(no subject)
Subroutines
Part 1 of 2
Fandom: Star Trek TNG
Pairing: Wesley/Riker
Rating: NC-17 (yeah, do I write anything else?)
Warnings: I'm just assuming that Wesley is at least 17, because that's legal in Texas. The exact number's not explicitly stated, but obviously there's a fair age gap.
Word count: 2,178
Disclaimer: Everybody in this story belongs to whoever owns TNG, and I'm pretty sure this wouldn't make it as an episode.
Summary: For fadsforwhatever, who somehow convinced me to write the crackiest possible pairing. Please don't judge me. (Or, okay, judge me, but wait until you've read it to pee yourself laughing and reach for the rotten tomatoes.)
Wesley is a smart kid. In his more self-indulgent moments, he plays with words like ‘genius’ and ‘brilliant’. But it makes him feel younger than he is, like a child pretending to be a superhero, and it leaves him a little ashamed, wondering if he’s fooling himself. It’s a long way back to Earth, and his social circle is mostly limited to adults, all of whom either crow over his intelligence or tell him to shut up. There could be hundreds, millions of kids on Earth as smart as he is, more accomplished, certainly more educated.
At times he feels like he’s been drafted into his mom’s group of friends, and he wonders what it’d be like to meet a girl, or a boy for that matter-he’s inexperienced, he doesn’t even know if he prefers one, really-and explore the edges of adolescent brilliance with them before they even got around to bodies. Of course, he doesn’t tell himself these things in these words. Mostly it’s just vague images, illusioned touches that he convinces himself of in the dead of night while he wonders what this alone lost feeling is.
On this night, though, it’s not the pretense of skin that torments him (because it always feels like giving in, even though he’s the one who drives himself to the shuddering point where the only relief is his own hand). Tonight he’s driving himself crazy, replaying over and over in his head the rolled eyes and sharp orders, and to be honest he prefers the stress and shame that creep in when he fails to get the better of his body’s urges.
When he does finally drift off, it’s terrible sleep, and four hours later he gives up and climbs out of bed, leaving behind the bad dreams for a headache-tinted walk through the corridors. He considers dropping by sickbay for a sleep inducer, but he doesn’t really want to see his mom right now, and like a black hole the bridge draws him, back to the scene of his last embarrassment.
It hadn’t even been a huge thing. There’d been a probe satellite with a corrupted data core, and while everyone was going on about it, Wesley had just written an algorithm that compensated for the distortion and allowed them to beam its samples aboard, and now his mom was in sickbay regenerating five people’s skin and the Captain looked like he was working on an aneurysm. It wasn’t Wesley’s fault that his algorithm had bypassed the built-in hazard scanners.
Anyway, for a miracle he isn’t banned from the bridge, and even better, Captain Picard is off getting some sleep. Which leaves Commander Riker in charge, and Wesley feeling even more self-conscious than usual. Captain Picard is kind of Wesley’s hero, but Wesley has the feeling that the Commander pays more attention to him, notices him more. Which isn’t always a good thing.
“Ensign,” says Riker, before Wesley can even get to the consoles to pretend he’s there for a reason, “I hear you had a bit of a mishap yesterday.”
“C-Commander,” stutters Wesley, and mentally kicks himself. “Yes, I uh-It was entirely my fault, sir.” He can already feel his face turning red, but he learned long ago that the consequences for his actions improve dramatically if he doesn’t waste time running from them.
“I have to respectfully disagree, Ensign,” says the Commander, and there’s a glimmer of hope in Wesley’s chest, because even with everybody mad at him Riker’s still paying attention. “Look,” he continues, heading up to one of the rear consoles, “come see this.”
The bridge is sparse, and it’s just Wesley and the Commander up top, plus a security officer Wesley barely recognizes who’s running scans on the arch console. Riker leans on the wall console, putting his weight on one hand so that a wrinkle runs through the fabric across his shoulders, and pulls up a menu.
“The only thing you did wrong was that trick with the hazard scanners,” Riker says. “Next time, try this instead.” Wesley can’t see what’s happening on the screen, but he’s reluctant to step closer; the bridge is chilly as always and he’s standing at the edge of Riker’s halo of warmth and stepping any closer seems… invasive. Kind of… not allowed.
But Riker summons him closer, so Wesley takes a breath and deals with it, stepping forward until he’s almost brushing Riker’s shoulder with his own. (It’s not a flattering contrast, Wesley feels, because Riker’s broad and brawny and Wesley is decidedly not.) The menu in question is pulled up on one of the smallest screens, and as Wesley cranes his neck to get a better look he realizes why it’s so inaccessible. It’s like a physical itch in his fingers, looking at these subroutines, and he feels his mouth fall a little open and he leans forward without thinking.
