Work Header


Work Text:

Blake is strange under the influence of the course interceptor. Ghost-like. His footsteps don't fall the same way, his eyes don't meet others' properly. Not that Travis can see much of anything beneath this maze of bandages, but he can tell how different Blake is, and it unsettles him - he knows that man better than he knows himself, and this isn't him.

He grows restless playing the cripple, gunhand thrumming against his thigh beneath their shapeless black gown. Perhaps the movement would be a giveaway, but it's only Blake here with him, and Blake is too mindfucked to notice much of anything right now. They sit painfully still on the Liberator's flight deck - of course, the Liberator. If he had his way he would shoot them all now and be done with it, but Servalan, she wants the ship, and Ven Glynd and Le Grand, and a chance to gloat about how pathetic their little rebellion was. She's a greedy cow, she always has been. Travis was so sure he was done being her errand boy...

"Shivan..." Blake's voice buzzes with that electronic hum. "I didn't get to speak to you. In private. I-I remember - last time we met, I--"

So we have met, then? Travis wondered that, when informed of Servalan's ridiculous plan, why Blake - even brainwashed - should be so receptive to some dead rebel from the other end of the galaxy. She just grinned when he asked. Oh, I think you'll find him quite eager to see you...

Warmth suddenly engulfs his body, and he's startled to realise Blake is embracing him, curls brushing softly against his neck. "Shivan." The steadfast revolutionary clings to him like a child. If Travis' wounds were real, the pain would be unbearable, but Blake thinks nothing of it. "Please."

A hand fumbles beneath the black robe, and Travis' stomach lurches. Of course, that's why Servalan was so sure Blake would accept Shivan with open arms - with open something, anyway. She probably chose his identity specially, just to make herself laugh.

Blake falls to his knees before him, and Travis' officer's instinct is to knock him to the floor, to remind him of the penalties for deviant sexual behaviour. But he's not an officer anymore, is he? No, just another common criminal, accused of far worth things than having his cock sucked by rebel scum. So why not? I'll have you on your knees yet, Blake. If he can't kill him...

Clumsy, rough and greedy, Blake swallows him down until he can't help but gasp, digging his nails into the man's scalp. Travis grits his teeth. This is Blake's perversion, not his, he need only grin and bear it. Indeed Blake takes him down until he's choking, and it all betrays his desperation, how long he's been denied his true desires. Beneath his bandages Travis grins. They wouldn't want you for a figurehead if they saw you like this, would they?

He pistons his hips and forces Blake up and down with his hands; there's no point being gentle, after all. Blake doesn't seem to mind. He moans like he's enjoying this, and Travis thinks he shouldn't, really, but there's nothing he can do about that now. He thrusts as deep as he can, watches the saliva drip down Blake's chin, and it's not enough, but he's long since learned nothing could be enough for him and Blake.

Maybe Blake's crew will come find them. Travis would enjoy that. They know perfectly well he's not himself; how horrified they would be to walk in and see their beloved leader having his mouth raped, and not even knowing enough to realise that's what's happening. Even more so if they knew who he was. Why not? Travis has nothing else left to him. Why not play to everyone's idea of him as a monster?

For a split-second, he thinks of Par. He didn't think Travis was a monster. He doesn't know why; he never cared for Par, he was one trooper, same as all the others. It doesn't matter now though. Par probably died in Blake's attack anyway.

Violently he yanks Blake off his cock, takes a second to examine his face. His eyes are hazy, nowhere near Travis' own. He has no idea what he's doing. He has some vague memory of having sucked a man called Shivan, of having loved him, maybe, and chases it while others' make a toy of his mind. If he ever gets his wits back, he'll realise how lost he is, how the Federation still has it's ugly claws in him, and can bend him to its will whenever it likes. Travis sneers.

"Suck my balls. Kiss my arsehole."

Travis is as crude and as rough with him as possible, as if that will prove something. Blake is still hideously compliant, his tongue soft and smooth as he licks across his scrotum, moving backwards to tease his hole almost affectionately. Travis growls and clenches his thighs around Blake's neck. I have you now, Blake. You belong to me.

But it doesn't mean anything, not when someone else has broken Blake's brain and made him susceptible. Travis is little more than a dog gnawing at table scraps. Still, it doesn't matter; a blowjob is a blowjob, and Travis is too much a soldier still not to appreciate it for what it is. He pushes Blake back, again, and stupidly takes himself in hand to come all over his face. No-one's looking, after all. What does it matter what he does now?

Blake just waits there dumbly as Travis groans into the void and splatters his face with semen. And then he keeps waiting. He barely seems to have noticed it happened. He asks not for his own pleasure, he just sits there pretty, used for whoever's purposes - the rebels', the Federation's, Travis'. Another bloody mutant.

After awhile Travis can't bear it anymore, and he tears off part of his costume to wipe the evidence away. "Here." Blake barely notices that, either. We should have killed each other five years ago, Blake. It would have been a mercy for both of us.

Truth be told, there's no good reason to hate Blake anymore. It's not because of his duty, certainly. It's not even because of his arm and eye. It's because hating Blake is what he does; it's the one thing left to him.

I want him dead. I want them all dead. Blake, Ven Glynd, Servalan, Par - he wants everything gone. His rage is as infinite and eternal as the void outside, and nothing can stop it.

If the last hint of his humanity is slipping away from him, what of it? Not like he had much to begin with.