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While Worf respected him as his superior officer, Riker had many annoying qualities. Depending on the day, it could be his stubbornness, or his habit of spreading his body so as to occupy as much space as possible, or that way he looked at Worf over his cards at poker night, one corner of his mouth pulling into a slow smirk, blue eyes dancing.
The smile was the worst of them, though. Riker wielded it like a weapon. When directed at Worf, like now, it cut him down as sure as a bat’leth, left him just as sharp and raw. It made Worf feel like Riker had seen some vulnerable, secret, squishy part in him he hadn’t given permission for him to see. He wanted to lunge across the poker table and cut Riker open, find whatever it was that he’d seen in Worf, and take it back.
“Your move, Mr. Worf,” Riker reminded him. Smiling.
“I am aware, Commander.”
Worf knew that he wore his heart on his sleeve, that it didn’t take a genius to figure him out. He liked it that way. It kept people at a comfortable distance, made them avoid him, fear him. But where others flinched or tiptoed, Riker smiled and teased. Leaned in, not away. It was unsettling.
Worf’s cards were hopeless, a three and a nine, diamond and spade. He did not know if Riker was still smiling at him because he was studiously avoiding glancing in his direction.
“I call,” he said finally.
It didn’t pay off. La Forge ended up taking the hand, and the next rounds were rotten, too. Crusher took the pot.
“Good game, gentlemen,” she said, grinning over her pile of chips. “Same time next week?”
“As always, Doctor,” La Forge sighed. “Try and give us a chance next time, huh?”
“Asking that I pull my punches, Geordi?” Crusher said, eyebrows raised in faux shock. “I would have thought you’d like a little competition.”
“There’s competition, and there’s getting my ass handed to me each week,” La Forge laughed.
They all got to their feet, making their goodbyes. Worf was the last one out the door, but Riker stopped him and said, “Mr. Worf, can you stay a minute? I want to ask you something.”
“Certainly, Commander,” Worf said. The door closed, leaving the two of them alone in Riker’s quarters. Worf turned to face him, standing straight, poker table positioned safely between them. Without the others, without cards in his hand, there was nowhere to look but Riker’s face.
“At ease,” Riker said, smiling, as though Worf had done something amusing. Worf let his shoulders drop slightly, more of a show of relaxation than anything else. “And you can leave whenever, don’t wait for my dismissal. This isn’t for work. I just wanted to run something by you before you took off.”
“I see,” Worf said. “What is it?”
Riker glanced down and took a deep breath, and Worf realized that he was quite nervous. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen Riker truly nervous. Riker straightened and lifted his chin, almost defiantly.
“Worf, I think you’re attractive,” Riker said, clear and firm, the way he gave direction on the bridge. “And I think there might be something between us. If you’re interested in exploring anything. Well, I’m interested. That’s it, that’s my piece.” Riker gave a small, self-deprecating smile.
Worf went hot at the back of his neck. Humans. So much talking, all the time, and yet saying nothing.
“What kind of exploration are you proposing?” Worf asked. He was no fool, but wanted to hear him say it.
“Well,” Riker said, shifting his weight, “we’re two hardworking officers who deserve a little bit of fun. We could figure out what that means along the way.”
Worf bristled. “I have fun.”
“You do?” Riker tilted his head, smiling a little. Undeterred. “What do you do for fun, Mr. Worf?”
“I train in the holodeck. I play poker. I...read,” he finished lamely.
“All fine activities,” Riker nodded, stepping around the table. That damn beard. Worf absolutely did not want to rub his cheek against it. “Very well rounded. And what about love?”
“Love, sir?” He was, embarrassingly, a little short of breath, and the words took some effort. He was aware of every inch of space between himself and the commander and knew he should step back to maintain it, but couldn’t seem to move his feet. He was hot, and rooted to the spot, and ultimately, he didn’t want to, and Klingons rarely did things that they didn’t want to do. Riker advanced, and Worf stayed. He rested a hand on the back of a chair to ground himself.
“Yes. Love. It can be far more rewarding than reading,” Riker said.
“I am a Klingon, sir. A warrior. I am not concerned with love.”