He doesn’t realize his shoulder is resting against the Commander’s for almost a full minute, and then he realizes that Riker hasn’t moved, but that he has stopped scrolling and he’s frozen in place, not jittery against Wesley’s shoulder but breathing steadily and strong and simply not moving. Wesley can’t escape the fact that this is truly and horribly awkward, because if he pulls away it will be ten times as awkward, and now he’s really confused and also he can smell the Commander and is Wesley really-is he feeling-
Fortunately Commander Riker spares Wesley the agony of interpreting his own quickening breathing and sudden tremor, and pulls away from him so sharply that Wesley’s bewildered for a minute, then wretchedly embarrassed. More than he should be, really. He has absolutely no idea what’s going on, but Riker carries on as if nothing happened, only a little further away so that Wesley can see the menu without any risk of touching.
So now Riker’s saying something, but Wesley really can’t focus right now. It feels like something’s burning in his chest, something like nausea but lighter and sweeter. Do you see, Riker says, and Wesley manages something like yes, Commander, uh, sir and it’s like he’s boiling up and getting ready to roll over the edges. He can still smell the Commander, smell hair and skin and just a hint of sweat, and before his courage can evaporate and leave him with shaking knees he reaches down to the console, and his fingertips ever-so-casually brush the back of Riker’s hand.
Riker stiffens beside him, and Wesley can see the tension building to a resolution in him. It makes Wesley shiver, the uncertainty of the moment; then Riker pulls away again, and Wesley’s entire chest plummets. If he thought he was humiliated before-
But now Riker’s pointing at the screen, stepping back so Wesley can look at it more closely, and Wesley takes him up on the offer, cheeks flaming. He hunches over the screen, trying to focus and not to vomit, totally unable to read anything in front of him.
Then there’s a step and the Commander is behind him instead of beside him, shoulder overlapping his, very very close-very close-touching. It’s almost an affectionate, fatherly invasion of his personal space, Riker resting one hand on the edge of the console and bending over him, placing a heavy hand on Wesley’s shoulder as if it’s just guidance. The pressure of his hand pushes Wesley forward until he’s leaning on the edge of the console, caught between Riker and the hard surface.
Which is when Wesley realizes he’s excruciatingly hard, like reach-for-a-datapad-to-hide-behind-hard. The nauseating humiliation turns into something even scarier, a blend of fear and anticipation, and he catches a gasp in his teeth. He knows the Commander heard it. There’s an involved discussion at the helm, so he guesses nobody’s looking, but when Riker’s hip leans into his buttock, he’s still terrified that someone will notice.
Wesley’s been hard here before, on the bridge, trying to disguise it; after all, he’s served on this ship since he barely had pubic hair. There are not words to describe how totally different this is, though. He’s crushed against the console, pinned under Riker’s hip, and there’s just enough ambiguity of intent that he’s still terrified to enjoy it, even when Riker leans into him and forces his shoulder forward and Wesley’s cock rides up against the plastic through his uniform.
The friction almost makes his knees buckle. He can’t tell if Riker’s hard too, because it’s Riker’s right hip digging into the left side of Wesley’s ass, but Wesley is paradoxically grateful for that because he can just pretend, right now, that it’s an accident and Riker doesn’t know. Wesley’s knuckles are white. Or maybe, he thinks, it’s terrible that he doesn’t know, because then it’s just him and the pressure of hip and console and the rub as Riker leans into him again.
Then he catches the control in Riker’s breathing, the way he’s measuring each of his deep breaths so that they’re regular without being rhythmic, and it sets off a pounding throb at the base of his belly. It’s not that Riker isn’t interested. He’s just in command. It gets Wesley through a few more subtle pressures, agonizingly slow thrusts that he tries very hard not to add to with his own tightening muscles; he wants to relax into it, wants to let the Commander make him feel this.
And Riker does, for a few torturous minutes, discussing the screen’s contents in a low, reassuring voice, while his fingers dig into Wesley’s shoulder and his body ruts Wesley’s into the console. It’s not at all like Wesley’s just thrusting against it by himself; it’s passive, despite how his muscles are all tightening and his body wants more, and the fact that Riker’s steering him to this awful shaking slow friction makes it unbearably good.
It’s so good, in fact, that he finds his breath escaping him in clipped groans, subvocal catches of the throat that probably aren’t audible to anyone but him and Riker, but which interrupt his breathing into stuttered open-mouthed gasps. He knows he needs to stop, needs to get control of himself, but he feels like he’s falling and all he can hear is his own blood beating against his eardrums.
