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The doors of Holodeck 4 hissed open with a smug little sound, as if even the ship knew this was not going to be “just a sparring match.”
Riker strode in first, sleeves rolled, beard pre-fluffed, the embodiment of casual confidence meets barely-repressed chaos. He turned, already grinning.
“You ready to lose again, Lieutenant?”
Worf stepped through behind him, carrying his bat’leth like it was an extension of his spine and his rage. “I do not lose,” he said simply.
“Not even when I beat you three times last week?”
“You cheated. You distracted me.”
“With what?” Riker asked innocently, eyebrows raised.
Worf’s pause was suspiciously long. “Your smug face.”
Riker barked out a laugh, tossing his jacket to the side. “You’re not wrong.”
They circled each other slowly, warm-up forgotten, tension as thick as warp plasma. Hands flexed. Eyes narrowed. And then—
—CLANG.
The first blow was loud, confident, almost theatrical. Riker met it with a parry and a spin, dancing around the mat like a man who definitely flirted with his enemies before stunning them.
They moved like a conversation: Riker’s loose, agile confidence a stark contrast to Worf’s grounded, forceful precision. It was the dance of men who’d done this a hundred times and never quite settled what this was.
Every strike came with a quip.
“Careful,” Riker teased as Worf swung wide. “You dent that bat’leth, and I’m not helping you polish it later.”
“I would not allow you near my weapon.”
“Too late. I’ve already touched it.” A wink. A dodge.
Worf growled. “You are infuriating.”
“You say that like it’s not half my charm.”
Their feet shuffled. Elbows struck. A knee barely missed groin-level. They were breathing hard now, sweat painting lines on their temples. The holodeck lights caught the gleam of Worf’s bared teeth—and the glint in Riker’s eye as he twisted and almost tackled him.
Almost.
“You’re faster today,” Worf muttered.
“I thought I was slower and louder.”
“You’re still loud. Just less clumsy.”
“Oh-ho!” Riker laughed, then slipped low under a swing and kicked Worf’s knee just enough to make him stagger. “You have been practicing your trash talk. I’m so proud.”
Worf lunged, and this time—this time—Riker met him head-on. They went down in a whirl of limbs and breathless half-laughs, Worf’s body slamming into the mat with a satisfying thump. Riker landed over him, pinning both wrists down, their chests rising and falling in sync like they’d been meant to be like this.
A pause.
Their faces were inches apart. Riker’s smile flickered—still amused, but quieter now, like maybe he was feeling something underneath the usual cocky bravado. Worf looked up at him, unreadable in the way only Worf could be, golden eyes steady and intense.
“You yield?” Riker asked, softly this time.
Worf didn’t speak.
He just leaned up and kissed him.
It wasn’t hesitant. It wasn’t a question. It was months—years?—of sparring matches, bruised knuckles, shared drinks, almost-touching shoulders on quiet bridge nights. It was not subtext anymore. It was a full declaration of mutual war crimes against heterosexuality.
Riker’s breath hitched—but he didn’t pull back. He leaned in harder.
And then:
“RIKER!”
They broke apart like teenagers caught necking behind the warp core.
Captain Jean-Luc Picard stood in the hallway, one hand dramatically on his forehead like this was not the first time he’d seen this exact brand of behavior. “For the last time,” he barked, exasperated beyond mortal limits, “stop kissing your husband during on-duty hours!”
Riker blinked. “...What?”
“Your husband, Commander,” Picard growled, already turning to leave. “Don’t make me log another complaint from Engineering about ‘sounds from the weapons deck.’ This is a Starfleet vessel, not a soap opera!”
“I—he’s not—I mean—”
“And!” Picard snapped, jabbing a finger into the air as the doors slid shut behind him, “the next time you two want to act out your Klingon courtship rituals, do it somewhere I don’t need to walk through it to get to my tea.”
The silence afterward was deafening.
Riker turned, still straddling Worf, blinking down at him. “Did he say ‘husband’?”
Worf adjusted his grip and flipped Riker under him in one brutal move.
“Yes,” he said, calmly. “He did.”
A beat.
Riker looked vaguely dazed. “Huh. You did say last week that that head wound ceremony was ‘binding.’”
Worf smirked.
Riker grinned.
And somewhere far off, Troi cackled with the wrathful glee of someone who absolutely won the betting pool.