“Surely even Klingons need a little love sometimes,” Riker said, warm and low.
Worf’s hearts pounded in his chest. He was right, of course; Klingons loved as fiercely as they fought, but Riker didn’t need to know that. This whole encounter was very confusing. Klingons did not get pursued; they conquered that which they desired. This, however, was very much a pursuit. Worf was being pursued. Should he be humiliated? He didn’t feel humiliated. He just felt hot and tense. Worf bared his teeth a little, curling his lip, showing the tips of his canines.
Riker just smiled. “That for me, Mr. Worf?” His flesh was so pink, and soft, would tear so easily under Worf’s teeth and nails.
“You do not know what you are suggesting,” Worf said quietly. A growl simmered low and insistent in his throat, but he swallowed it down.
“I think I have a pretty good idea,” Riker said. “I think sex with you would be fun. If you wanted to,” he added. Worf met his eyes; they were blue, and clear, and so believing in the legitimacy of this obviously foolish idea.
“Klingons do not have sex the way Humans do,” Worf said. “Humans are too small, and delicate.” Heat pooled in his belly at the thought of it. Riker beneath his hands. Riker bent over the table. Riker, his to shape, and break apart, and take. Worf took a deep, shuddering breath. “You would not survive it. Sir,” he added quickly.
“Why, because Klingon dick is just too powerful?” Riker asked, his smile turning wry.
“Yes,” Worf said, utterly serious.
Riker rested his hand centimeters from Worf’s on the back of the chair. Worf was not used to this careful utilization of space that Humans used in sexual propositions. It was odd, but inspired. To be so close, and desired, but not touched. Sweat prickled at his temples.
“You’d have to be a little careful, maybe,” Riker conceded. “Get me warmed up, first.”
Don’t picture it, don’t think it. “Klingons are not careful. We are brutal, and forceful. We take what we want,” he said. Worf needed to be completely honest. Make Riker see why this couldn’t happen. Make him walk away.
“But you do want me?” Riker’s face was so open. Didn’t he know how dangerous that was, how anybody could slip right in and cut him up from the inside?
“You’re focusing on the wrong part of what I just said.” Worf’s hearts ached with frustration. How could he make Riker understand that he simply wasn’t as strong as he thought he was? Worf had served with him for years, fought at his side. He was an exceptional officer, and fought well, and made decisions with a conviction that would make anyone burn with admiration. He was inventive and brave, finding solutions where there seemed to be none. He stood tall and was a pillar in a storm. He wore his emotions close to his skin, too; Worf had seen it before, when defending his friends and colleagues or arguing through sticky diplomatic situations. Had seen it, and felt his own heart rise up to meet it.
But all of those life-threatening missions would not prepare him for sex with a Klingon. Worf knew this. Xenobiology 100 was a required course at the Academy, Worf knew how delicate Humans were, soft and pink and unprotected and filled with blood, bones breakable as matchsticks.
“Klingons have sex like we fight,” Worf said, and somehow, it came out like pleading. “It is a battle. We wish to win, to conquer. It is...overwhelming.” Please hear what I’m saying. Please make this easier for me.
“Hey, totally fine. Forget everything I said,” Riker said, raising his hands in surrender. His tone was easy. Kind. “I didn’t mean to pressure you. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. I just...felt something, with you, and wanted to see what you thought.”
“I...thank you, Commander,” Worf said.
Riker nodded. “See you at alpha shift?”
Millions of years ago, the very first Klingon warrior’s heart was forged out of fire and steel. It had burned in his chest, flames rising to his eyes. He looked to the heavens and the heat of his gaze reduced them to ash. Worf’s hearts burned, too, but at the idea of picking up his feet, leaving Riker’s quarters, and abandoning this possibility.
“I will be there, sir.”
The moment he was off duty the next day, Worf entered Holodeck Three, skin hot and eyes flashing.
“Computer, run calisthenics program 03-992. Difficulty level 4.”
Bridge duty had been torture. He couldn’t focus, kept thinking about how Riker’s skin moved under that damned uniform. Now that sex was on the table, no matter how ill-advised, Worf couldn't think of anything else.