Riker knows, though, and Wesley hears the stretch of a satisfied smile in the Commander’s low pointless explanation of whatever the fuck they’re supposed to be talking about. He knows, Wesley realizes, what he’s doing to him, how Wesley’s insides are quaking with burning shame and tight terrible urge, how easy it would be (if neither of them cared about the consequences) to ride him up against the console until Wesley buckled into a helpless orgasm.
In the wake of that realization, Wesley feels the pressure ease up; Riker claps him on the shoulder, a genial gesture, and steps away again as if nothing had happened. “Now I suggest you head back to your quarters,” he says, for all the world like a teacher at the end of his lesson. “You’ll need to be up early tomorrow.”
Then Wesley is staggering away, still flushed bright red, every inch of his skin still tingling like touch wherever the Commander weighed against him. Nobody watches him go; Riker is still facing the console, working on something, and Wesley can’t even tell if he’s hiding physical evidence of arousal, or if he’s simply done with Wesley.
It gets him as far as the turbolift, and he orders the computer to take him as far from the bridge as possible, like he’s trying to run from what happened and even the Enterprise isn’t big enough to hide him. Instead of running, though, he sags against the wall (it’s a two-minute ride) and before he can even catch his breath he has his hand in his uniform slacks (no time to open them) and he’s pulling at himself roughly, trying to capture the feel of hard plastic, imagining that the turbolift wall pressing against his ass is hard warm flesh.
He has some idea of staving it off until he can get back to his quarters, but when the two minutes are up and the doors open (thank goodness) to an empty corridor, he orders it back to his level and he knows he’s not going to make it. Fast, messy, cramped, desperate, wrist at the wrong angle-he comes in his slacks, shuddering and whimpering, kicking one foot feebly against the ground because it’s so intense it’s like a muscle spasm running through his body. When the doors open again, the aftershocks are still quaking through him, his balls still tight and pulsing in almost-pain; he forces himself to keep walking through the shudders, trying not to look suspicious, until he’s finally back in his quarters.
Wesley strips himself bare and curls up on the bed; the images and ghost-sensations don’t leave him. It’s only a few minutes before he’s hard again, but he doesn’t dare touch himself again, and he falls asleep still naked and aching.
Part 1 of 2
Fandom: Star Trek TNG
Pairing: Wesley/Riker
Rating: NC-17 (yeah, do I write anything else?)
Warnings: I'm just assuming that Wesley is at least 17, because that's legal in Texas. The exact number's not explicitly stated, but obviously there's a fair age gap.
Word count: 2,178
Disclaimer: Everybody in this story belongs to whoever owns TNG, and I'm pretty sure this wouldn't make it as an episode.
Summary: For fadsforwhatever, who somehow convinced me to write the crackiest possible pairing. Please don't judge me. (Or, okay, judge me, but wait until you've read it to pee yourself laughing and reach for the rotten tomatoes.)
Wesley is a smart kid. In his more self-indulgent moments, he plays with words like ‘genius’ and ‘brilliant’. But it makes him feel younger than he is, like a child pretending to be a superhero, and it leaves him a little ashamed, wondering if he’s fooling himself. It’s a long way back to Earth, and his social circle is mostly limited to adults, all of whom either crow over his intelligence or tell him to shut up. There could be hundreds, millions of kids on Earth as smart as he is, more accomplished, certainly more educated.
At times he feels like he’s been drafted into his mom’s group of friends, and he wonders what it’d be like to meet a girl, or a boy for that matter-he’s inexperienced, he doesn’t even know if he prefers one, really-and explore the edges of adolescent brilliance with them before they even got around to bodies. Of course, he doesn’t tell himself these things in these words. Mostly it’s just vague images, illusioned touches that he convinces himself of in the dead of night while he wonders what this alone lost feeling is.
On this night, though, it’s not the pretense of skin that torments him (because it always feels like giving in, even though he’s the one who drives himself to the shuddering point where the only relief is his own hand). Tonight he’s driving himself crazy, replaying over and over in his head the rolled eyes and sharp orders, and to be honest he prefers the stress and shame that creep in when he fails to get the better of his body’s urges.
When he does finally drift off, it’s terrible sleep, and four hours later he gives up and climbs out of bed, leaving behind the bad dreams for a headache-tinted walk through the corridors. He considers dropping by sickbay for a sleep inducer, but he doesn’t really want to see his mom right now, and like a black hole the bridge draws him, back to the scene of his last embarrassment.
