His crew believed that he was a model of propriety. A gentleman. They thought this was why he so rarely had lady callers, why he never rekindled the old flames, and gently ceased any advances women made towards him. Riker thought he was ridiculous; Troi thought he was sweet; Worf thought he was an honorable, albeit tragic lover, Crusher thought something was wrong with her. Data didn’t think about these kind of things.
He was a starship Captain, and there was no shortage of women he could take advantage of, sleep with, marry. But he stopped pursuing those offers, as frequent as they were, a long time ago. He let everyone attribute it to his morality, his english manners. A gentleman.
No one but Q knew that the reason for all of this was Q.
It happened a few times before Picard swore off of women forever. There was one lady, an Ambassador from Rhea IV. Very handsome, thick dark hair pulled back into a severe bun, stark collarbones, an interest in Earth archeology. Planetside, Picard wooed her and thought the silliest things, fantasies of futures unlonely, of hands held on cold mornings, of tea and toast and dusty artifacts.
He took her to bed three days after meeting her. Three minutes into the actual sex part, the Ambassador of Rhea IV was suddenly no longer the Ambassador of Rhea IV. She was Q.
“Oh, Mon Capitan. Do you always make that face when you’re thrusting? No wonder you’re still a spinster.”
Then there was the rage. The horrible feeling in Picard’s stomach when he realized that he was still inside the warmth of a body, and still hard, even though he knew whose body it was. He broke many things in the Ambassador of Rhea IV’s bedroom as Q, naked, materialized and rematerialized in unreachable places, jacking himself off and nonchalantly tsk tsking about anger management.
“Where is she?! What have you done with her?” Picard screamed, many times.
“Oh calm down, darling. She’s safe at her mother’s home.”
“Her mother?” Picard sputtered, grabbing a pillow to cover himself up, having only just realized he was still naked.
“Yes. She became quite suddenly ill, needed the ministrations of a dutiful daughter.”
“You made her mother fall ill?!” Picard bellowed, veins popping on his brow.
“No, silly. Her mother was already ill. In fact, Ms. Pridiothetus may have died tonight had her daughter stayed and fucked a starship captain instead of rushing off to her vile, ailing side. Peculiar thing, you humans do. Care for your elderly,” Q stopped stroking himself for a second, examined his nail bed, and nibbled at the corner of his index finger. His eyes, which had been previously trained on the ground, flicked up to meet Picard’s, just for a moment. “I was acting out of the goodness of my heart, Mon Capitane.”
“You expect me to believe that you did this to save the life of an old women?!” Picard yelled, feeling rather ridiculous with his pillow, trying to look at Q without looking at the lewd thing he was doing.
“Of course not,” Q made a face, resuming the rhythmic jerks of his wrist. “You know me better than that. I did it because I wanted to fuck a starship captain.”
A flash of white light, and Q was gone. Picard was left huffing, one fist balled at his side, the other clenched in pillow. When the Ambassador returned, she had no idea who he was, and he was forced to dodge a number of kitchen knives launched at this (thankfully clothed) backside as he ran out of the apartment, and hailed a cab.
And that was the first time.
He thought it might be an isolated incident. After all, he hardly believed Q’s reason for infiltrating his sex life. He hardly believed anything Q ever said. It seemed that the only real reason why Q did anything was to personally anger, irritate, or fluster Jean Luc Picard. Taking the place of a women in the middle of sex was admittedly a fantastic way to accomplish this goal, so Picard wrongfully assumed that he wouldn’t do it again. That he didn’t actually like it. That there were other inventive ways to anger, irritate, or fluster someone which Q would soon be exploring.
So, tentatively, he gave into the very persistent advances made by a visiting scientist. Miraculously, he made it through a full half hour of heavy petting and foreplay before she disappeared. He was descending down the length of her body, hands gripping soft thighs, and very suddenly all the heat and wet he had been expecting was gone, and replaced by a hard cock.
At first, he didn’t think it was Q. He thought there might be something this woman wasn’t telling him, and he wasn’t about to embarrass her. After all, he wasn’t entirely adverse to this particular activity. He had been to the academy, after all.
He opened his mouth, let his tongue swirl around the head. Then there was a hand in his hair, pushing him down, and a familiar, grating voice announcing, “My god, Jean-Luc. I didn’t think you had it in you. You never fail to amuse.”
He had it in his mind to bite down, but Q was gone. Throwing the covers from his head, Picard launched into his quarters, only half naked this time, but still, not exactly presentable. “Q!” he bellowed, spinning around, hands held out in desperate invocation.
“You need only ask,” Q trilled, appearing bride style in Picard’s arms. A wet, smacking kiss was administered to his cheek, and then, light, and absence.
The scientist returned, a little confused but still naked in his bed. Explanation and gently ushering her out ensued. Picard was scared off of sex all together for awhile. Even masturbation seemed dangerous; he was never sure when Q was going to appear in his desk chair, biting his nails and making cat noises.
But then it was Christmas, and Picard got drunk. Not terribly drunk, but drunk enough kiss some friend of Riker’s latest friend, this thirty-something women with long legs and skin the color of real, un-replicated French Roast coffee. Drunk enough to kiss her, and drunk enough to have the indignant, though elegantly phrased thought, Q can go fuck himself.
