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Jan 06, 2011 00:54

Subroutines
Part 2 of 3 (shut upppp this always happens)

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: 2,630
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.)

Part 1 is here.



He tries at first to act like nothing happened, guessing that it’ll only be worse if he tries to avoid the Commander, but it only takes one episode of hiding around a corner, tight as a wire and uncontrollably blushing, to convince him that he’ll have to keep his distance for a while.

Simultaneously, it becomes impossible to avoid him, because now he’s assigned to bridge shifts where “people can watch over him.” Wesley makes a point of buddying up to Data as best he can, filling the empty awkward spaces with chatter so inane that only Data’s matter-of-fact stiltedness makes it seem natural. He can’t actually tell if Riker’s eyes are burning a hole in his neck, or if he’s just making it up in his own head, but Data cocks an eyebrow and starts to ask Wesley something about his ‘elevated breathing’ and Wesley practically barks at him.

Behind him, Wesley hears Riker laugh, a quiet self-composed chuckle that Wesley could have easily missed if Riker hadn’t been stepping up behind him to clap him on the shoulder. “Easy there, Cadet.” His hand is heavy for a moment, leaving a brand of tingling skin behind, and then it’s gone. Wesley is shaken to the roots.

The rest of the shift is torture. Wesley’s on the bridge for three more hours, and it seems like every ten seconds Riker touches him. They’re casual touches, normal touches: leaning over his shoulder at the helm, catching his elbow as he brushes past, a pat on the back as Riker finishes a conversation. Nobody seems to notice; Wesley’s not even sure the Commander notices. Riker’s always like this, with everyone, but now Wesley’s noticing every touch and every incursion into his personal space.

And it’s all killing him, overwhelming him with frustration and mortification and a hard-on that absolutely will not lie down & wait. When his shift finally ends, he goes straight to his cabin & jacks off for what feels like hours but is really more like seconds before he finally, blessedly spills over his fingers, the first moment of gasping relief since the Commander’s first touch that morning. But before the last tremors have even washed through him, the heat is back, raw and angry, sick and gnawing.

Ten minutes later he’s hard again, without a moment’s reprieve from his mental anguish, and he spits on his fingers and pulls himself roughly until he comes again. It takes him a little longer this time, and he realizes as he starts to tip over the edge that he’s groaning pitifully, like a wounded animal, like a wild creature still running from the arrow in its side.

*

It’s like this for weeks. Riker doesn’t seem to even remember that… whatever it was… on the bridge; he continues to be friendly to Wesley, though, touching and brushing-against and even, now, standing with one arm around Wesley’s shoulders, a fatherly gesture of camaraderie. The first time he does this, Wesley can hardly breathe, the casual pressure of Riker’s hip against Wesley’s side like one long continuing physical blow. The Captain asks Wesley a question, but he’s a mess of adrenaline and other, more terrible chemicals and only manages to stutter something profoundly stupid.

Riker sticks up for him, of course (and when did Wesley start calling him Riker?), with a glowing review of Wesley’s bridge performance and a mock admonishment for Wes to get more rest between shifts (and when did Riker start calling him Wes?). The Captain smiles knowingly and nods at Riker. The unspoken hangs between them: good job keeping him out of trouble, Will. The truth is that Wesley’s been too busy wrestling his own emotions to get in any trouble.

This occasion also marks the first time that Wesley can’t make his exit seem natural. The moment Picard is gone, he stammers something about an experiment and bolts, knowing that Riker had to have seen Wesley’s cock stir through his jumpsuit. Wesley doesn’t want to know; he doesn’t look back, doesn’t get to see Riker’s face, and it eats at him later (after he’s crumpled, spattered with his own come, against the wall of his quarters). He imagines Riker’s face shocked, angry, smug, even embarrassed. It doesn’t occur to him to ascribe that imagined expression even a hint of arousal.

*

It becomes a constant ordeal. Wesley can’t study, can’t focus, can barely eat, and can’t look his mom in the face. She tries running a few diagnostic scans on him, and he’s verbally very polite, but nothing’s physically wrong and Wesley knows the last person he can talk to about this is his mom. She discusses it with Troi, and Wesley finds himself having an incredibly awkward meeting with Troi’s cleavage and a lot of supportive, totally useless discussion. Troi seems to think that Wesley has an unrequited crush on a younger crew member, and Wesley says nothing to discourage it; after ten minutes she’s wincing with a headache from the force of his emotions, and she leaves him alone after that.

