Author: Juxian Tang
Disclaimer: Farscape belongs to Jim Henson Company, Hallmark and SciFi Channel.
No copyright infringement is intended.
Thanks: to Blue for the plot bunny
Summary: Crais initiates a new Lieutenant and is haunted with some past.
"What are you looking at?"
"What stars? You can't see any stars from here," an exasperated
voice becomes softer suddenly, intimately hushed - with the warm draft of
breath against his neck. "I want you to look in my eyes."
"It doesn't make a convenient position."
The kisses are hard, the feeling of teeth under the lips on tender
circles of recent bruises unpleasant; but the pain is dispensable - the same as
pleasure is. The hand crawls around his chest, finds his nipple, tweaks it into
hardness. The sensations are on the periphery of his mind - with the
insuperable numbness in its center. He would like to believe that it was
self-control but somehow he doubts it.
"Turn to me, Peacekeeper. Lay down. Raise your legs. Yes, like that.
You are tight... They told me you would be good. Now participate," a dry
hand squeezes his erection, sliding up and down. "Don't you have to thank
me for taking care of you?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I like it, sir."
* * *
The man in front of him is nothing special. Slight - short darkish hair -
fine features. Standing at attention even in the privacy of the personal
quarters, his eyes not leaving Crais' face even for a moment.
"At ease, Lieutenant," he makes his voice sound welcoming and
good-hearted - and sees the man relax a little, sees his eyes start wandering,
a little glow of fascination in them as he studies the dark and bright
interior. Probably had never seen anything so... voluptuous before. Or so
"I hope you don't mind us continuing the conversation here. I think
it'll let us get acquainted more personally."
"No, sir," meeting his gaze openly. "I don't mind."
You probably should mind, Lieutenant. Believe me.
The man amuses him very little; but he'd learned to appreciate even this
little interest the never-ending row of faces of his junior officers can
provide him. He is not going to remember later what intrigued him in this stiff
and ordinary looking man; knows that soon he will be looking at Lieutenant
Braca with the same cold indifference as he looks at others. There is just a
short spell of time that almost reminds a challenge for him - a spell of time
when he doesn't quite know what he has to deal with yet.
Well, in this case he probably already knows enough. Had seen the like ones
before. Naive. Prim. Hopelessly mediocre. Neither smart enough nor arrogant
enough to achieve anything. Always second best.
But even if his new Lieutenant promises just a little fun, he, Crais, is not
going to forego it.
"Would you like something to drink?" amiably, like a good host.
With how intently Braca is watching him, one can hardly imagine Crais' words
would startle him this way. A breath caught in his throat - and then a short
smile flickers on his face, making it almost fascinating - and gone immediately.
"I don't drink, sir, I am sorry."
"Lieutenant," drawling - a slight reproach in his voice, "I
don't mean anything strong, just a little raslak."
"Oh well..." never doubted he would comply. "Thank you."
Sipping the drink, he paces his quarters - around Braca standing in the
middle; didn't offer him to sit, despite all the casualness of their meeting -
knows how to make it slightly, subtly uncomfortable, with all his seeming
"So, you are here right from the Academy?"
A brief light of readiness fills the man's face again.
"Yes, sir. I dreamed about being sent here. Under your command, I
He doesn't know if hearing that pleases him. It might be a lie - or it might
just conform his well-deserved reputation. And he is not even sure if he cares
what it was. But he feels bored suddenly - waves his hand - for what has to
pass for modesty - at the next words:
"Your convoy of leviathans..."
"Enough about it, Lieutenant. You'll have time to get used to all of
"It's an honor for me to be here, sir."
* * *
"Your career seems to be quite upwardly mobile, Officer Crais. You
are an example among Peacekeepers. Clever... ruthless... unscrupulous. Just
what all of us must be. Your next promotion might be not so far away."
"Thank you, sir."
"This transfer for your brother... It is a great opportunity for the
rise and there are surely enough candidates for that. We'll regard Tauvo's
candidature but with his test results... "
A small pause, rich with hinting. A moon-like smiling face - faded eyes
measuring him up and down. One more face he is bound to look at directly, with
respect and loyalty demanded by the regulations.
"It is a delicate affair and I would like to be sure we don't make a
"You won't be disappointed, sir."
These eyes are so undisguisedly obscene. He suddenly wishes he could feel
a rise of heat at meeting them. But he doesn't. Hadn't felt it for a long, long
time by then. He knows all too well why he is here. He knows what he must do -
and that he will do it.
"I am glad we understand each other so well, Officer. And can I say
something else... before we start? You are a damn good-looking man, Crais. I
think I am going to enjoy that even more than I expected."