He needed to sweat this out. Fight. Kill. In battle, the world made sense: he knew what he was fighting, and he knew what it meant to win, to stand victorious over the slain body of his enemy, bleeding out beneath him. The computer tittered as the ruins took form around him, vines wrapping around dilapidated columns, a thick canopy of trees obscuring any predators that might hide above. Various weapons, he knew, were hidden behind blocks of stone, beneath sheets of lush leaves. He’d programmed it so that they never appeared in the same place twice, keeping his warrior’s mind honed and sharp.
He inhaled deeply, letting the heavy scents of peat and soil fill his lungs, diffusing the heat inside him. The air was cool and damp, the ground springy beneath his feet. He flexed his fingers and sank into a crouch as he prowled the ruins, muscles tensed.
A rustle in the thick trees above, and Worf looked up in time to catch the beast by the neck as it dropped upon him, snarling and holding an axe in its hands. It was a hairy thing, long teeth and nails, breath that smelled like death. The fire licked through Worf’s veins, no longer blazing out of control, but channeled, focused. With a delighted growl, Worf threw the creature against a crumbling wall, making rock dust fly everywhere. This made sense. This was what he needed: something to fight, a way he could win.
The beast quickly rallied and used the wall as leverage to leap off and lunge again for Worf. It swung its axe; Worf dodged, gripping the handle and thrusting it back into the creature’s face. The creature spun and jammed an elbow into Worf’s stomach, making him gasp and buckle, but he managed to stomp a foot into the back of the beast’s knee, sending him toppling to the ground, axe flying from his hands. Worf picked up the axe and buried it in the creature’s head. It slumped, unmoving, blue fluid leaking from its skull.
Worf cracked his neck. A satisfactory warmup, and now, he had a weapon. The axe was clumsy and inelegant, decidedly un-Klingon, but a good warrior was adaptable. It would do for now.
He sank back into a crouch, scanning the area for movement, listening for rustles in the leaves or grit grinding under feet. He kept his breathing smooth and long, letting it go all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes.
“Behind you,” shouted a familiar voice, but Worf didn’t have time to investigate before the second beast was on his back. This one got a blade against the front of Worf’s neck, and he hissed at the sting. He dropped his axe, needing use of his hands, and reached behind him to grab the creature by the head and fling it over his back, slamming it into the ground in front of him. Its blade cut up his neck and chin a little more on the way. Worf’s pulse throbbed at the wounds, but now, he had a height advantage--until the creature swung its legs at Worf’s feet.
Worf fell upon him and they wrestled on the ground. The creature’s skin was smooth and slick, making it difficult to find any purchase. They grappled over the weapon still in the beast’s hands until Worf saw something glinting in a bush nearby. With a grunt, he rolled them over so he could reach it--a gauntlet, with sharp points jutting out from the knuckles. He shoved up on top of the creature, holding his knee against his chest. Once he slid the gauntlet onto his hand, he punched it into the creature’s throat, hearts leaping with satisfaction at the wet squelch of it.
Worf stood up, panting, and turned to look at his visitor. Riker was dressed in his command red, a pleased smirk on his face that Worf didn’t feel like analyzing at the moment.
“I don’t believe I invited you, Commander,” Worf said.
“I can go,” Riker said. His eyes were dark. “I just saw you were training and thought I’d join, but I see you’ve got one of your more personal programs going.”
Worf opened his mouth to ask him to leave, but everything was so electric and delicious and mixed together--the pump of his blood, his slain opponents just behind him, the hitches in Riker’s breath--he found that he did not want to.
“You may stay,” Worf said, finally. Ordinarily, if he were sharing his training with a non-Klingon, he’d lower the difficulty, but a mad part of him wanted Riker at this level, wanted to see how he’d fare. Riker gave a single nod and strolled over to the beast Worf had just slain to pick up its long blade, testing it in his hands.
