Chapter Text
“Just be careful,” Riker said. “Some of these women can emit pheromones so powerful your head won’t be straight for weeks.”
He said this even as one Orion woman trailed her fingers down his chest and another buried her face against his neck — not quite kissing, but letting her lips hover and her breath warm his skin. Riker pretended not to notice.
“I don’t think I like Orion girls,” Ibsen said. He jerked his arm out of the grasp of one.
“Everyone likes Orion girls,” said Riker cheerfully. “Ladies, can you show us to our room?”
There was an ornate song and dance as Riker and the Orion girls silently and flirtatiously fought over who would carry the bags and who would lead the way. Riker won, and he and Ibsen trailed behind the girls, each of them carrying a suitcase and studying the near-naked bodies sashaying ahead of them. It was only when they reached their floor of the hotel that Ibsen glanced sideways and realized he and Riker weren’t necessarily studying the girls in the same way. There was a dark, hard edge to Riker’s eyes.
“You see it too?” Riker said, his lips barely moving.
“Yes,” Ibsen lied. He turned back to the girls and studied them closer. There. On the leader’s lower back, there was a slim tattoo, some sort of local symbol. What did it mean? Surreptitiously, Ibsen checked his padd.
It wasn’t in the database, but there were others like it. Big-name pirates and local slavers used tattoos just like these to brand their … ‘product.’ Heart dropping, Ibsen stowed his padd and tried to look natural. When the girls located Ibsen’s and Riker’s shared room, they leaned against the door, taking up the most seductive pose each of them could think of and emitting a powerful scent, fragrant and pungent, alluring and repulsive, all at once.
“Thanks, ladies,” said Riker brightly. He pushed past them, gamely ignoring the way their hands trailed over his body, and with a shudder, Ibsen followed. It took an immense amount of effort to close the door in their pouting faces. That scent wound its way into his blood and weakened every muscle … but he did get the door shut, and when he turned around, Riker was shaking out his arms as if he felt the same chill.
“I’m not a fan,” Ibsen said.
“You know, Mike, sometimes the Prime Directive…” Riker shivered. Jittery now, he paced the hotel room and fiddled with everything he touched, both of them surging with leftover adrenaline. “What a world. In this day and age…”
Ibsen slumped onto his bed and pulled his padd out. With his cheek resting uncomfortably on his shoulder, he reviewed the files he’d neglected on the way here. Slavery and piracy pervaded Orion and all its surrounding systems, where the raiders liked to roam. The women were capable of emitting strong pheromones that could overwhelm any human male … and Ibsen couldn’t figure out if that was a nightmare or a dream. He chewed his thumbnail and glanced up at Riker, who had positioned himself by the hotel window.
“There’s a horde of girls out there,” Riker muttered, his tone unreadable. “I bet whoever seduces the Starfleet officers gets a reward.”
“You think?”
Riker turned and raised his eyebrows. Ibsen studied his face.
“Are you going to bed one, then?” Ibsen asked.
“They’re not all slaves. Plenty of these women don’t have tattoos.”
“You’re a pig,” Ibsen said. He turned back to his padd with a grunt. “When’s our first meeting?”
“The chief said he’d meet us in the hotel bar at 1800,” Riker said, twitching the curtains back. He raised one hand in a jaunty wave and grinned at a lady in the courtyard below. “1800,” Riker mused. “Four hours…”
“Just go,” said Ibsen wearily. “Try not to get kidnapped.”
Riker popped him a cheeky salute and practically bolted out the door. In silence, Ibsen studied the Starfleet files on Orion women and the pirate chief he and Riker were scheduled to negotiate with later today. There were articles galore about those infamous pheromones: irresistible, they said. A human man, according to the Federation’s legal team, could not consent to sex with an Orion female, or at least not one of the A-type. And yet Riker, knowing this, had fairly leapt at the chance to be raped. Ibsen snorted to himself and darkened his padd.