* * *
"It is not difficult to achieve mutual understanding with me,
Lieutenant. My requirements are not this vast at all. Responsibility and
He gets a little closer to the man in his pacing - almost stepping into
Braca's intimate space. Well, the truth is that he doesn't need to do anything
"little". Can just take it - now - obedience is not only *his*
requirement, the Lieutenant is his subordinate, after all. But he likes to do
it slowly; every word, every intonation full of meaning, whether Braca
understands it or not.
He doesn't understand, apparently.
How stupid he can be, Crais wonders. The thought is of cold interest, almost
scientific-like. Well, he has enough material for a little essay on their
responses, acquired for these years of following his tradition. The little
Lieutenant's stare is unsuspecting - Crais can read in it the same well as once
in the eyes of his superiors he could read what they wanted from him.
Braca's gaze is just slightly dreamy. Raslak might do that to someone who is
not used to alcohol - might be responsible for the little unnecessary smile on
the man's lips - that disappears when he recalls where he is.
"You see I don't demand much"
"No, sir. Sure, sir."
Thank you for frelling my ass, sir. I worship your cock, sir.
Crais puts the glass on the table without looking and moves forward - a
predator ready to jump. His hand lies on the Lieutenant's neck - warm - just a
hint of pressure that would make it possessive.
"I hope you will like it here."
Total dren. He won't like it. Crais is not the one who will make his life
easier. Nor is he supposed to, right?
He feels the little warm beating of pulse under Braca's jaw and moves his
thumb, patting the sharp curve of the man's throat - looking intently in his
eyes. Probably the best moment of that - the most curious one - when they
understand. Shock, surprise, realization of the choice they have to make. The
choice itself is not fascinating - always the same.
The same as he'd made enough times. Should've made him happier, then, to
recognize it in their actions. Doesn't make him happier.
The man freezes under his touch - apart from small ripples of tension going
through his body; like an animal in the sight of the gun. And an excruciating
movement of his throat at the attempt to swallow.
"Take off your jacket, Lieutenant."
Not an order - almost a suggestion; not that he would take "no"
for an answer.
He thinks there will be more resistance - incomprehension - repeated
questions. But there is just a feverish movement, too abrupt, the hands flying
up to the collar and ripping it open. No hesitation - and suddenly it makes
Crais think that there can be something more in the pathetic Lieutenant than
he's noticed at the first sight.
Treasures his position too much; more than many others? He'd seen
them thrashing a bit before they started following his orders.
But Braca's expression... a mask of control, too pale, too still - and yet
revealing the desperation behind it.
As if it'd earn him any mercy.
"Fine, Lieutenant," the rustle of soft leather as the jacket
slides on the floor. Well, what now? To go a long way or to put him on his
knees now, slam his cock into this pale mouth?
A long way. So it be. He tugs the man's head towards him, puts his lips on
Braca's; ready to apply necessary pressure if feeling resistance. There is no
resistance, though - open for his tongue to slide inside, cool... tasting the
raslak. No, not cool - ice cold. It gladdens Crais - this apparent sign of the
man's distress and disorientation. The things don't come off all this easy for
His tongue meets Braca's, motionless, circles around it, exploring the mouth
- and licks the tongue again - until it flickers against his. A little sound -
and then there is a hand on his waist, put there for support. He looks down
into the staring eyes of the man - and smiles carelessly. He is intended to
"You've done it before, Lieutenant? Just tell me so that we could skip
"No, sir," how would he know that it wasn't a lie? Perhaps it
isn't. "But you don't need to conform... with my pacing."
* * *
"I like your hair," the tight cord is untwined and slithering
snake-like down on the floor; a face buried in the mass of his hair, a single
deep inhale. "Makes you look so wild... whorish. Makes it convenient to
Turning him around, pushing down slightly. He knows what he is supposed
to do; he is good at it. Never gagged for doesn't know how many years. His mind
almost doesn't register what he is doing, for how long he is doing it.
"Well, enough of that. Now on your hands and knees."
There is enough of his own spit on the cock to make the penetration fast
and easy. The scarlet silkiness of the sheets under him. He will have the same
linen later, when he can... when he gains what he wants.
"Come on, get it up - or I shall think you don't like what I am
His body is disciplined enough to focus on achieving a hard-on when his
thoughts wander somewhere else. ...Tauvo seems to be happy here; happy for the
first time in many years. Alone and left to his own devices as the Prowler's
pilot. Maybe, it is how he always was supposed to be. Hadn't ever fitted well
into anything else.
Tauvo can't play the games they all are supposed to play. That's why his
brother has to play them for him.
"By the way, I was going to tell you - we are having a commission
from the First Command next week."
