You make your own mistakes. When you wake up in the morning, you know you'll make some, no matter what you choose, no matter what the decision is.

You make mistakes. You get that part. You understand it. You smile with your teeth locked tight together, acknowledge your mistakes, try to fix them--and there's always one tough little bugger you can't fix, just know you can't, no matter what you do or say or think--and, PADD clenched in one hand and trying to look casual, you get back to your office and wonder what the hell you were thinking to even consider doing this or that.

Because it's so damned obvious, in that absolutely perfect, twenty-twenty hindsight that mankind and those not born omnipotent will attest to, the hindsight that makes your decision look like a five year old briefly possessed your body and started doling out the orders.

And you briefly consider just dropping the entire command act and work in hydroponics for a few dozen years instead. And hopefully not kill the plants.

Hopefully.

That's your morning, by the way.

By midafternoon, as other people's bad decisions roll in, you start wondering if Voyager's been taken over by a virus that's breaking down the reasoning functions of the crew. You stare at the impossibly bad reports, the conflicting orders given by two departments, the shaky grins they give when confronted with their own errors, hoping beyond hope you'll let them off with a snarl and a general threatening wave of your coffee cup.

They wish.

Then you finally get off-shift and wander into the holodeck in your fine nineteenth century Irish dress for something resembling rest and relaxation and into the tavern and--you stop breathing.

Seriously. Mid-inhale.

Because she's there. Waiting for you. You can see it in the curve of her smile, the quicksilver glance from behind blue eyes when she throws another ring.

"Seven?"

And not just any Seven--not in a catsuit looking eerily efficient and in control of her universe Seven. Heeled shoes are just the beginning of your trek up her body, taking in the long skirt that narrows into an impossibly tiny waist, the swell of full breasts barely covered by dark blue material--and not much of it at that--she was a sex crime walking free on Voyager's decks--

"What are you doing here?" And you know your voice has to be an octave higher than usual. Staring at that pile of artfully arranged blonde hair, curling tendrils dipping deliciously toward a blue-silk coated shoulder--dear God.

The implant arches sharply and you can swear there is a smirk curving those deliciously full lips.

"Engaged in recreation, Captain, as you so often state I should attempt to enjoy." Her exoskeletoned hand lifts another in example before an expert flick of the wrist sends it careening.

"No--Seven--in that dress?"

Because the last time you're certain Seven wore a dress, you're also certain that she had just dislocated someone's shoulder.

Seven's head tilts and you can feel her amusement.

"I understand that to keep the integrity of the program, I must make certain adjustments."

She was probably quoting Tom Paris. And looking at that dress, she had a damned good idea who'd designed it.

"Clear holocharacters," you hear yourself say, and the bar is emptied magically before you. Seven throws another ring and those perfect lips, you can almost swear, are smiling. But it's gotta be a trick of the light.

She turns when you stalk toward her--well, what the hell else are you going to do? And you pick up the second set of rings, trying to figure out what to say and how to say it, because apparently, she took that accidental contact in the holodeck way too seriously.

Hell, she might have taken it exactly how you meant it, which is pretty damned serious indeed.

She steps back with an almost arrogant tilt of the head--she had to have picked that up from Tuvok, no question--and you step forward and throw the first ring. And you miss, and from the corner of your eye, that may be another smirk on her lips. You grit your teeth and prepare to throw again and you feel movement behind you and God--

--God, you can feel those breasts against your back.

That ring isn't anywhere *near* where it's supposed to go. If you listen, you can hear it bounce away outside.

"Seven--"

"Yes, Captain?"

And isn't that just surreal as all hell, when she's doing what amounts to being a full-body feel-up and she calls you Captain? And whatever you were going to say really just leaves your head completely, because those long-fingered hands are running down from your shoulders to your elbows and she turns you--

--and damn it, you're the Captain. Act like it.

"Seven," you breathe, staring at the line of her neck because if you even try to look her in the eye, it's all over. "Seven, we need to talk--"

"Perhaps later," she answers, and those silky lips brush across your forehead--and if you have any sense at all, you'd pull away, right?

Because you're the Captain and this just isn't--by any stretch of command protocols and command training--anything resembling appropriate behavior.

And when in the name of God did she get aggressive?

Before you can think to try and put a sentence together, a hand is under your jaw and your head is tilted up, you meet those impossibly blue eyes--

Oh, fuck command. Hydroponics will be fun.

It's easy for you to run your hands down those full breasts, feel her gasp. Those soft lips touch yours and you wind a hand in those blond curls to bring them down, twisting your fingers in soft golden silk, bring her head a little closer. Feel her lips open instantly, giving you access to the sweetest mouth you've ever kissed. Delicious. Warm.

She's a good kisser. Did Tom do that too? You'll have to thank him.