Miraculously, Q did not appear, to fuck himself. He did not even appear to get fucked. Picard, even in his less than gentlemanly, less than sober state, was able to make love to this fine woman, to rub her to gushing orgasm, to drop his sweating brow to her shoulder and let out a low, satisfied it has been forever moan as he came inside her. He felt like superman. Like Riker. Like James T Kirk.
It was brilliant. A few quiet minutes later, with the lights on low and her warm, brown body laying sated and languid beside him while he gazed at her, Q arrived. Her lovely long legs became shorter, whiter, hairy. Picard’s heart stopped in his chest.
“Draw me like one of your French Girls,” Q licked his lips.
Picard’s fist connected with white light.
The next time it happened, Picard was ready. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do to Q, but he knew it was going to be something. An old sweetheart was doing research on the star base they were docked at, and he was taking her out for dinner and drinks tonight. She had always been eager and fearless; there was only one way this could go.
In her quarters, he kissed her. He undressed her. Went through the motions, aware that any second he might not be feeling her skin anymore, but Q’s instead. He waited. She turned down the bed, he climbed on top, she made all the right noises. He was inside her.
“You are such a caring lover, Jean-Luc. All roses and chocolate with you, is it? What happened to my Johnny? My daring, dashing Johnny and his artificial heart?” Q’s breath was coming out labored, in rhythmic time with Picard’s thrusts. Even though he knew this would happen, he was still shocked. But he kept at it, sliding in and out of the warm, dark heat of Q’s body.
“What is it you want, exactly, Q?” he spat out, hips ever-working.
And there, there it was. The slightest flicker of surprise, the expansion of pupil as it filled iris.
A-hah, Picard thought, triumphantly. I have him. It was the wrong thing to think. Picard did not yet realize that his own ability to surprise Q was what made Q love him. If he did know this, he would have acted in a more predictable fashion.
“Isn’t it obvious, Mon Capitane?” Q whispered, breath warm and fluttering on Picard’s lips. Then Q kissed him.
Everything inside Picard flatlined in horror. He should have pulled away, he should have pummeled this creature into the bed with his fists for utterly ruining his sex life. He should have found a way to beat the Q, even though the Q were unbeatable. But he also knew, in his increasing sobriety, that if he started fighting, Q would disappear. Make a fool of him. No, he had to keep him here. So he kissed him back. Gripped his hips harder, holding him in place underneath him, lengthening his thrusts to he almost slid out, before hammering back in.
The bed creaked underneath them, and Picard’s hands roved up Q’s body, adhering themselves to his throat and squeezing, pushing down on a fragile windpipe, choking a mouth with tongue and biting those infuriating, horrible lips. He broke the kiss, only to breathe.
“Now, this is more like it. I knew you had it in you, Johnny. I knew you weren’t all long walks on the beach and sparkling wine. I knew, I knew,” Q huffed, extending his neck and bending under the pressure of Picard’s body. He seemed beyond himself, more human than he would ever care to appear, and something about that makes Picard unsure about what he was doing. Q liked this. Picard didn’t want him to like it. But then again, he was still some percentage drunk, and he was fucking something, a luxury he hadn’t been able to indulge in in quite some time. Do to this awful menace beneath him. Anger coursed through his body, landing in his teeth, and he bent down, and bit Q as hard as he could on the chest.
Q writhed, seemingly unfazed. “I do see what you humans enjoy about this particular act. It is quite...singular. Like you. Mon Capitane. One of kind,” Q’s sentences were peculiarly short, for him. Picard fucked him for all he was worth, hoping terribly that it hurt.
White static began to cloud his vision, the infernal smoothness of Q’s insides gripping him like a fist. He didn’t want to empty himself inside Q, he really didn’t want to, but it had been so long. And Q, with his head thrown back and his eyes wide and fixed on Picard like he was the most fascinating specimen, was going to let him come, finally. Maybe there was some bizarre, round-about lesson to be learned in all of this. Maybe if he let himself come, Q would stop sabotaging all of his escapades.
“Christ,” Picard hissed as everything peaked, and he spasmed, teeth gritting and eyes squinting shut. He felt Q’s hand on him, this thumb resting between his brows.
He rolled off him, sliding out in a mess beside Q’s well-fucked body. They were both silent, and Picard was suddenly quite, quite sober. But not sober enough for self-loathing to set in yet; the orgasm was too satisfying. He rubbed his face in his tingling hands, and wondered what kind of man he had just become.
Q touched him, the tips of his fingers against the shell of his ear. He darted away, swatting at the hand like it were a fly. “So,” he finally said, opening his eyes to stare at the ceiling. “Is there some grand lesson in all of this, Q?”
“Of course,” Q responded snidely, in his usual voice though it did sound a bit ragged. He cleared his throat. “Things are much better for you if you give into what we both want, Jean-Luc.”
Picard’s brow twisted, and his heart exploded. There was fire in his fists again, and he sat up abruptly, ready to fight, teeth bared in animal rage. What we both want. “Q!” Picard bellowed, ready to strike a body, where there was only white light.