Well, he might as well explore the hotel bar. He just hoped it wasn’t teeming with locals at this hour.
The Orion girls were a little too willing and eager for his tastes.
It was past midnight when they made it back to their hotel room. The negotiations with the pirate chief had gone neither well nor poorly — it was still too early to tell what the result might be. But the bar was packed with supple Orion bodies, some enslaved but most of them free, and now that he was away from the fog of pheromones, Ibsen had a pounding headache and a not-so-hidden anger bubbling below the surface.
Aggression, the files said. That was one of the side effects of Orion pheromone exposure. Well, he was definitely feeling it … but at his side, Riker was moving like a drunk man, obnoxiously loose-limbed and giggly as he unlocked the hotel room.
“Exhausted!” he declared as he stumbled inside. He left Ibsen to close the door, a sour look twisting his features, while Riker flopped onto his bed fully clothed. “Three … no, four of them,” Riker said, voice muffled by the blankets.
“Congratulations.”
“All at once. God, it was heady.” Riker turned his head, face glowing, hair ruffled, and gave Ibsen one of his sparkly-eyed looks that made all the women of the Hood swoon. “You look grumpy, Mike.”
Ibsen yanked his jacket off and threw it to the ground. Slowly, the smile on Riker’s face faded and he turned away, sensing the tension in the air. Good. If he spoke again, Ibsen might blow … and god, he knew it was just the pheromones. With a shaky sigh, Ibsen sat on the edge of his bed, half-dressed, and ran his fingers through his hair.
Calm down, he ordered himself. This isn’t you.
But his heart was pounding, and his breath was coming fast. And those were classic signs of pheromone intoxication. And his skin was hot to the touch, and he wanted desperately to punch something, to get rid of all those energy somehow.
Across the room, Riker reached out to trail his fingers through the beams of moonlight coming through his window. He watched the light dapple his skin and laughed softly, almost inaudibly. Oblivious to Ibsen’s anger. To his pain.
Three years’ worth of resentments boiled over.
“Do you give a shit,” Ibsen asked, his voice dark and low, “about anyone except yourself?”
Startled, Riker glanced over his shoulder and let his hand drop. “Mike?”
“Your career, your pleasure.” Ibsen jumped to his feet and relished the way his muscles tensed in his thighs. But it wasn’t enough. He needed something bigger: the full-body muscle strain of mountain climbing, maybe, might just be enough to sate this urge for movement. For exercise. “You’ve fucked everyone on the Hood and that wasn’t enough for you. You had to fuck everyone in the bar, too.”
Riker’s eyes darted over Ibsen’s face. There was no mirth in those eyes now. He twisted his hips and rolled over in bed, reaching for his communicator, but Ibsen got there first. He tossed the communicator across the room so hard it hit the wall with a crack.
“Mike,” said Riker in an infuriatingly calm voice, “it’s the pheromones. You’re not yourself.”
Ibsen closed his fingers around Riker’s collar and jerked him into a sitting position, their heads nearly crashing against each other. Riker tightened his lips and grabbed Ibsen, gently, by the wrists, just to maintain some control.
“First officer,” Ibsen sneered. “Everyone’s favorite.”
“Mike, if you really think I’ve fucked everyone on the Hood, I—”
Riker’s head snapped back against the headboard. His lips parted in a cry of pain, and it was only when he curled in on himself, clutching his head, that Ibsen realized he’d been the one to slam Riker back. Where there should have been shame, he felt only a sense of victory. A longing for more.
“I-I’m flattered,” Riker finished, striving for his usual humorous tone. “But five in one day? Even I don’t have that much energy.”
Ibsen grabbed Riker by the shirt front and shook him. He jumped up on Riker’s bed, strong thighs coming down on either side of Riker’s hips, pinning him in place. Riker saw the next blow coming and got his hands up over his face in time to block it, but the next one knocked his hands askew, and the third one caught him square across the cheek. He turned his head with another cry.
