I often wonder why Berman and Braga stopped at the catsuit...


She stood in the midst of promiscuous technicolor party decorations, surrounded by various members of Voyager's crew, a cup of colourless volatile liquid clutched in her Borg enhanced hand. Her jaw was clenched and the muscles were pulled tight and smooth against the bone, so that the irritating elastic band holding the lewd cardboard hat currently perched atop her head slipped up over her chin and lodged itself under her nose. She squinted and stared ahead fiercely, desperately fighting the urge to choke the woman next to her.

"S-seven?" Janeway's inflection was uncharacteristically meek, silently cursing her idiocy and toying nervously with the hem of her sleeve.

Seven took a long, deep draught of air as she slowly turned her head left, uncomfortably aware of the absolute stillness around her. The Captain's face was pitifully afraid, her thin features convoluted in a sulky pout. Her gaze was trained on the bulkhead adjacent to her, the cloudy cobalt vehemently avoiding the crystal azure.

The taller woman took a moment and carefully considered her words, calculating the perfect timber and modulation that would incur awesome fear in the icy heart of Captain Kathryn Fucking Janeway.

"A trampoline, Captain?"

The crew collectively flinched, and Janeway whimpered quietly.

Seven turned on her heel and left, her steps graceful and even, the thudding of her feet against the steel plating the unnerving
sonance of doom. The ache between Janeway's legs would not be soothed tonight.