Oddly enough, it’s Riker that saves him, expounding on Wesley’s devotion to his studies, describing the stress of his Academy preparations. Everyone seems to think that Riker’s taken him as a protégé, and once Wesley’s seen the relief on his mom’s face he accepts that this is the universe’s punishment for everything that’s wrong with him. His bridge shifts are always with Riker; they have lunches together, visit Engineering together, even work on projects together. In a way, it’s wonderful; having an officer’s company and instruction does wonders for Wesley’s Academy prep.

But it’s also terrible, because almost every length of time together ends with a hasty excuse and a swift retreat, and the awful self-loathing that pulls at Wesley with every desperate thrust into his fist. He’s lost the ability to read Riker’s face; when he rushes from the room in desperation, Riker’s expression might as well be blank, for all that Wesley can interpret it. He skirts carefully around the thought that Riker might know, because if he thinks about that he has to think about that one time, and anyway the humiliation is too intense for words.

Wesley starts using hand lotion, because his cock is a little chafed, and spit won’t do. When he comes he feels achy and frustrated, craving some unknown pressure; he tries weighing himself down with blankets and pillows, kneading at the space behind his balls, pressing and working at his thighs with his free hand as he jacks himself toward yet another unsatisfactory orgasm. Nothing works. He doesn’t even know what he’s craving.

*

Finally Riker calls him in for a ‘discussion’. Wesley’s been fearing this for a while, because Riker’s been touching him less often lately, but when the summons shows up on his datapad he ends up vomiting before he can even leave his quarters. Fortunately the appointment isn’t for another hour, so Wesley has a shower and puts on his best clothing, then drinks some coffee with way too much milk in it.

The expression on Riker’s face is still that same unreadable blank, but it turns out that it’s exactly what Wesley dreaded, only maybe a little worse.

“Troi tells me you’ve had a crush on a crew member for a while now,” says Riker, leaning across his desk. “I’ve been hesitant to talk about it with you, but tell me this: it’s me, isn’t it.” It’s not a question. Wesley wants to sink through the floor; all he can do is nod.

“I see.” Riker leans back in his chair, stroking his beard, looking at Wesley. “I don’t think I’ve been fair to you, Wes. I’ve tried to make up for… things, but I don’t think tutoring is what you need.”

“No, sir,” Wesley manages to whisper. His throat is closed up, clenched shut.

“You realize there can’t be anything between us,” says Riker, his voice very gentle. “Even if we were the same age, our differences in rank would render the relationship… inappropriate. And Wes, we are not equal in age.”

Wesley nods, feeling a horrible embarrassing sting in his eyes and throat. He knows all this, he’s been over it a thousand times in his bed, wracked with guilt and shame.

Riker’s continuing, though, and Wesley tries hard to hear him out, because it’s Riker and he’s a superior officer. “I’ve been doing my best to keep things neutral between us,” he says, but his voice is becoming thick with unsaid words. “It’s been… a trial, resisting that temptation, and I don’t think it’s entirely effective.” He keeps talking for a minute or two, dancing carefully around the things he doesn’t want to talk about, but Wesley is still parsing the first few words. A trial.

First it makes him sick to his stomach, because this means Riker-the Commander-hasn’t been fooled by Wesley’s babbled excuses and sudden dashes, and he knows. Then there’s a moment, a sudden drop into a yawning pit of guilt, as Wesley realizes what it means that Riker has been tempted, and Wesley has been bringing this all on himself with his over-powerful desires and inability to control himself. It’s his own fault.

Deep inside, some tiny part of himself is exulting in the knowledge that he tempted Riker, but that same part is in the process of being crushed to death by Riker’s rejection, and it’s only a whisper behind the groaning roar of his distress. “I’m sorry, sir,” Wesley offers, as Riker seems to be waiting for him to say something.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, Wes,” says Riker, so quickly that it means nothing. “We’ll give each other space and focus on our duties, you on your studying and me on the ship.” He pauses, sighs, and turns to look out the window. “Is there anything else, Wes?”

Wesley takes a deep breath, willing himself to speak, but the torrent of questions and apologies and quite likely weeping refuses to come out. Riker nods, obviously relieved; a flicker of some deeper struggle runs across his face. “Very well then. Consider tomorrow’s tutoring session postponed.”

He walks Wesley to the door, reminding him to finish some inane project that they won’t be working together on now, and Wesley stops mid-step, choked. “Wes,” says Riker, and by force of habit or by whatever compulsion Wesley’s put him under with his sick, animal lusts, he touches Wesley’s elbow.