Fighting together was a dream. Two more beasts fell upon them and Worf sank into his body, falling into a rhythm until it seemed that he was not moving himself, that the fight was driving him forward. He let his fists fly through the air, dodging the enemies’ strikes as naturally as breathing. The muscles of his stomach burned pleasantly as he twisted and ducked. Riker was a vision, too, the way he wielded his blade as though it were an extension of his own arm, how his face contorted with effort as he pivoted around his opponent, pulling the blade across its neck. Worf’s own opponent had a hard exoskeleton, but there was a bit of soft flesh just under its armpit. He buried the spikes of the gauntlet there and tugged it all the way down its side, as though unzipping its flesh. It crumpled. Worf watched it moan and bleed until it fell still.
The air on his skin was alive. Worf turned and considered his final opponent, the man in red. One swipe, and Worf would be the last one standing, he would taste the spray of blood upon his face, Worf would press his boot upon his chest in victory, he would howl to the heavens for every Klingon in the Black Fleet to hear--
“At ease, Lieutenant,” the man bellowed, his eyes a shock of blue.
The words were a wash of ice water down his back. They were in the holodeck. All of the enemies in the exercise had been defeated. This was Riker, his superior officer, who he valued, respected, and did not wish to maim. He stood inches from him, gauntlet raised to strike. His hearts pounded in his throat, and he took a steadying breath, lowering his fist.
“Apologies, Commander,” Worf said. “I tend to get...focused.”
“I see that,” Riker replied, glancing at the gauntlet still on Worf’s hand. Worf threw it aside. Riker’s face was a little flushed, eyes wide and watchful. Worf straightened his shirt, willing himself into some semblance of upright Starfleet respectability.
“I hope the exercise was to your liking,” he said.
“It was invigorating,” Riker replied with a slow grin. A fine sheen of sweat clung to his skin. “Thanks for having me along.”
Worf licked his lips. Riker was no Klingon, but he was a fine warrior, all the same, and Worf couldn’t take it a second longer.
He crowded up to him, every bit the predator, and grabbed Riker’s wrist in his right hand. He held Riker’s gaze, willing him to understand. Riker’s jaw was set, a question in his eyes, but he didn’t jump away, didn’t fight him off. His pulse thrummed deliciously under Worf’s fingers.
Worf pushed up the sleeve of his red command shirt, bent his head to his wrist, and sniffed. That smell--the blood so close to the surface, sweat and salt and skin and heat, strong and masculine. He wanted that blood in his mouth, so he set his teeth against the skin, a light scrape, just a tease, just to hear him gasp. He ran the flat of his tongue up Riker’s palm to the webbing between his fingers. Riker made a strange, stifled noise, and Worf thrust out his own wrist.
“Please,” he begged. “You have to--please.”
Riker took his arm. “Let me know if I’m doing this wrong,” he said, which was hilarious, because he bent his face to Worf’s wrist and inhaled deeply, and Riker was perfect, Riker was exquisite, Worf knew he couldn’t be getting much out of it, but that visual--Riker bent to his wrist, smelling him, learning his scent, the soft scrape of his beard against the tender flesh of his wrist, his mouth so close to his pulse--Worf’s every cell was alight. He dug his nails into the meat of Riker’s other palm and something inside him broke, like a taut string had snapped, when blood dripped all over his and Riker’s fingers.
“Ow,” Riker said belatedly, looking at his hand with interest.
“I am sorry,” Worf said, voice shaking, still gripping Riker’s hand. He could hardly think straight. “I could not--”
“No,” Riker said, rubbing circles into Worf’s wrist with his thumb in a very distracting way. “It’s--it’s all right. Nothing Dr. Crusher can’t fix.”
Worf snarled, pulling his lips from his teeth. Riker’s mouth stretched into a slow smile.
“Unless...you want to keep me marked up?”
As an answer, Worf pulled Riker in by the arm and buried his face in his neck. His smell was even stronger here, and he swallowed the impulse to whimper. Warm, and safe, and hot. No Human should smell like this. Riker inhaled deeply before even needing to be asked, nuzzling into his own neck, scenting him, too, even if it couldn’t mean quite the same for him as it did a Klingon. Worf was burning alive.
“Why, Mr. Worf, did you change your mind?” Riker mumbled into his neck.