It hadn’t even been a huge thing. There’d been a probe satellite with a corrupted data core, and while everyone was going on about it, Wesley had just written an algorithm that compensated for the distortion and allowed them to beam its samples aboard, and now his mom was in sickbay regenerating five people’s skin and the Captain looked like he was working on an aneurysm. It wasn’t Wesley’s fault that his algorithm had bypassed the built-in hazard scanners.
Anyway, for a miracle he isn’t banned from the bridge, and even better, Captain Picard is off getting some sleep. Which leaves Commander Riker in charge, and Wesley feeling even more self-conscious than usual. Captain Picard is kind of Wesley’s hero, but Wesley has the feeling that the Commander pays more attention to him, notices him more. Which isn’t always a good thing.
“Ensign,” says Riker, before Wesley can even get to the consoles to pretend he’s there for a reason, “I hear you had a bit of a mishap yesterday.”
“C-Commander,” stutters Wesley, and mentally kicks himself. “Yes, I uh-It was entirely my fault, sir.” He can already feel his face turning red, but he learned long ago that the consequences for his actions improve dramatically if he doesn’t waste time running from them.
“I have to respectfully disagree, Ensign,” says the Commander, and there’s a glimmer of hope in Wesley’s chest, because even with everybody mad at him Riker’s still paying attention. “Look,” he continues, heading up to one of the rear consoles, “come see this.”
The bridge is sparse, and it’s just Wesley and the Commander up top, plus a security officer Wesley barely recognizes who’s running scans on the arch console. Riker leans on the wall console, putting his weight on one hand so that a wrinkle runs through the fabric across his shoulders, and pulls up a menu.
“The only thing you did wrong was that trick with the hazard scanners,” Riker says. “Next time, try this instead.” Wesley can’t see what’s happening on the screen, but he’s reluctant to step closer; the bridge is chilly as always and he’s standing at the edge of Riker’s halo of warmth and stepping any closer seems… invasive. Kind of… not allowed.
But Riker summons him closer, so Wesley takes a breath and deals with it, stepping forward until he’s almost brushing Riker’s shoulder with his own. (It’s not a flattering contrast, Wesley feels, because Riker’s broad and brawny and Wesley is decidedly not.) The menu in question is pulled up on one of the smallest screens, and as Wesley cranes his neck to get a better look he realizes why it’s so inaccessible. It’s like a physical itch in his fingers, looking at these subroutines, and he feels his mouth fall a little open and he leans forward without thinking.
He doesn’t realize his shoulder is resting against the Commander’s for almost a full minute, and then he realizes that Riker hasn’t moved, but that he has stopped scrolling and he’s frozen in place, not jittery against Wesley’s shoulder but breathing steadily and strong and simply not moving. Wesley can’t escape the fact that this is truly and horribly awkward, because if he pulls away it will be ten times as awkward, and now he’s really confused and also he can smell the Commander and is Wesley really-is he feeling-
Fortunately Commander Riker spares Wesley the agony of interpreting his own quickening breathing and sudden tremor, and pulls away from him so sharply that Wesley’s bewildered for a minute, then wretchedly embarrassed. More than he should be, really. He has absolutely no idea what’s going on, but Riker carries on as if nothing happened, only a little further away so that Wesley can see the menu without any risk of touching.
So now Riker’s saying something, but Wesley really can’t focus right now. It feels like something’s burning in his chest, something like nausea but lighter and sweeter. Do you see, Riker says, and Wesley manages something like yes, Commander, uh, sir and it’s like he’s boiling up and getting ready to roll over the edges. He can still smell the Commander, smell hair and skin and just a hint of sweat, and before his courage can evaporate and leave him with shaking knees he reaches down to the console, and his fingertips ever-so-casually brush the back of Riker’s hand.
Riker stiffens beside him, and Wesley can see the tension building to a resolution in him. It makes Wesley shiver, the uncertainty of the moment; then Riker pulls away again, and Wesley’s entire chest plummets. If he thought he was humiliated before-
But now Riker’s pointing at the screen, stepping back so Wesley can look at it more closely, and Wesley takes him up on the offer, cheeks flaming. He hunches over the screen, trying to focus and not to vomit, totally unable to read anything in front of him.
Then there’s a step and the Commander is behind him instead of beside him, shoulder overlapping his, very very close-very close-touching. It’s almost an affectionate, fatherly invasion of his personal space, Riker resting one hand on the edge of the console and bending over him, placing a heavy hand on Wesley’s shoulder as if it’s just guidance. The pressure of his hand pushes Wesley forward until he’s leaning on the edge of the console, caught between Riker and the hard surface.
