My Boy (Braca/Scorpius)
His Boy
Braca/Scorpius (implied)
Rated PG
For the Braca challenge on stargateland.
At the end of the day, Braca walks back to his quarters. His shoulders are stiff, expression schooled into something cold and arrogant and he gazes judgmentally at every officer and grunt that passes by him. He enjoys they way they skitter and quicken their paces to avoid him. He doesn't need to be liked; he just needs to be respected. The power soothes him, fills something inside of him that's never known anything but emptiness.
Now they all see him for what he is; someone influential. It's better than leading squadrons into battle or commanding carriers. It's being trusted by the person in power; being trusted to make sure everything will get done that needs to get done.
When he reaches his quarters, the changes are minute; his posture relaxes and he undresses in a perfunctory way; leathers off, folded, neat and precise. He picks up a data tablet; there are reports stacked but a skim through the subjects reveals nothing that holds his interest. It's been a long day, a tiring day - the worst kind, now that he's had a taste of something different. Before he can school the thoughts away his mind flashes to adrenaline soaked adventures, pulse pistol blasts, bruises and blood, the sizzle of thermal suits and coolant rods. It would almost make him smile, if that were something that came naturally to him.
He sits on the edge of his bunk and looks at the utterly regimented order of his quarters. There's no outward sign of the inward changes he's undergoing. His allegiance has been to the Peacekeepers since the microt he was born, but the Peacekeepers aren't what's given him the deeper sense of meaning behind duty.
His eyes close and his body prepares for a rest cycle. He dreams, sometimes, now... something else new, his mind spinning scenarios that seem outlandish once he's awake. His guilty secret - he likes it. Sometimes it feels like falling and sometimes it feels like floating. Sometimes he thinks of things he will never have, wouldn't know to want even if he could. In the back of his mind, as he lips into sleep, the words curl around him, warming him throughout in a way that seems just as dangerous as heat delirium but a good deal more appealing: possession, ownership, Scorpius, that voice... Braca, my boy.
Braca/Scorpius (implied)
Rated PG
For the Braca challenge on stargateland.
At the end of the day, Braca walks back to his quarters. His shoulders are stiff, expression schooled into something cold and arrogant and he gazes judgmentally at every officer and grunt that passes by him. He enjoys they way they skitter and quicken their paces to avoid him. He doesn't need to be liked; he just needs to be respected. The power soothes him, fills something inside of him that's never known anything but emptiness.
Now they all see him for what he is; someone influential. It's better than leading squadrons into battle or commanding carriers. It's being trusted by the person in power; being trusted to make sure everything will get done that needs to get done.
When he reaches his quarters, the changes are minute; his posture relaxes and he undresses in a perfunctory way; leathers off, folded, neat and precise. He picks up a data tablet; there are reports stacked but a skim through the subjects reveals nothing that holds his interest. It's been a long day, a tiring day - the worst kind, now that he's had a taste of something different. Before he can school the thoughts away his mind flashes to adrenaline soaked adventures, pulse pistol blasts, bruises and blood, the sizzle of thermal suits and coolant rods. It would almost make him smile, if that were something that came naturally to him.
He sits on the edge of his bunk and looks at the utterly regimented order of his quarters. There's no outward sign of the inward changes he's undergoing. His allegiance has been to the Peacekeepers since the microt he was born, but the Peacekeepers aren't what's given him the deeper sense of meaning behind duty.
His eyes close and his body prepares for a rest cycle. He dreams, sometimes, now... something else new, his mind spinning scenarios that seem outlandish once he's awake. His guilty secret - he likes it. Sometimes it feels like falling and sometimes it feels like floating. Sometimes he thinks of things he will never have, wouldn't know to want even if he could. In the back of his mind, as he lips into sleep, the words curl around him, warming him throughout in a way that seems just as dangerous as heat delirium but a good deal more appealing: possession, ownership, Scorpius, that voice... Braca, my boy.