“Mike—”
Another blow. A split lip. A dash of blood. Strong hands circled Ibsen’s wrists and wrestled to keep him in place, and for a moment he lost his balance and he and Riker crashed to the mattress in a tangle of limbs.
“Mike, goddammit, just—”
Ibsen’s elbow caught Riker in the chin. Riker spat a glob of blood onto the bedsheets, and in that moment of distraction, Ibsen got him by the collar and twisted him onto his stomach. His hands moved of his own accord, one pinning Riker down, cinching his wrists together — and the other snaked beneath Riker’s body, between his legs, and squeezed his cock in an iron grip. Riker went still. His breath puffed out in a startled, silent gasp.
“You’re not even hard,” Ibsen said, disgusted. His heartbeat pounded in his ears.
“Don’t do this,” said Riker, his voice shaking. He wasn’t struggling now. His body was limp beneath Ibsen’s — submissive. Like the Orion girls, Ibsen thought, and his temper was back.
“Fight back,” he said roughly, “or I’ll tear your dick off.”
“I’m not going to fight you, Mike. You’re not yourself. You need to call sickbay—”
Ibsen dug his fingers into Riker’s soft cock and twisted, and with a strangled shout, Riker bucked against his hand, curled in on himself, tried desperately to squirm away. All of Ibsen’s weight bore down on him and kept him trapped, but now at least he was struggling again, his face losing all color when Ibsen twisted again. Riker, with a powerful, animalistic surge of adrenaline, managed to buck Ibsen off-balance — just long enough to reach the edge of the mattress and vomit over the side. A weak stream of alcohol and bile pooled on the floor, and Ibsen watched, cool, dispassionate, and disgusted, until the stream had almost ended. Then he grabbed Riker by the hair and yanked him back, face-down in the bed sheets.
“Mike—” Riker said, his voice raw, saliva wetting the sheets near his face.
Ibsen dug his fingers into Riker’s waistband and yanked his trousers down. Riker’s bare skin burned hot against his hand; the smell of sex was thick, unwashed and fresh and trapped in Riker’s trousers until now. His cock was still soft, but it started to fill out when Ibsen cradled it, cupped it in his palm.
“Okay,” said Riker in a breath.
Ibsen hardly heard him. He’d never fucked a man before. Never been interested. But he liked the way Riker tensed and fought — reflexively — when he lifted his hips and dragged him closer.
“I said okay!” Riker shouted, his hands clenched in the bed sheets. “Mike, you can—”
Ibsen unlatched his own trousers, his cock straining. He shoved forward — not in — just resting against Riker’s body, that unnatural heat stealing his breath and making him go still. His heartbeat was racing so fast now that he shivered against Riker and lost his strength. Slowly, gently, Riker turned, his half-hard cock bobbing against Ibsen’s. His hands found Ibsen’s shoulders, his shirt-front, and eased it open — broad palms against Ibsen’s chest, long fingers tracing over his nipples. Riker eased down onto his back — he pulled Ibsen against him — kissed his exposed throat, hooked one ankle around his hips, brought their bodies flush.
It wasn’t sex. There was no penetration. It wasn’t the surge of energy and exertion that Ibsen needed. It was just his cock against Riker’s, and a series of soft, gentle kisses, and all that overwhelming heat and touch. Ibsen’s brain was too foggy to think straight, his heart rate too fast and thready for him to take control. He was still on top, but now he was the one who felt trapped.
And he came with a whimper, hot and sticky against Riker’s stomach, just from Riker running his fingers through Ibsen’s hair.
In the morning, the effect of the pheromones had faded, and the evidence of what Ibsen had done was clear. Riker’s bed sheets were a mess of vomit and cum, blood and the faint scent of urine, like one or both of them had succumbed to alcohol and Orion pheromones and wet the bed. Ibsen’s memories were swirling behind a cloud of sensation and desire. He dressed in silence, jaw clamped tight — trapped the scent of sex beneath his Starfleet uniform while Riker showered. Alone in the hotel room, Ibsen listened to the spray of water and stared at the stains on Riker’s bed sheets. A picture of pain, of fear, of lust.
