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Slash and Yaoi Fiction
Title: Stars
Author: Juxian Tang
Fandom: Farscape
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Crais/Braca
Status: complete
Archive: yes
Feedback: juxiantang@hotmail.com
URL: http://juxian.slashcity.net
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 intimidating.

"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 hospitality.

"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 mean."

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."

"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 wrong choice."

"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 obedience."

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 the Lieutenant.

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 enjoy it.

"You've done it before, Lieutenant? Just tell me so that we could skip the preliminaries."

"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 guide you."

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 doing."

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... additional activities?"

"I am talking about both, Bialar, you know I am talking about both."

* * *

"Strip, then."

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' painstakingly.

Silky dark curls in his groin and a soft cock. Well, no wonder. Not the most comfortable situation.

"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, would he?

"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 stop somehow.

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.

"Lay down."

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 him.

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 worse.

* * *

"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 me."

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.

No luck.

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.

"I promise."

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."

Endure, huh?

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 entrance.

"You are sure you want to do it like this? You don't usually do it dry, you know?"

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 possible.

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 this gaze.

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 again.

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 been.

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.

"Oh my..."

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 career here?

"Thank you, Lieutenant, and you are not welcome to stay in my bed any more. Dismissed."

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 your quarters.

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.


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