Sickness rises sour and burning in his throat. Come on, you should
control yourself better; not that it is for the first time.
"Are you talking about my duties as a Lieutenant - or about my...
"I am talking about both, Bialar, you know I am talking about
* * *
Leaning against the wall, another sip of raslak - too cold now - watching
the man's shaking hands... The inability of Braca to control himself enough to
cope with it pleases Crais somehow. Braca's eyes are down, on the tasks his
hands are fulfilling - but it doesn't pass for concentration at all. Don't dare
to look up, right?
A little sound in the back of Braca's throat makes him smile - as he looks
at the man standing naked at last, arms along his body, his eyes meeting Crais'
Silky dark curls in his groin and a soft cock. Well, no wonder. Not the most
"Why are you doing it?" narrowing his eyes slightly, a mere shadow
of interest in his voice. Even if he were interested he wouldn't admit it,
"Because you ordered me, sir."
"No. Why do you follow my orders?"
And what could he do? Could've slammed the door shut; would've paid for it,
of course, but sometimes it makes sense to pay.
Nobody had ever asked me why I was doing it. Maybe, if they did, I could
But of course there is always a reason for doing it.
"I don't understand, sir. Am I not supposed to?"
Wrong. Not what he expects or wants to hear. Does he want a counter question
- why he gives these orders? What is more in what he feels: contempt - or
arousal - or satisfaction of consuming the dish best served cold? Consuming it
for years and not getting tired of it? Or, maybe, getting tired but unwilling
to admit it - because there's not much to replace it with?
"So, you wanted to serve under my command, Lieutenant?"
The brown eyes flash, getting almost golden for a moment.
"I adore you, sir. You can do anything you want to me."
It makes him chuckle; he wants it to sound scornful but knows it sounds grim
and weary. Suddenly he feels like wrapping up the game. Maybe, can send Braca
away - will it all pass for a check up of loyalty then?
He won't do it, won't send the man away. It is not just for fun, after all.
It is a ritual. An act of recompense.
He unfastens his jacket slowly, his eyes not leaving the flushing face of
the man, then moves towards Braca, pushing him to the bed slightly. The man
obeys; well, Crais doesn't expect anything else from him.
He pulls the zipper of his pants down, putting his knee between Braca's
legs. They said you weren't supposed to do something you didn't want to be done
to you. So, how can he do it? How will he be able to do it, looking in the
man's eyes and knowing that beyond pain and remnants of self-control there will
be only scalding, suppressed hatred? He'd felt it looking up at the faces above
But he knows he will proceed; had done it quite a few times before. Maybe,
needs it to remind himself how it can hurt. And how some things can hurt even
* * *
"What's matter, little brother? I haven't seen you for days."
His hope that nothing is wrong, simply the ship is too big to run into
each other, drains out as he looks in the black, dark-surrounded eyes of Tauvo.
For a few slow microts before the door is slammed in his face.
Attempted to slam, that is. He puts his foot in, stopping it.
"Is there any problem? Something doesn't go all right? Just tell
And hears a bitter laughter behind the door - the door that is not held,
though - only he knows his brother too well to take it for anything more than
Tauvo's usual unwillingness to insist on anything.
"Just tell you? So that you could take care? In someone's bed?"
Tauvo knows; what he'd been afraid of for all these years - and hoped
that no, he wouldn't ever know. Or, maybe, hoped that Tauvo had already known -
just never talked about it.
He storms in, locking the door behind, hissing feverishly:
"Everybody does it, not only me. Don't be a fool! We need to have
our way clear."
"You don't need "this* for it."
Doesn't he? He can beat the dren out of everyone who dares to suggest
that he or his brother are not exemplary Peacekeepers - but all he can do to
prove it is to bend over for someone of the higher rank who wants it. He does
it so that Tauvo never had to do it.
He doesn't say it - because he knows that somehow Tauvo knows it, because
saying it will ruin everything that is still whole between them. But not saying
it ruins it as well.
"Promise me you won't do it again. Not for me. Not for
yourself," Tauvo says - and lets him catch him, put his arms around him -
and after a moment of rejection he feels Tauvo's head leaning on his shoulder.
Holding Tauvo, lulling him, feeling his body warm up slowly in his arms -
feeling cold leave his own body - he believes that everything will be all right
for them. Will be just the same as before.
But of course it is never the same as before.
* * *
Braca's skin is smooth and clammy yet blood is pulsating under it; the
contour of every rib hard, thin and clear. Crais' palms slide over his chest as
he looks in the man's opened eyes - staring and intense.
There is no hatred in these eyes but he knows it is the stare of the man who
will hate him for life - whom he will detest for life.