Worf just growled into his ear. Riker’s hands found their way into Worf’s hair, pulling out the tie so that it fell long and loose. His fingers tangled into his hair and yanked his head back. Worf snarled in pleasure. “Worf. Look at me for just a damn second.”
Worf met his eyes, blown wide and liquid blue, watched the resolve there crumble into something desperate.
“Oh, hell,” Riker said, and pressed his lips hard against Worf’s, bringing a hand to the back of his neck and holding it there like an iron vice. Worf, damn him, fluttered in the knees. He was devoured. To see even a fraction of his own hunger reflected in Riker, in this kiss--his blood sang, the way it did when he walked into battle, armed to the teeth and ready to die. He bit into Riker’s bottom lip, then sucked it between his. When they pulled apart, Riker’s mouth was red, a little blotchy, appealing as hell.
“I do not know that you could endure me,” Worf confessed, but kept touching Riker, bringing a hand to his hip and slipping a thumb up beneath the shirt of his uniform, finding skin and pressing into it, imagining how it would dent under his fingers.
“Let me be the judge of what I can endure,” Riker said, voice a little ragged. “Because this,” he reached down to slide his palm against Worf’s hardening cock through his slacks, making him gasp, “feels like the ride of a lifetime, and if you want to try, I definitely want to try.”
Worf pulled him closer. “You must tell me if you wish to stop.”
“Of course,” Riker said gently. He brought his hand up to cup the side of Worf’s face. “And you, too.”
Worf nearly laughed at the idea of having 200-something pounds of this strange, gorgeous man on him and ever wanting it to stop, but he just said, “agreed.”
“Sex is fun,” Riker said, pressed up against Worf, rubbing the back of Worf’s neck in a way that Worf supposed was meant to be soothing, but really just made him hotter and tighter, made his palms burn, made him want to break something. Riker sealed his mouth against Worf’s again, licking into his mouth, so hot and wet and soft that Worf thought he was going to die. Riker pulled away and said, “this will be fun. You’ll see.”
It wasn’t that Worf didn’t think that sex was fun. He just didn’t think that his and Riker’s ideas of fun would necessarily align. Klingon sex was, by Human standards, violent, and intense, and their bodies simply weren’t built for it. But they would try, and maybe they could meet somewhere in the middle.
“Computer,” Worf croaked. “Give us a bed.” No reason to fuck on the forest floor or the wall of a crumbling building when you had holodeck programming at your disposal.
“A big one,” Riker added.
A bed materialized, soft and wide. Their slain opponents still lay strewn about the forest floor around them, and to Worf, this was perfect. Fucking on the battlefield. Riker fisted his hands in Worf’s gold uniform shirt and pulled him to the bed.
There was the same sweet blaze in Worf’s belly here as there was in a fight, the same urgency as in the hot flash of a blade through the air. He stepped inside his own heart as he only ever did in battle. Fabric ripped apart like tissue under his hands. With each discarded piece of clothing, Worf pressed into Riker’s newly exposed skin with his hands and mouth until, finally, they were both naked. Riker moved down Worf’s body, Worf leaning up on his elbows to watch.
“Well, let it be said that you Klingons don’t do anything small,” Riker breathed. He palmed Worf’s cock almost reverently, wrapping each finger around it, one by one. Worf bit his lip hard enough to taste blood.
“If you are intimidated--”
“Damn right, I’m intimidated,” Riker said. “And I want it. I don’t walk away from a challenge.” His hand moved slowly, soft and firm around him, barely more than a tease. His own cock was half-hard, smooth, and pink; every bit a dream. “I want you inside me,” Riker said. “Is that okay?”
The way he just said things like that. “Yes,” Worf said.
“Am I your first Human?”
“Yes,” Worf said, clutching at the blankets.
“You’re in for a treat, then, Mr. Worf.” Riker said, grinning. “Humans are excellent, when it comes to this. I’m going to take care of you.”
Worf did laugh out loud at that, despite himself. “Klingons hardly need taken care of. Especially by a Human.” Worf could unwrap his skin with one hand, and it would do Riker well to remember that.
