Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/622429.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Star_Trek:_The_Next_Generation
  Relationship:
      Wesley_Crusher/William_Riker
  Character:
      William_Riker, Wesley_Crusher
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-01-03 Words: 2839
****** Grown Up ******
by objectlesson
Summary
     The first time it happens, it’s on his mother’s bed.
Notes
     This is my not so great attempt as a Wiker first time. Oh yeah,
     Wiker. That’s what I’m calling this pairing, because it sounds like
     it has a speech impediment, which is fitting, because even though no
     one acknowledges it, both Will and Wes have speech impediments. (Wes
     aspirates, Will’s s’s always become th’s. Phathers set to stun, I kid
     you not.) I don’t own them, and Riker is far to reputable and
     flawless for this awful thing to have happened.
The first time it happens, it’s on his mother’s bed.
Riker is helping him with homework. Helping him run a statistical analysis of
the likelihood of an engineering project failing. They’re talking science,
light and easy because this is the way Wesley’s mind works, the only thing he
knows he knows, when Riker’s face changes.
Wesley notices it, his hands stilling on the computer monitor as Riker’s eyes
become lighter, crinkle at the corners. There isn’t a smile on his mouth, not a
real one, it’s like something under the surface. Everything inside of Wesley
curls up and tightens, and his cheeks get hot. Looking too closely at Commander
Riker can do this to him, especially when they’re alone, especially when he
feels like Riker could be his father, or, even better, could be his friend.
He smiles, self consciously. “What?” He asks.
“Nothing,” Riker says and nearly laughs, looking down. Quiet spreads between
them, white and obvious like snow. “It’s just that, sometimes, I forget you’re
only a boy. You’re so bright. You’ll make a fine officer one day, Wes.”
Something falters in Wesley. He’s not sure if its disappointment or pride. He
wants both. He settles on both. “Thank you, commander.” Riker’s hand lifts off
the desk, claps down on Wesley’s narrow thigh. The heat comes back, rushing to
Wesley’s face and he’s grinning again, stupidly, like a little kid, which right
now is not what he wants to be.
“No, thank you. I find your company quite refreshing,” Riker smiles, hand still
heavy on Wesley’s thigh. “Sometimes I have to remind myself that you’re just a
kid”
Wesley bristles, making a face. “I’m not just a kid, Commander.”
“No, no, not just a kid. Not Just anything.” The intensity of Riker’s gaze is
back, ice blue and meaning more than it lets on. Wesley squirms, feeling
scrutinized, lost because he doesn’t know what it is that Riker is concealing
from him. He feels like he does when his mother has a private conversation with
the Captain in his presence, and he knows he’s missing something, knows they’re
saying more than they’re saying. Wesley can read nearly everything, but he
cannot read this.
“It’s just that I get ready to say things, ask you things, and remember that
just because you’re smart, doesn’t mean you know about everything.” Riker
explains.
“Oh, like about sex stuff?” Wesley mumbles, eyes dropping to the place where
Riker’s hand still rests.
Riker laughs, looks surprised. Wesley steals a glance at his face, smooth and
young looking, and he doesn’t seem that much older than himself. He doesn’t
seem like that far of a reach, that many years ahead of him. The crawling,
spreading heat on Wesley’s body is making him bold, making him feel like there
are ways he can convince Commander Riker that he is more than a child. That
they aren’t that far apart.
“Well, yes. Sex,” Riker’s mouth seems uncertain as it forms around the word for
the first time in Wesley’s presence, and Wesley stares, transfixed, as he says
it again. “Sex, and other things. Things which require age, and experience.”
His hand slides off of Wesley’s lap abruptly, like he only just remembered it
was there. The place it formerly occupied feels cold, and Wesley scoots closer
to Riker, their knees brushing under the table, the legs of their chairs
clacking together. “I know about sex. I’ve read books. Biology books, I know
how it works,” he explains to Riker, tilting his chin up.