Does he really need to do it? Oh yes, he does. Because it is something that
had made any other way of having sex for him dull and unnecessary - except this
game of coercion and humiliation.
"What do you want?" seeing the man lick his lips indecisively.
"Permission to get hard?"
Sure. Why not? A fool. Apparently doesn't even need an anchor for his pride
of being forced into doing it.
He hears Braca's little gasp as his hand is in Braca's wispy hair, sliding
casually along his neck, to his chest, rubbing his nipple. He locks his lips on
the man's eager mouth, the unskillful tongue lapping against his. Down to the
flat belly, tracing the sharp fall after the rise of the ribcage. The thinness
of the man is almost exotic, so un-Peacekeeper-like - the fair skin - the pink
cock standing to the attention. He massages it, rubbing it until the trembling
of Braca's body becomes a vibration of undeniable and impatient arousal.
"Don't worry, Lieutenant, I will try not to hurt you."
"I am not worried. I can endure it."
He reaches for the man's cock and at the same time feels a hand slide to his
own groin, palm enveloping his rigid shaft - guiding it carefully but bravely
between the legs, into the softness of the curls there and lower - to the shut
"You are sure you want to do it like this? You don't usually do it dry,
He reaches for the lubricant, smearing the gel over his straining cock,
adding some of it on the man's anus, feeling how it pulses under his touch.
"Well, it is probably going to hurt a little."
A small nod, no hesitation in Braca's eyes. He will probably be a good
Lieutenant, after all - unquestioningly obedient... convenient to go mad on a
lousy day... and grabbing the chance to take over his Captain's place when
There had been different ones among Crais' subordinates - those who acted
insulted and frightened - and those who walked all the way with him eagerly.
Braca with his deliberate obedience has his own appeal.
The man's legs wrap around his waist tightly as he pushes in. For a moment
he finds the resistance too hard to break - and then the tight grip on his
cock-head is both tormenting and delightful. He looks into Braca's eyes and
smiles - and see a smile in reply, the little one that for a moment fights away
the unforgiving mediocrity of the man, making him almost frighteningly
determined. He thrusts in, holding Braca around the waist, feeling his little
shiver of pain - and thrusts again, not stopping until he can feel his balls
pressed against the man's crack.
Linked; in the most intimate way. Sometimes it shocks him how little it
means. Bringing no caring, no understanding, no memories to cherish.
Except the ones he wants to let go and can't. Even if he tries to believe he
can. Well, he'll probably know that he's let it go when he skips the initiation
ritual with another one of his junior officers.
He looks in Braca's eyes - and suddenly feels scared to look in them.
Doesn't want to see his reflection there. Doesn't want to read the same cold in
Does the man look at the stars, too?
He pulls out and slams back, changing the angle until the resolve in Braca's
eyes becomes amazement - and then delight.
How about "enduring" that?
He speeds up - and feels how the body under him accepts the rhythm, sharing
it in an unconscious way. Pleasure that he is giving to someone he feels only
contempt to, from the beginning to the end.
To someone who said that he'd admire him - and will never be able to do it
What is it he destroys every time? Their trust - or his own belief that one
of them can be good, clean - untarnished - unlike him.
Checking them and finding them the same ready to sell themselves as he had
Crais' fingers run over Braca's chest, the little touches eliciting small
gasps from the man - until he feels the pulsing of Braca's cock jammed between
their bodies, the warm wetness of sperm spilling on their bellies.
Then he finishes it - just a few strokes and that's all. He falls on the bed
next to Braca, rolls away a little.
No unforgettable sex. But sex is always forgettable.
The smooth fabric of the sheets is cool and light between his fingers.
Laying on his back, looking at the high ceiling of his quarters - at the
trophies on the columns towering around the bed.
Everything he'd achieved - nothing he really cares for.
"You are a damn good-looking man, Crais... Do you know why I like
you, Bialar? No one can do it like you..."
"Sir..." a tentative voice.
What? Permission to leave? Permission to ask how it will influence his
"Thank you, Lieutenant, and you are not welcome to stay in my bed any
He watches how Braca dresses hastily - sees his hands shaking minutely -
probably with post-coital tiredness. Not meeting his eyes deliberately.
Don't worry, Lieutenant, you'll have your time. Not now - then some ten
cycles or so later - you will be the one interviewing your new Lieutenant in
He doesn't smile at this thought.
And the next day, he tells Braca off for some mistake the little Lieutenant
has already made - or allegedly made - knowing that his ironic words hurt - and
hurt more because are said in the presence of others. He sees the white lines
contouring Braca's clenched jaws.
That's the way life is, Lieutenant. Just that.