“Let me rephrase that, then,” Riker said, removing his hand and straddling Worf’s hips. He planted his hands on his chest and shoved him down onto the bed, hard. Worf let himself be moved, letting out a puff of air at the sight of Riker looming over him. “I’m going to ruin you.”
Worf’s mouth went dry. Riker just grinned, and leaned down to kiss him. His mouth was so hot. He broke away and fumbled through the remains of their clothing, pulling a packet of lube from his ruined slacks.
“You brought that with you?” Worf asked, surprised.
“A mark of a good commanding officer is being prepared for unexpected scenarios,” Riker said, a playful gleam in his eye. Worf rolled his eyes, running his hands up and down Riker’s thighs. Riker tore open the packet. “You should probably let me do this part,” he said, reaching behind.
Worf growled, frustrated. His palms burned. He was not a creature made for restraint. Starving beneath him, he clutched at Riker’s thighs, the muscles there strained and twitching. Riker moved his arm and gasped, dropping his head. A fire raged in Worf’s belly; he should have put that expression on his face, not made Riker fend for himself. He leaned up and reached behind Riker, squeezing two perfect handfuls of his ass, feeling where his finger was moving, where he was wet and warm.
That should be him.
“I would not hurt you,” Worf said against Riker’s stomach. He could be gentle with his hands. He’d done it before: operating the tactical module on the bridge, holding a set of cards during poker, offering a hand to raise fallen colleagues to their feet during an away mission. “I would take care of my mate.”
“Fuck,” Riker gasped, adding another finger. “Call me that again.”
“My mate,” Worf repeated, one hand rubbing his side in long, soothing strokes, as though calming an injured animal, the other hand feeling Riker prepare himself. Riker was long planes of muscle under a sweet, soft layer of flesh. Legs for days. Hips thick and strong. Worf wanted his teeth in it, wanted to touch him all over. He wanted to dip down and taste his cock, hard and twitching and right there, but he wanted Riker begging, first. He found a mouthful of stomach to bite, then lick away the sting. Riker made a sound like he’d been punched. Worf grabbed Riker’s ass again and spread it apart, pressing his face into his stomach. “Riker. Will. Let me.”
“Fuck. Okay. Okay. You want to try?” Riker said, his voice rough.
“Yes,” Worf breathed.
“Okay.” Riker pulled out his fingers and rested his hand on Worf’s shoulder, warm and wet. His eyes were blown wide and dark, but his voice was every bit the commander, strong and clear. Directive. All the air left Worf’s lungs at the sound of it. “You have to be patient. Take it slow. Slower than you probably think. The more you prepare me now, the better it will be later.”
Worf licked at his navel, swallowing down hysterical laughter. Didn’t Riker realize that Worf would do whatever it took to take care of him? An honorable warrior did every task thoroughly and with precision, whether that was burying a mek’leth into the correct artery or getting his mate ready to take him. Ready to be conquered.
“I understand,” Worf said. Riker leaned his weight into his hands on Worf’s shoulders, trusting that Worf would hold him up. Worf would prove himself worthy of that trust.
Pulling one cheek aside, he ran his fingers along the cleft of Riker’s ass, hissing at the warmth and slickness there. He knew his fingers were thicker than Riker’s, that he needed to start with just one. He rubbed at his entrance, wet and already a little bit loosened for him. He pressed his cheek against Riker’s chest so he could track his breathing for signs of discomfort, but Riker’s pulse hammered beneath his skin in a way that made Worf’s mouth water.
“Worf,” Riker managed, shaking above him. “Don’t tease.”
“I never tease,” Worf mumbled against his skin, but he acquiesced, sliding one fingertip inside, lighting up at the way Riker’s breath hitched.
Worf growled at how he seemed to suck his finger in, and Riker shuddered against him. He was scorching inside. He’d expected Riker to be soft, here, and he was, in a way; he was smooth inside and squeezed around him. But he hadn’t expected the tightness, the unyieldingness. A surge of pride shot through him: his mate was strong, and hard, and iron-willed.
“Are you all right?” Worf managed to ask.
“Yes, yes, just--move,” Riker said roughly. Worf moved his finger slowly, in and out, making room for itself, Riker’s body slowly accepting him.
