Ficlet: Wesley/Riker part the second
Nov. 27th, 2010 10:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
obstinatrix(un)Title: (in which I provide a VERY ANGSTY POSSIBLE REASON for the growth of the beard between s1 and s2)
Fandom: Star Trek: TNG
Pairing: Wesley/Riker
Rating: ummmm R?
Notes: This is a weeny little ficlet I wrote for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
candesgirl, who enables so wonderfully, always. I wrote it for her ficmas present, and am posting it in an open post by request. :) ♥
Summary: See snappy 'title'.
Warnings: Paederasty. Um, a lot.
In the ancient world, Riker would have been a paragon of virtue.
This is what he tells himself, anyway, as he straightens his uniform; as he stares at the man in the mirror and tries on different lies, until meeting his own gaze is no longer impossible. He's handsome, that man, long-legged and pleasant-featured, the very model of a Starfleet second-in-command.
Riker studies that face every morning when he shaves, but when their eyes meet in passing, he feels not the least flicker of recognition.
Riker stops shaving. It seems a logical solution, the simplest way to avoid enduring that tearing in his gut every morning before Alpha shift. For a time, it almost works.
Wesley likes the beard. He likes the scratchy burn of it on his cheeks, on the smooth insides of his thighs. Riker reprimands himself for his relief; cups the nape of Wesley's neck and says, "Wes, don't," even as his fingers trace the line of Wesley's collar, the fine grain of skin above the sweater.
Wesley ignores him. Riker supposes he isn't terribly convincing.
One day, Riker returns to his cabin to find the lights already glowing at 25%. For a second, he thinks he must have forgotten to turn them off before shift; but then he sees the boy on the bed, the sweater on the floor.
"Will," says Wesley, and his voice twists over Riker's name, breaking. Riker wonders what he will sound like, six months from now, or a year. His shoulders are broadening already, narrow hips sharpening by comparison. Riker wonders if he will feel better or worse when the voice in his ear is a man's.
It never occurs to him, somehow, to wonder if Wesley will still come to him then.
Wesley twists and shivers when he's touched, hips jerking incrementally as Riker's mouth finds ticklish spots. There's a tiny curve still beneath his navel, boyish, even while the rest of him grows angular. Riker rubs his mouth there, licks the cuts of brand-new muscle lending definition to Wesley's pelvis. Presently, Wesley is breathless, his voice sex-roughened and pleading, and he twists his fingers hard in Riker's hair; says, "Fuck me - c'mon, Will, please. Fuck me."
Riker only smiles and presses his knuckles to the place behind Wesley's balls that makes him arch, inevitably, and come. Wesley always says that, and Riker always, always ignores him.
Riker likes to think it's because he isn't, really, a bad man. He likes to think this, but he can't imagine Dr Crusher or the captain would agree.
Afterward, he makes Wesley shower - sonics, for speed. Wesley says, "Come with me?" but Riker only laughs; shakes his head and says "No, Wes, the intention is to get you gone."
He chivvies him into the bathroom, mouth curved up in a smile. The man in the mirror, in his peripheral vision, catches his eye as the light flashes stark across the glass. Riker turns his head to the side, cautiously, cautiously.
It's an awful expression, he thinks, this hypocritical little twist of a grin. Easier, though, to look at this strange bearded person, and not to have the unknown-familiar pain in his stomach, the ache of seeing himself as he never hoped to be.
"I'll be outside," he tells Wesley. "Don't be too long."
"Won't," says Wes, and the pitch of it is consistent and deep.
Six months later, Wesley sounds like a young man, like the officer he is. It doesn't make Riker feel any better. He doesn't know why he ever thought it might.
"Fuck me," says Wesley, rough and caramel-deep and hitched on a gasp.
Riker takes a breath; closes his eyes. "No."
"Will," says Wesley, tugging too hard at Riker's hair.
"No," Riker says; and he slides back up the bed and rolls over.
Wesley doesn't ask again, after that; asks for something else instead. Riker nods acquiescence, lets himself be turned and touched and opened.