“Commander,” says Wesley, trying to keep the fear and the anticipation of embarrassment out of his voice: “If I were older, would-would you have-”

Riker doesn’t let go of his elbow. “I can’t talk to you about that, Wes.” But he’s not pushing Wesley toward the door, and his face is very close to Wesley’s now, and Wesley throws caution to the wind and plunges in (after all, what’s a little more blame on his shoulders now, he’s been fantasizing for months about a man who could be his father) and raises his mouth-

Only there’s no kiss, because Riker catches him by the jaw, one strong hand holding him at bay. “Wes. No,” he says, and everything in Wesley’s world crumbles and he sags apart and he’s going to fall, but then Riker has him crushed against the bulkhead next to the door and there’s still no kissing but the Commander’s thumbs are drilling into his shoulders, holding him hard against the wall, and his strong broad thigh parts Wesley’s knees and Wesley lets out a broken sound at the weight.

It all happens swiftly, but in scattered flashes of time: the first crushing press of Riker’s chest against his body, rubbing Wesley’s jumpsuit over his suddenly attentive nipples; the humiliating way Wesley’s back arches, seeking contact, not to mention the sounds that pour from his parted lips; the deep groan (torment? satisfaction?) from Riker’s throat, and the way the fabric of his uniform bunches under Wesley’s clutching fingers. Riker’s arms are thick and hard beneath the cloth, muscles tight under the strain of holding Wesley’s eager body against the wall. Wesley’s lips part on their own, wet with exhalation; he wants to be kissed.

But Riker still doesn’t kiss him, even though his weight shifts forward until his face is inches from Wesley’s, intent and sneering with arousal. He keeps himself at a distance, face and shoulders and chest, but his lower belly and his groin push into Wesley and his own cock is pressing into Wesley’s hipbone and his thigh, oh his thigh is digging hard into the aching space behind Wesley’s balls.

Wesley can’t get enough air. He’s clutching, gasping, boiling up in his belly, heart gnawing through his chest; he wants more, he wants everything. Riker shifts into him, over him, in a rhythmic purposeful gathering and release of muscles, every crushing return of his weight driving against Wesley’s cock and putting so much pressure there. He rocks in Riker’s grasp, not forward as he half expected, but back, and although the friction on his cock is dramatically decreased, Riker’s thigh is now spreading him open even further. He can feel hot skin through uniform fabric, rubbing against his perineum, even stroking harsh against the sensitive skin of his asshole, and it drowns him in a delirious moment of clarity. This is what he’s been hungry for, not slick movement around his cock but this incredible, violating pressure.

Riker apparently misinterprets his movement, because he rumbles into Wesley’s ear: “No, don’t you dare hold back, you wanted this,” and throws his full weight into the grind. It’s sickeningly intense, pressure opening him up and pressure enfolding his cock and the pressure of a breathing heart-beating body against his own. Wesley opens his mouth, gasps wetly, feels the trembling rush coming on too fast-

Then he’s coming so hard that his head slams back into the wall, his heels kicking weakly against the bulkhead, flooding warmth in his uniform pants and every synapse in his brain firing at once. He’s moaning, not grunting like a man but crying out like a boy in pain, protesting the spasms that splay his fingers taut and draw his knees up to protect his heart. And Riker is snarling, a horrible dark satisfaction in his wordless voice. Wesley doesn’t realize until he’s sagging back against the wall, face burning, that Riker hasn’t come.

Riker puts him down gently, brushes his uniform sleeves where his grip crumpled them, and backs toward his desk. The shape of his cock is still straining at his uniform, while Wesley’s is cooling into quiescence for the first time in weeks as his come soaks through in a humiliating blotch.

“I hope… I hope that will be enough,” says Riker, face already beginning to show regret and fear and disgust, all of which roll over Wesley until he feels tears welling up in his eyes. “It will have to be enough,” Riker adds, trying to regain an air of professionalism.

So Wesley runs for it again, dashing to the turbolift, sick and dizzy and giddy and racked with a thousand contradictory desires. This time, he strips down and has a shower, and doesn’t touch himself at all except to rub at the places on his arms where Riker gripped him, which hurt. He doesn’t feel clean afterward, but half the dirtiness that keeps him under the sonic spray for forty-five minutes seems to be inside him. It feels like he’s done something to Riker. He can’t stop thinking about Riker’s face, or the way he backed away, and he remembers Riker’s frustrated arousal with tremendous guilt.

If Riker had let him stay, Wesley would have helped him. Wesley would have done anything, if only he could have stayed.

awkward sex, pretty sure i need an intervention, fic:tng, fic:crack, fic:porn

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