“Oh, I’m sure you do. But you see, that’s not how those things, how sex works.
It’s all from experience. You can’t learn how to kiss, or how to hold a girl’s
hand, even, from a book. You have to just do it.” Riker’s smile is explosive,
bright enough to ignite something. He seems like he’s on the edge of a
revelation, the edge of a divide between them, tottering and unsure and amused
and fascinated. He is unlike himself, his usual, handsome, certain self. Wesley
feels like he is in control of something, but he’s not sure what. The burn of
his face intensifies, scalding him from the inside out.
“You could show me,” Wesley says without realizing what he is saying.
He has never seen the darkness that flickers across Riker’s eyes before. It is
something close to terror, the unknown blackness at the bottom of that chasm
between them, he unknown blackness of galaxies they have yet to explore. His
lips purse, tongue flicking out to wet them. He does not say no. He says,
“Wes,” in a voice that’s hoarse with something unidentifiable, something
between resistance and warning.
“Did I say something wrong?” Wesley asks like he’s worried he messed up. But
he’s not worried. He’s drunk off his own power, he’s playing a game. He has
seen Commander Riker face monsters, aliens, disrupters, phaser fire, and never
has he seen the fear in his eyes that he, himself, is rendering. He wants it.
He wants something, something Riker can give to him.
“No, no. You just...” Riker laughs dryly, puts his face in his hand. “You don’t
know what you’re asking.”
“You’ve thought about this before?” Wesley asks, and he raises his hand,
carefully, hesitantly, to touch Riker’s huge and hulking shoulder. The flesh
twitches beneath his fingers, and Riker sits upright immediately, twists to
grab Wesley’s wrist in his hand.
“No,” he says firmly.
“Commander?” Wesley whispers, eyes fixed on Riker’s. They seem blown apart,
hugely blue and filled with pupil like a well overflowing.
“You don’t want me to show you. You don’t even know what that means,” Riker
says this to himself more than he says it to Wes, who wants to be spoken to. He
wants Riker’s full attention, he wants to be shown the mystery of sex, what is
beyond the biology books, because Wesley wants to know all that Riker knows.
He doesn’t know what it means, but he does it anyway, leaning across the divide
between them and pressing his lips, chaste but certain, against the
Commander’s.
Riker pushes him off, a wide hand rough against the underdeveloped stretch of
his sternum. Wesley falls backwards, wrist still tight in Riker’s fist, and
their eyes lock. He is overwhelmed by the incredible burn in Riker’s gaze, and
for a split second he thinks that he might be going too far, he might be
getting in trouble, he might have crossed a line and Riker is going to tell his
mother, tell the captain, but instead, the hand on his chest tightens in his
sweater, brings him close again steadies them both.
“You want to learn how to kiss?” Riker says in a wavering voice, his breath
warm and whispering across Wesley’s lips. “You want me to teach you?”
Wesley swallows, scared but wanting. “Yes, Commander.”
Riker narrows his eyes, a line through his brow. “Okay. First, can we move
somewhere there isn’t a desk?”
“Yes,” Wesley rises on shaking legs, leads the way to his mother’s bed because
it’s closer than his own, its in an adult room, one not littered with homework
and comic books and rocketship PJ bottoms. He sits on the edge of the pale blue
bedspread, and Riker sits beside him, making no comment about their location,
like he might not even recognize it.
“What do I do first,” Wesley asks, hands knotted in the sheets on either side
of them, a death grip. The warmth of Riker’s body is close to him, and he both
fears it and craves it.
“Relax, first,” Riker says in a gently voice, reaching out and placing his
hands on Wesley’s young, narrow shoulders. “Just relax. Close your eyes. Face
me.”
Wesley’s eyes slide shut, and he waits for what seems like forever, lips
tingling with promise. It does not occur to him what this all could mean. He
just wants the waiting to end, wants Riker close to him, an adult, doing adult
things. “You ready, Wes?” Riker says softly.
