
unacceptable, and the part of himself that could think at all was
planning a singularly appropriate revenge, which he would execute as
soon as Picard let him up.

Jean-Luc, having discovered the amazing sensitivity of Q's nipples,
sat beside him on the bed, rolling them between his fingertips.  That
was all he'd done for the last five minutes or so--no biting, no
pinching, none of the things that spiked Q's passion into a maddening
drive for completion, just this gentle touch that did not vary, did
not stop--and it was beginning to feel like torture.  His entire body
was being sensitized by this simple action, and his penis was
rock-hard and ready.  Q wanted Picard to touch him there, but Picard
was unconcerned with his state of arousal.

Q drew a deep breath, let it out again.  He would not beg, but he
pumped his hips enticingly, pushing against empty air, hoping Picard
would take the bait.

Nothing.

Q heard his own gasping sighs, and again felt a rush of humiliation.
He brought his right hand up, grasped Picard's hand, and pulled it
down to his genitals, arching his penis against it.

"Q,"  Picard's voice was gentle.  "Let go, and put your hand back down
on the bed."

Q ignored him, trying to wrap Jean-Luc's fingers around his erection.
Jean-Luc made no move to pull away, but neither did he move his
fingers of his own volition.  "Q," he repeated even more gently than
before, "put your hand back on the bed."

"I can't," Q whimpered.  His head tossed against the pillows, and he
made soft, helpless sounds high up in his throat.

"Yes you can.  Look at me."  Jean-Luc's fingers stopped moving against
Q's other nipple, and Q's eyes flew open.

Jean-Luc smiled at him, waiting, and suddenly Q wanted to do as he'd
been told.  In a quick, convulsive movement, he slammed his hand
against the bed, clutching at the covers.  Jean-Luc made no move to
touch him, however, and Q moaned again, not knowing which was worse,
the torture or its cessation.

Jean-Luc crawled up the bed so they were lying face to face.  He
kissed Q's cheek and ran a finger over his eyebrows.  "You are my
precious little godling, did you know that?"

Q stared at him suspiciously.  Was he being mocked?  But no, Jean-Luc
was smiling tenderly, his expression soft, almost eager.

Q did not like it that anyone thought of him as a mere *godling*, but
never once, in all the millennia of his existence had he ever been
called precious.  He found himself nodding hesitantly.

"Say it," Picard urged.

It was on the tip of his tongue to say 'I can't say that.  I won't.'
It would undo him to give a piece of himself away, even to Jean-Luc
who was beginning to mean more to him than he'd ever imagined
possible.  But looking up into the aquiline features he made his
decision in a sudden yielding of will.  He would say it because...
because Jean-Luc desired it of him, and he wanted Jean-Luc to have
what he desired.  Whatever he desired.

"I'm..." He hesitated, then blurted it all in a rush.  "I'm your
precious little godling."

"Oh, Q," Jean-Luc murmured proudly.  "You're so good.  So very good."

Jean-Luc stroked his cheek, but Q shut his eyes.  He felt himself
being trained like a prize yearling, slowly and inexorably
surrendering parts of his identity into Jean-Luc's keeping.  He did
not want this, could not believe he was allowing this, and yet
something compelled him to submit himself, to revel in his very
helplessness and obedience.

"Love me," he sighed, wanting some buffer against his vulnerability.

"I can't help but love you." Jean-Luc answered.  "I love you so much
it frightens me."

Pride and relief surged through him as Jean-Luc confessed his
feelings.  A piece of the puzzle suddenly fell into place:  he
realized that he could submit so completely because Jean-Luc was as
vulnerable as he was, was just as chained, just as helpless in the
face of Q's surrender.  Q felt a momentary gratitude, but his body was
still aching for touch.  He pushed his hips off the bed again, asking
for more.

"Please," he whispered.

Jean-Luc moved away.  "Turn over on your stomach," he said.

Q did as he was told.  The feel of silk sheets was almost too much for
his aroused state, and he couldn't help but press his erection against
the smooth, warm fabric, wishing it was Jean-Luc beneath him.

"Here."  Jean-Luc came back into his field of vision, pressed a pillow
beneath his head.  "I'm going to hit you with my riding crop now, and
when you scream, I want you to scream into the pillow.  No use having
security burst in on us, is there?"

He stroked a hand down Q's back, resting it gently against his bare
buttocks.  Pain frightened Q, which was why Jean-Luc subjected him to
it.  "Relax," Jean-Luc whispered, knowing it would be impossible.
"Wait for it."

Q wanted to obey, but he couldn't.  He wanted it to be over with or
best yet, not to even have to think about it at all.  Waiting, he felt
another hot rush of shame.  He wasn't even allowed to beg, and so was
reduced to nothing:  a set of nerve- endings and physiological
responses for Jean-Luc to manipulate at will.  Worst of all, even
knowing how frightened he was, he still wanted it, wanted to be a
victim of Jean-Luc's love.

Abject and helpless, pinned to the bed by his own desire to please, Q
moaned into the pillow.  Even though he was not using his powers, he
sensed Jean-Luc standing above him, waiting, and with a supreme effort
of will he managed to unclench his buttocks.

"That's better."  Jean-Luc approved.  His voice was somewhere above
and behind him, and Q swallowed nervously.

"Only five times," Jean-Luc said, and brought the crop down hard.