He sat down heavily on the edge of his own pristine bed. By the time Riker emerged from the shower, Ibsen’s legs were trembling … and Riker was put together, fresh and smiling, dabbing at his split lip. He looked the part of a perfect Starfleet officer, a little roguish, a lot fucked-out, but put-together and prepared to face the day.
“Ready to go?” he asked Ibsen cheerfully enough.
Ibsen stared at him. Riker’s smile wavered, fractured into something like concern.
“Mike?” he said. He followed Ibsen’s gaze to the other bed. “Oh.”
“I raped you,” said Ibsen, and his voice was calm, but now his entire body was shaking like a leaf. His career. If Riker told … if this got out … he imagined his friends reading the news, his mother hearing about it back home, and his vision blurred.
“Hey…” Riker’s voice was soft as he knelt in front of Ibsen’s. Gentle hands clutched Ibsen’s forearms and rubbed soothing circles into his skin. “Mike. That wasn’t rape.”
Ibsen made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
“It wasn’t rape,” Riker insisted. “You’re my best friend, Mike. This is just what friends do. They look for comfort in each other. They make love. We…”
Ibsen surged to his feet, knocking Riker back on his ass. “We didn’t make love, Will,” he said harshly, shame giving way to anger. “Christ, listen to yourself. Look at your bed sheets!”
Riker held his hands up in a placating gesture. An infuriating smirk twisted his lips. “Okay, so it was a little messy. That happens sometimes.” He clambered to his feet. At first he didn’t touch Mike. He just straightened his uniform jacket and eyed Ibsen from the side. Then, unwisely, he stepped closer — maybe drawn in by Ibsen’s trembling. Maybe compelled to comfort his friend. “I’m not gonna tell anyone, Mike. You know I’m not a rat. You didn’t do anything wrong—”
Ibsen expected himself to punch Riker. He felt the surge of anger and knew what would happen. His fist would lance out of its own volition. His knuckles would crack against Riker’s jaw. Another charge for the inevitable court-martial. But instead, he watched from a distance as his fingers traced Riker’s split lip. As his hands dug into that wound and pried it open, making fresh blood flow. As Riker closed his eyes and winced against the sting … but let Ibsen hurt him, without putting up a fight.
Blood trickled down Riker’s chin. The anger in Ibsen’s chest turned cold and he let his hands fall, no longer trembling quite so badly. Riker wiped the blood away.
“You need to get laid more often,” he said, pretending not to see that Ibsen was crying. He slapped Ibsen on the shoulder — comforting, distant, platonic, like one brother to the next. Then he pulled him into a hug, stomach to stomach and hip to hip, and he guided Ibsen down until his face was buried in Riker’s shoulder like a child clinging to his father. “I liked it,” said Riker softly. “Really. I’d do it again in a heartbeat, Mike. Don’t cry.”
Despair washed through Ibsen, so strong he couldn’t speak.
“Come on,” Riker said. His palm skimmed down between Ibsen’s shoulder blades and over his sides, brisk and comforting. “Let’s go.”
They beamed up only when Ibsen had cleaned the evidence of tears from his cheeks. Riker’s split lip was still burning, still raw. And when they arrived on the U.S.S. Hood, one of them was drained and exhausted, and the other was effervescent, laughing and dropping sly hints about Orion pheromones whenever anyone asked him how it went.
“And how exactly did you manage to split your lip?” the captain asked.
Riker grinned. Ibsen dropped his eyes to the floor.
He got to listen to Riker lie for him. After everything he’d done, all the memories he couldn’t burn away, his loss of control and Riker's easygoing acceptance, his loss of dignity and Riker's effortless poise ... after all that humiliation, both within him and without, he got to listen to Riker lie.