Which is when Wesley realizes he’s excruciatingly hard, like reach-for-a-datapad-to-hide-behind-hard. The nauseating humiliation turns into something even scarier, a blend of fear and anticipation, and he catches a gasp in his teeth. He knows the Commander heard it. There’s an involved discussion at the helm, so he guesses nobody’s looking, but when Riker’s hip leans into his buttock, he’s still terrified that someone will notice.
Wesley’s been hard here before, on the bridge, trying to disguise it; after all, he’s served on this ship since he barely had pubic hair. There are not words to describe how totally different this is, though. He’s crushed against the console, pinned under Riker’s hip, and there’s just enough ambiguity of intent that he’s still terrified to enjoy it, even when Riker leans into him and forces his shoulder forward and Wesley’s cock rides up against the plastic through his uniform.
The friction almost makes his knees buckle. He can’t tell if Riker’s hard too, because it’s Riker’s right hip digging into the left side of Wesley’s ass, but Wesley is paradoxically grateful for that because he can just pretend, right now, that it’s an accident and Riker doesn’t know. Wesley’s knuckles are white. Or maybe, he thinks, it’s terrible that he doesn’t know, because then it’s just him and the pressure of hip and console and the rub as Riker leans into him again.
Then he catches the control in Riker’s breathing, the way he’s measuring each of his deep breaths so that they’re regular without being rhythmic, and it sets off a pounding throb at the base of his belly. It’s not that Riker isn’t interested. He’s just in command. It gets Wesley through a few more subtle pressures, agonizingly slow thrusts that he tries very hard not to add to with his own tightening muscles; he wants to relax into it, wants to let the Commander make him feel this.
And Riker does, for a few torturous minutes, discussing the screen’s contents in a low, reassuring voice, while his fingers dig into Wesley’s shoulder and his body ruts Wesley’s into the console. It’s not at all like Wesley’s just thrusting against it by himself; it’s passive, despite how his muscles are all tightening and his body wants more, and the fact that Riker’s steering him to this awful shaking slow friction makes it unbearably good.
It’s so good, in fact, that he finds his breath escaping him in clipped groans, subvocal catches of the throat that probably aren’t audible to anyone but him and Riker, but which interrupt his breathing into stuttered open-mouthed gasps. He knows he needs to stop, needs to get control of himself, but he feels like he’s falling and all he can hear is his own blood beating against his eardrums.
Riker knows, though, and Wesley hears the stretch of a satisfied smile in the Commander’s low pointless explanation of whatever the fuck they’re supposed to be talking about. He knows, Wesley realizes, what he’s doing to him, how Wesley’s insides are quaking with burning shame and tight terrible urge, how easy it would be (if neither of them cared about the consequences) to ride him up against the console until Wesley buckled into a helpless orgasm.
In the wake of that realization, Wesley feels the pressure ease up; Riker claps him on the shoulder, a genial gesture, and steps away again as if nothing had happened. “Now I suggest you head back to your quarters,” he says, for all the world like a teacher at the end of his lesson. “You’ll need to be up early tomorrow.”
Then Wesley is staggering away, still flushed bright red, every inch of his skin still tingling like touch wherever the Commander weighed against him. Nobody watches him go; Riker is still facing the console, working on something, and Wesley can’t even tell if he’s hiding physical evidence of arousal, or if he’s simply done with Wesley.
It gets him as far as the turbolift, and he orders the computer to take him as far from the bridge as possible, like he’s trying to run from what happened and even the Enterprise isn’t big enough to hide him. Instead of running, though, he sags against the wall (it’s a two-minute ride) and before he can even catch his breath he has his hand in his uniform slacks (no time to open them) and he’s pulling at himself roughly, trying to capture the feel of hard plastic, imagining that the turbolift wall pressing against his ass is hard warm flesh.
He has some idea of staving it off until he can get back to his quarters, but when the two minutes are up and the doors open (thank goodness) to an empty corridor, he orders it back to his level and he knows he’s not going to make it. Fast, messy, cramped, desperate, wrist at the wrong angle-he comes in his slacks, shuddering and whimpering, kicking one foot feebly against the ground because it’s so intense it’s like a muscle spasm running through his body. When the doors open again, the aftershocks are still quaking through him, his balls still tight and pulsing in almost-pain; he forces himself to keep walking through the shudders, trying not to look suspicious, until he’s finally back in his quarters.
Wesley strips himself bare and curls up on the bed; the images and ghost-sensations don’t leave him. It’s only a few minutes before he’s hard again, but he doesn’t dare touch himself again, and he falls asleep still naked and aching.