Her fingers tighten on your shoulders and then run down your back and you can feel her fingers work inside the bodice of your dress, tracing bare skin. The front of her bodice opens just magically--or you tear it, who really cares--but then there's her corset, which requires actual concentration that you're losing rapidly, but hey, all good things require some sacrifice, right? So you tear yourself away from her mouth and go to work getting that thing undone.

Those full breasts are just begging to be touched. Silky-soft lines--thank whoever controls the universe that the Borg didn't bother with unnecessary-to-perfection anatomical parts. Delicate pink nipples, the color of her cheeks when she blushes, and you push her back against the bar, lifting her--she's light, you never really knew that either--so your access is *just* perfect.

You tease one nipple with the tip of your tongue, pushing her legs gently apart, pulling all those unnecessary skirts right out of the way--no huge wonder women got into pants as quickly as possible, though the quick-access potential here is just inspiring. You slide a hand under her skirt, caressing that silky bare skin of her thighs and slide up--

--and your knees almost go out because the girl isn't wearing anything resembling underwear.

When you look up, you see the flush on her perfect cheeks, the drowsy intensity in her eyes. And a smile--definitely a smile.

She planned this.

Still, you don't see it as a problem.

Easily, you slide your fingers over her, feeling her soft gasp rather than hearing it. Feel the tension in her body, and gently slip a finger over her clit, just to feel her jump. Just to see that flush extend, hear that low moan. Take a perfect nipple in your mouth and slide that finger inside her and she whimpers when she grasps your hair, definitely doing some damage to your hairstyle, but do you really care?

Hell no.

She's beautiful and right now she's very much yours.

"Kathryn."

At least she didn't say Captain.

Another thrust of your fingers, then you run your free hand over her thighs, pushing her skirts all the way back, ducking your head, because you can only wonder if anyone can taste as good as they look.

And you brush your tongue over that sensitive clit, keeping those skirts off your head because while dying of suffocation isn't fun, even less fun is leaving Seven to explain why.

What a report that would be. Would almost beat old Captain Mulcaney, who died extraordinarily happy in his cabin at the age of eighty-nine with three Orion girls and six bowls of chocolate-covered bananas and ice cream surrounding him.

A hell of a way to go, you gotta give him credit.

A brush of your tongue over the lips of her vagina--and damn, she's like honey, and it's instantly addictive as all hell. You run your tongue all the way up, catching all of that taste you can, ending with a lick to her clit that drags a moan out of that long throat. Do it again, just to hear that sound. Slide a finger inside her to feel the clench of virginal muscles around your first knuckle--damn, she's tight--then move to press your tongue inside her and she starts making some of the most interesting sounds you've ever heard out of her. Her fingers in your hair tighten and a perfect long leg braces itself over your shoulder, the heel of one nineteenth century shoe digging into your back, which is one of the better feelings you've ever experienced.

You know the rhythm to use--you're a woman, after all. A thrust of your tongue inside her, replacing it with your finger when you go to serious work on her clit, your nipples getting hard just hearing her sighs and moans and whispers of encouragement and you glance up, just once, to see that delicious flush that's spread all the way down to her breasts and you love how incredibly wanton she looks there--a picture like this would sell in the cyber-porn industry like no one's business. And you kiss her again, letting her taste herself on your lips, and she's eating you alive, her tongue thrusting all the way into your mouth, seeking to map every centimeter of your mouth. And you let her ride your fingers, stretching her enough to take two easily, using your thumb on that sensitive clit, feeling the jerk of her hips on your hand and the clench of all those muscles around your fingers.

"Oh, Kathryn--" she murmurs, whispers, maybe she's pleading and demanding at the same time. Pure Seven even now. Her other leg wraps around your waist and she keeps her mouth latched to yours while she rides out your hand, feeling the sudden convulsive grip of her fingers in your hair, the shuddering off all those internal muscles, and she tears her mouth away to stare into your eyes, breathing uneven, and you know you have her right on the edge--

--and one jerk of your fingers and she screams, blue eyes wide and shocked and her legs locked around you and damn, if you weren't enjoying it so much, you might worry about the bruising you're going to have to explain to the doctor, not to mention the black bruise on your back where that heel just dug in too damned deep. Another twist of your fingers and you drag her mouth back so you can kiss her and take in the taste and feel of her first orgasm, the moan that echoes in the back of your throat--

--and finally, she collapses over you and you remove your fingers, licking the taste of her off them before wrapping your arms around her and closing your eyes.

This could be mistake--you'll think it over while you ask for a beam out to your quarters, since anyone seeing you walk her down the hall will figure out right quick what the new score is. But as stated, hydroponics is not that bad a place to be for shifts.

And seeing Seven on her back in dirt just might make it worthwhile.

The End.