Wesley nods, and then there are lips against his, tender and soft and belonging
to a man, and he melts into it, mind clouded by the certainty of skin on his
own. He makes an involuntary sound, high-pitched and whining. Riker kisses it
away, gentle, soothing in his slowness. “Is this okay?” He says into Wesley’s
mouth, a low rumble which shudders through both of them. Wesley feels like all
of his skin has changed, become something electric and real, an afterthought
and superfluity up until this point. He wonders if he ever realized he had skin
until Riker’s hands are upon it.
“It’s good,” he says honestly. “Can we do more?”
Riker laughs, another rumble against boy’s lips. “Yes. We can do whatever you
want as long as you promise to tell me if you want to stop, okay?”
“Promise,” Wesley whispers, eyes still closed, knowing this is a secret and
thrilled to have a private secret with Riker. Riker rubs into the lithe muscles
of his arms with thumbs, digging deep under the layers of padded baby softness
to the tendons beneath.
“Okay, Wes,” Riker says, kissing the corner of Wesley’s lips, shifting to slot
their mouths together. They kiss, Wesley’s mouth moving under Riker’s even
though he does not realize he’s doing anything; he feels so overcome with
Riker’s careful, sure attention to him. Their kiss slides open and Riker’s
tongue, too hot and too wet all of the sudden for Wesley’s inexperienced lips,
nudges out and into Wesley’s mouth.
“Oh,” Wesley gasps, pulling away and panting, not sure of what is happening, if
he likes it. His body seems to be beyond his reason or knowledge, however, his
dick stirring to erectness, his skin oversensitive and heated under the prickle
of his sweater.
“Too much?” Riker asks, brows raised and eyes wide and alarmed.
Because it would not be an adult thing to do, Wesley does not say yes, does not
stop and push Riker’s body away. He’s shaking, small and hungry and hard under
huge hands. “No,” he murmurs, and licks his lips. “Can I do that do you?”
Riker’s left hand rises to card through the hair at the back of Wesley’s neck,
up across the base of his skill, mussing the neatness with rough fingers. His
gaze seems overwhelmed with something Wesley cannot read, and there is a flush
on his cheeks. “God, you’re hard to resist,” he says in a low voice, a voice
Wesley has never heard.
Wesley likes hearing that. He wants to be irresistible. He leans in, mind made
up, and catches Riker’s lips in his own, placing small, tugging kisses at the
wider mouth, tongue poking out experimentally against spit-slicked lips. Riker
sucks his tongue into his mouth, hand still firm and guiding against the back
of his head, other palm dragging down his spine, between his shoulder blades, a
deep, heavy touch that makes Wesley’s body feel breakable. His tongue slides
against Riker’s, and all of this feels wetter than he would have imagined it,
hotter, slicker.
His hips are moving without his knowledge. The mattress is bowed down between
them, tilting down towards Riker’s more considerable bulk, sending Wesley’s
smaller, less controlled frame nearly sprawling into Riker’s lap. Wesley grinds
against whatever is in front of him as they kiss, and that thing happens to be
Riker’s broad, thick thigh.
Riker groans, both hands flying to alight and grip hard on the juts of Wesley’s
boyish hips. “Fuck,” He mumbles, and Wesley is delighted to hear that word
coming from him, is delighted to be the source of so much change and tumult in
Riker. “You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?” He whispers, breaking their
kiss, a huge palm roughing up the line of Wesley’s thigh.
“I don’t know,” Wesley says breathlessly, and Riker laughs a dry, shaky laugh.
“Here, do you like this?” Riker asks, moving the warm expanse of his palm
between Wesley’s legs and his own lap, so that Wesley’s frantic, aimless
grinding has a place to rut up against. The feeling is overwhelming. Wesley has
touched himself, certainly, nearly every night in bed before he falls asleep
since he was thirteen, but never did it feel like this. Riker feels more real
than anything has ever felt to him before, warmer, more electric, firmer.