It almost makes him feel better, knowing that now everyone's getting screwed.
He keeps the beard, though. It's only almost.
Fandom: Star Trek: TNG
Pairing: Wesley/Riker
Rating: ummmm R?
Notes: This is a weeny little ficlet I wrote for
candesgirl, who enables so wonderfully, always. I wrote it for her ficmas present, and am posting it in an open post by request. :) ♥Summary: See snappy 'title'.
Warnings: Paederasty. Um, a lot.
In the ancient world, Riker would have been a paragon of virtue.
This is what he tells himself, anyway, as he straightens his uniform; as he stares at the man in the mirror and tries on different lies, until meeting his own gaze is no longer impossible. He's handsome, that man, long-legged and pleasant-featured, the very model of a Starfleet second-in-command.
Riker studies that face every morning when he shaves, but when their eyes meet in passing, he feels not the least flicker of recognition.
Riker stops shaving. It seems a logical solution, the simplest way to avoid enduring that tearing in his gut every morning before Alpha shift. For a time, it almost works.
Wesley likes the beard. He likes the scratchy burn of it on his cheeks, on the smooth insides of his thighs. Riker reprimands himself for his relief; cups the nape of Wesley's neck and says, "Wes, don't," even as his fingers trace the line of Wesley's collar, the fine grain of skin above the sweater.
Wesley ignores him. Riker supposes he isn't terribly convincing.
One day, Riker returns to his cabin to find the lights already glowing at 25%. For a second, he thinks he must have forgotten to turn them off before shift; but then he sees the boy on the bed, the sweater on the floor.
"Will," says Wesley, and his voice twists over Riker's name, breaking. Riker wonders what he will sound like, six months from now, or a year. His shoulders are broadening already, narrow hips sharpening by comparison. Riker wonders if he will feel better or worse when the voice in his ear is a man's.
It never occurs to him, somehow, to wonder if Wesley will still come to him then.
Wesley twists and shivers when he's touched, hips jerking incrementally as Riker's mouth finds ticklish spots. There's a tiny curve still beneath his navel, boyish, even while the rest of him grows angular. Riker rubs his mouth there, licks the cuts of brand-new muscle lending definition to Wesley's pelvis. Presently, Wesley is breathless, his voice sex-roughened and pleading, and he twists his fingers hard in Riker's hair; says, "Fuck me - c'mon, Will, please. Fuck me."
Riker only smiles and presses his knuckles to the place behind Wesley's balls that makes him arch, inevitably, and come. Wesley always says that, and Riker always, always ignores him.
Riker likes to think it's because he isn't, really, a bad man. He likes to think this, but he can't imagine Dr Crusher or the captain would agree.
Afterward, he makes Wesley shower - sonics, for speed. Wesley says, "Come with me?" but Riker only laughs; shakes his head and says "No, Wes, the intention is to get you gone."
He chivvies him into the bathroom, mouth curved up in a smile. The man in the mirror, in his peripheral vision, catches his eye as the light flashes stark across the glass. Riker turns his head to the side, cautiously, cautiously.
It's an awful expression, he thinks, this hypocritical little twist of a grin. Easier, though, to look at this strange bearded person, and not to have the unknown-familiar pain in his stomach, the ache of seeing himself as he never hoped to be.
"I'll be outside," he tells Wesley. "Don't be too long."
"Won't," says Wes, and the pitch of it is consistent and deep.
Six months later, Wesley sounds like a young man, like the officer he is. It doesn't make Riker feel any better. He doesn't know why he ever thought it might.
"Fuck me," says Wesley, rough and caramel-deep and hitched on a gasp.
Riker takes a breath; closes his eyes. "No."
"Will," says Wesley, tugging too hard at Riker's hair.
"No," Riker says; and he slides back up the bed and rolls over.
Wesley doesn't ask again, after that; asks for something else instead. Riker nods acquiescence, lets himself be turned and touched and opened.
It almost makes him feel better, knowing that now everyone's getting screwed.
He keeps the beard, though. It's only almost.