“Another,” Riker said softly, after a moment. Worf tucked in a second finger tip and pushed in slowly, slower than he thought he could, just as Riker had instructed. He set his teeth against a rib, not biting, just showing his hunger, even as he moved so gently inside of him. “Fuck,” Riker whispered, gripping Worf’s shoulders hard. Worf wanted nails. He wanted teeth. But a warrior with honor did not rush into the battlefield stabbing everything they saw, blood for blood’s sake. They watched, and waited, and shaped the moment to their liking, and struck when it was right. Sex was no different.
Worf worked his fingers in and out of Riker’s body, scissoring them apart gently, so gently, persuading his body let him in, feeling it yield in tiny increments, never easy. Riker rocked back against his hand, cursing at the top of Worf’s head, cock hard and leaking. He pried one of his hands away from Worf’s shoulder and pressed it to the back of his skull instead, holding it tight against his chest. Worf darted out a tongue to taste--salt, and iron, and heat. Riker shoved himself back onto Worf’s fingers harder.
“Worf, I’m ready,” Riker said hoarsely. “Please. I’m ready.”
Worf’s cock swelled, but he shook his head against Riker’s chest. “You are too tight. Take one more,” he said. Everything was so hot and close, Riker’s arms around him, his body pulling in his fingers. Riker let out a frustrated whine. Something deep and dark and made of teeth curled with satisfaction inside Worf. He’d made his mate sound like that.
“Give it to me, then,” Riker snapped, sinking deep around Worf’s two fingers. Worf rushed to comply, pulling his hand out almost all the way to add a third finger, and then slowly pressing back in.
“Oh,” Riker whimpered, actually whimpered. It sounded good on his voice. It made Worf want to eat him alive. Riker’s body arched, nails digging into Worf’s scalp and shoulder.
He was still so tight inside, but this time, when Riker said, “now, now, please now,” Worf was helpless to resist. He gently pulled out his fingers and Riker groaned softly at the loss before shoving Worf to his back. Worf snarled, pleased by the forcefulness of his commander, that warrior spirit that Worf couldn’t believe he’d doubted. Riker reached behind him for more lube, and then he was stroking Worf’s cock, once, twice, getting it wet, before getting up on his knees. He lined up, taking a deep, shuddering breath, and sank down around the head of Worf’s cock.
Worf let out a growl that he felt down to the heels of his feet as Riker squeezed around him. He was gorgeous like this, gasping, making himself take it. Worf resisted the urge to thrust in the rest of the way, even though Riker’s body was so sweet, so impossibly tight, even though he needed to be inside more than he needed air. His eyes swam red with hunger, but he blinked through it and managed to just drag blunt nails down the front of Riker’s thighs, watching the pink stripes bloom in their wake.
“Just--give me a minute, here,” Riker choked out, resting his palms on Worf’s chest. Worf did not know if he had a minute. Riker was so hot inside. Worf’s hearts throbbed in the soles of his feet, his wrists, his cock. He sat up a little, balancing on an elbow, and wrapped his hand around one of Riker’s on his chest. He raised it to his mouth, sucking in one of Riker’s fingers.
“You--shit,” Riker moaned, watching Worf’s mouth. “You look--so good like that.” He laughed at himself a little, a quiet, disbelieving sound. Worf scraped his teeth on the pad of Riker’s finger and thought that was a ridiculous thing to say, because did Riker not know how he looked right now? How badly Worf wanted to bite, and consume, and devour? If Riker wanted, Worf would rip out the hearts of his enemies and lay them at his feet. He would disembowel them, and wear their entrails around his throat like necklaces, and model them for him; he would cut open Riker’s hand and paint himself with his blood, and Riker would look upon him and know that he was his.
Riker sank down slowly until he was nestled against Worf’s hips. Worf grit his teeth as Riker pulsed around him, making these tiny, hurt noises that made the rest of the world fall away. Riker was a worthy adversary, a warrior here in his own right, because Worf was undone, he was struck down, he was bleeding out. Nothing had ever been this tight, nothing. He wanted to move. If he didn’t, he would certainly die. He settled for squeezing at Riker’s waist, waiting.