“Yes,” he says, his voice ragged, the hard outline of his cock seeming small in
the shadow of Riker’s hand. “Feels so good.”
“My god, you young, young thing. You like this, don’t you,” Riker’s voice is
all breath, and in one easy motion he pushes Wesley off him and lays him out
across Beverly’s bed, pushes his sweater up to his throat and adheres the wet
slick of his mouth to the hollow of Wesley’s hip bone. “Your skin is so
smooth,” he mumbles, palm hot and bruising as it rucks up along the bones of
Wesley’s ribcage.
Wesley knows he is in over his head. Something has changed in Riker, he is no
longer teaching, no longer afraid. He is beside himself, animal and hungry and
the sting of his mouth all over Wesley’s body hurts as much as it feels good.
The weight of him, immense as it looms over the narrow slip of skin and bone
that is Wesley, feels as good as it is terrifying. He doesn’t know what’s
happening. He doesn’t know that he is shaking, that his hips are bucking, that
his dick is straining against the fabric of his kaki slacks and Riker is
staring at it with the want of adult eyes, because his own, child’s eyes are
closed.
Riker rubs him with the hand that’s not jerking his own dick off, and he can
feel the inside of his white boxer briefs getting damp with the precum. The air
is cool on his thighs as his pants are hiked down them, and there is the burn
of fabric against sensitive skin, the huff of wet, longing breath, and then
Commander Riker’s mouth is holding all of him, silken soft and hellfire hot,
and Wesley is coming, the sounds from his own mouth so foreign and high and
horrible he thinks that there is a crying baby in the room.
When Riker kisses him, it tastes sour and salty like something he has never
tasted before. Fingers push through his hair, over his stomach, down lower to
cup the curve of his pert, smooth ass. He’s whimpering, and Riker is saying
“Sorry, I’m so sorry Wes, God, so sorry.”
For a moment he thinks that this may have been a dream, because the room is too
quiet to house two people, and he feels close to sleep. He doesn’t think a
thing like the thing that has just happened could happen, because it suddenly
seems absurd that William Riker, his stand-in father, the first officer of the
Starship Enterprise, Picard’s number one, Wesley’s long time hero, could have
ever wanted to touch a fifteen year old boy in the way that he just did. Wesley
must have dreamt it out of want, out of admiration.
“Wes,” Riker murmurs, breaking the dream haze. His hand is gentle, on Wesley’s
shoulder, and Wesley’s eyes flutter open. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” he mumbles, hand moving down his own half naked, debauched body to touch
the wet, skin of his dick. It feels strange, without Riker’s mouth. “Did
you...”
“Shh,” Riker says, hand moving to Wesley’s swollen lips. “I’m sorry. I won’t
again. It was a mistake.”
Wesley’s chest feels like it’s deflating, filled with a sudden, sharp sadness.
He wants to do it again. He wants Riker to want him, he wants to try and keep
his eyes open next time, he wants to try and touch Riker in the same way Riker
touched him. He wants to have the experience Riker told him about, the
knowledge, and the experience. “Why?”
“Because...Wes. Wes, you’re only a child. I can’t do those things with you.
It’s not fair to you. You didn’t do anything wrong...it was my mistake. It was
irresponsible to try and teach you those things. I lost control of myself.
Now...lets get you cleaned up, okay?” his voice is grave, but there is still
spit on his lips, and he looks sorry, but Wesley can see something deeper,
something under all of that. Riker is sorry, but he also liked it. He is trying
to sound like a father, but a moment ago, he was not acting as such. Wesley
spots the inconsistencies, and latches onto them.
“But I liked it,” Wesley tells him, echoing what he can detect in the
conflicted blue of Riker’s eyes. “I like you. I like spending time with you.”
And without knowing what he is doing, Wesley sits up, puts his hands on Riker’s
shoulder, and kisses him.
Riker is impassive for a beat. Then two. Then he relents, his fingers rise to
trace collarbones, and his mouth opens.
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