Q screamed, clutching the pillow as if it were a lifeline.  'Four
more,' he chanted to himself, 'four more, just four more and then
he'll stop.  Please, just four...'  The crop came down three more
times, driving out thought.  Q wailed helplessly and started to sob.
Somehow he ended up with the pillow over his head, one fist still
clutching the soft fabric, both fist and fabric pressed against his
mouth.  He rolled over into a fetal position, hiding not only from the
pain but from his willingness to endure it.  It hurt.  It hurt so
much.  Stop, Johnny, please.

He felt Jean-Luc's hand, gentle against his waist, heard Jean-Luc's
voice, and gulped down sobs, trying to concentrate.

"Only one more, Q.  Turn over and allow me to finish."

Q turned over as fast as his injured body would allow.  Almost
finished.  'That was four,' he thought and was momentarily confused in
his delirium of pain and lust.  Was he waiting for four, or had there
been four already?  But no, Johnny had said one more.  He stretched
himself out and waited.  When the blow came, it was almost a pleasure.
He had endured it, and Johnny would be happy.

Q felt sad and elated all at once.  He was still crying, but with
relief.  He hated to appear vulnerable, and knew he must look utterly
debased; trembling, hair mussed, eyes swimming in tears, but it was
worth it when Jean-Luc came and sat beside him and looked into his
face.

Oh!  Jean-Luc's face!  That tender, possessive, even greedy
expression.  The smooth, rolling voice flowing over and over him,
claiming him.  "You're mine, Q." Jean-Luc nuzzled against his ear,
deliberately imitating Q's behavior.  "You belong to me.  Do you hear
me?  Do you understand?  Mine."

Q drew a deep shuddering breath and nodded.  He couldn't speak--if he
tried, he would end up sobbing as if there were no tomorrow--but he
lived for that look, for those words.  Peace and contentment washed
through him.  His buttocks stung and throbbed, but Jean-Luc was next
to him, stroking his hair, and the universe was perfect.

Eventually Picard stirred. "Kneel up," he said, and Q looked at him in
surprise.

"You said only five," Q objected.

Jean-Luc smiled.  "And I meant it."  His voice was a little harder
when he spoke again.  "Get on your hands and knees!"

Q obeyed, but resentfully.  He wanted to rest after this cataclysm.
Jean-Luc was making too many demands.  His demeanor became
ostentatiously sulky, even though he knew Jean-Luc was ignoring him.

Jean-Luc moved around behind Q.  "You should see yourself," he said,
lust thick in his voice.  "There are little tiny drops of blood where
my crop opened the skin."  He knelt down on the bed, leaned over and
took one of the drops on his tongue.

"Ohhh, Jean-Luc," Q sighed.  He'd forgotten how aroused he'd been only
minutes earlier, but Jean-Luc's tongue on his ass was all the reminder
he needed.  His penis hardened again almost instantly as Jean-Luc
stroked his way up one cheek and down the other.  "That feels so
good."

By the time Jean-Luc worked his way around to the front of his body, Q
was almost there.  When Jean-Luc swallowed him in one smooth stroke,
Q's head fell back and he clutched convulsively at Jean-Luc's
shoulders.  Then, Jean-Luc reached around with both hands, grasping
Q's buttocks firmly where the welts still throbbed.  Pain grabbed him,
convulsed him, and yanked him over the edge.  He made a sound he could
not identify, but it grew louder and louder before ending in a series
of sharp, staccato shrieks.

Jean-Luc swallowed until there was nothing left, then he lay back on
the bed, eyes glittering.

"What about you?" Q asked.  He reached tentatively towards Jean-Luc's
still-hard penis, but Jean-Luc stopped him, a strange, small smile
crossing his features.

"I don't want to."

Q was surprised, then all the shame and humiliation he'd felt surged
forward, pushed by unreasoning anger.  "So that's it?" he asked after
a moment.  "Break Q down, while you remain aloof?"

Jean-Luc's eyes narrowed.  "You wanted every minute of it."

Q's smile was quietly venomous.  He knew Jean-Luc would feel a surge
of fear and that gratified him.  "Not fair, Johnny," he warned in an
ominous singsong.

"It's perfectly fair," Jean-Luc protested, but his eyes were wide.
He'd seen Q in this mood before, but pride wouldn't let him back down.
"Afraid of a little vulnerability, are we?  You're an omnipotent
immortal for god's sake.  How about a little bravery, Q?  A little
honesty?"

"Oh?  A challenge?"  The memory of his weakness infuriated Q.  He
couldn't believe how much of himself he'd abandoned just for a taste
of that pallid emotion humans called love.  It galled him that
Jean-Luc could so easily exploit his vulnerability, and in that moment
he forgot his gratitude in a singular desire to see Jean-Luc broken in
kind.

He crawled up the bed and took Jean-Luc in his arms.  Jean- Luc
stiffened, but Q's human form was stronger, and he did not let go.
"You know," he whispered menacingly, "I'll get you for this."

"I know you'll try," Jean-Luc answered evenly, "but trust is a
dangerous thing.  You know I trust you not to hurt me," he said, "and
you *won't* hurt me."  He tilted his chin up.  "Will you?"

Q's arms got tighter and Picard had to force himself not to struggle.
Q put his lips down next to Jean-Luc's ear.  "Perhaps not.  But you
don't know that for certain, do you, Captain?  And there are ways of
hurting you without violating trust."  His arms tightened even
further, and despite himself Jean-Luc began to try to push him away.
The squeezing arms became like a vise, crushing him.  Jean-Luc gasped
in pain, then suddenly there was a flash of light and Q disappeared,
leaving behind his dangerous promise.  "You'll see me soon, Johnny."

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The End