And then, Riker moved. Lifting his hips, and dropping them again.
“You feel,” Riker said, before breaking into a moan. “You feel,” he tried again.
“Yes,” Worf said, holding Riker’s hips. The heavens shook above them, wwould surely come loose and fall down around them, any second now. Pleasure and death were so close to one another and Worf was glad, so glad. If he should die like this, it would be an honorable death. He’d find himself high among the ranks of the finest warriors in Sto’Vo’Kor. He would boast of this for all time, this beautiful Human he had over him, slain with pleasure at his hand.
The next time Riker dropped his hips, Worf thrust up, meeting him in the middle. Riker clenched up tight around him, making Worf see stars.
“Fuck yes, right there, right there.” Riker threw his head back, showing a tantalizing stretch of his throat.
“Baring your neck for me?” Worf said, low and hot.
“What, you want to rip it out?” Riker said, too fearless for his own good.
Worf couldn’t take it anymore. He surged up to grab at Riker and throw him on his back. He landed with a cry, legs spreading immediately. Worf clambered over him and if he’d thought Riker looked good on top, it was nothing compared to this, supine, thighs open, cock curving proudly up against his belly, long legs resplendent and obscene, so much skin to know and touch and take. He’d slipped out in the change of position, but Worf shoved back inside him, rolling his hips deep and slow, bending down to lick at Riker’s neck.
“Oh Jesus,” Riker groaned, “oh fuck,” and Worf had to, he couldn’t help it, he had to bite into that pretty throat, hard, that Human skin so soft and breakable, like a damn Earth peach, and Riker gasped again, a hot little sound that Worf knew he’d be replaying in his head for years to come, knew that he’d never be able to look at his commanding officer on the bridge again without hearing it. And Riker, so goddamn smart, always a quick study, leaned up and set his own teeth into the curve where Worf’s shoulder met his neck and bit down, and Worf’s cock swelled, and Riker tightened up around him, shivering.
“Come on,” Riker said, leaning back again, eyes half-lidded, a little blood on his lip and blooming on his neck, every bit an invitation. “Let me have it.”
Worf swore, and pushed Riker’s knees just a little wider to fuck into him, hard and fast. His long hair pooled around Riker’s shoulders. He held Riker at the hips, filling his palms perfectly, and Riker met each thrust. He reached down to grab one of Worf’s hands and wrap it around his own cock, stroking in time, letting out these ragged little pants, the rhythm so sweet, until he came apart beneath him with a cry, shuddering all over, slicking up their bellies where they rubbed together, his hole clenching, fluttering. Worf’s own orgasm was at first just a whisper gathering on the edges of his mind, just a pleasant idea that he was following, seeing where it went, and then it burned through him, all at once. He was dry kindling, and then he was a balefire, consuming them both. He spilled into Riker and collapsed half on top of him, gasping and wrecked.
When he could feel his legs again, Worf carefully pulled out, pride simmering low in his stomach at the wince on Riker’s face. He rested his head on Riker’s chest and they lay there, catching their breaths, sweating against each other. Riker combed lazily through Worf’s hair. After a sweet, suspended moment, a bubble that he didn’t want to break, Worf moved onto his elbow.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Riker laughed, a sweet, tired laugh. “You are very...vigorous,” he said. His voice was rough, taken apart. He shifted onto his side, holding Worf’s gaze. “And nothing I can’t handle.”
“You are a robust lover, yourself,” Worf said. He reached for Riker’s hip, caressing it with his thumb. Human skin was so smooth, and all here for him to touch and taste.
“Robust?” Riker grinned. “Can’t say I’ve heard that one before. I’ll take it.”
Worf hummed, but wasn’t really listening, too busy pressing his face back into Riker’s belly. Riker combed his fingers through his hair, and Worf nuzzled along the line of hair below his belly button, moving lower, and lower.
“Really? You want to go again?” Riker shifted against the bed. Worf didn’t need to look up to see his smile. He heard it in his voice.
“Can you take it?” Worf murmured against the crease of his hip.
“You bastard,” Riker groaned, arching up.