Fic: In Your Hour Of Need
Feb. 9th, 2010 12:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
miss_m_cricketTitle: In Your Hour Of Need
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
miss_m_cricket
Fandom: Star Trek Reboot/Doom
Verse: Mirror!Verse
Rating: Adults Only
Pairings: Reaper/Chekov, Kirk/McCoy
Disclaimer: Don't own anything at all...
Summary: There with the rain soaking into his dark hair, the gravel scraping his cheek and his wrists being bound, Reaper tasted defeat on bloody lips...
A/N: I blame the awesome writers on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
treksixwords and smuttysws for this particular monster. It was supposed to be SHORT!
In Your Hour Of Need
There is only so far you can run before someone catches up to you.
They had caught up to him on a rain drenched highway, halfway to anywhere. A trap, perfectly executed. They knew exactly who he was, and they had known exactly how to capture him.
They had known he would die rather than submit.
So they didn’t give him that option.
There with the rain soaking into his dark hair, the gravel scraping his cheek and his wrists being bound, Reaper tasted defeat on bloody lips.
Defeated but not broken.
They misjudged that at least, believing him compliant and shackled. Oh they knew nothing of his will, the will of iron that would see him outlast them all. See him outlast everything they stood for.
He would just have to endure.
The smell of the slave pen was atrocious, but it amused Reaper how the other slaves would rather crowd near the privy corner rather than be anywhere near him. Cautious eyes watched him, but he ignored them all. They were not important, this cage was not important. Out there was important.
Tomorrow someone would buy him.
Tomorrow he would earn his name.
He would be the Reaper for his new Master, defiant and faster, stronger than he expected. He would crush his bones, destroy his controlling collar, and be free. Never again would they chain the Reaper.
Mercy was a luxury.
Slaves had no luxuries, especially not mercy.
He just had to remember that, and shut out the voice of Sam that stayed his hand when the violent monster within threatened to rear.
Hands grabbed him, forcing his arms back, tearing his clothes away. Clothes could hide imperfections.
So too could bright lights.
He stumbled as the light lanced into his eyes, his captors dragging him across the stones, up, up onto the platform where he was turned to face a sea of faces.
The bidding began, but he ignored it.
It wasn’t important. Whoever bought him would pay for their purchase that day in blood.
And it wasn’t going to be his.
Suddenly a voice rang out through the amplified room.
“5,000 credits.”
His head snapped up.
A slave, one like him, clearly not useful for the violent bedroom games, ones with strength and weapon expertise only ever sold for around a couple of hundred credits.
Not five thousand.
Coming through the crowd was a man who made all fall back with deference and no small amount of fear. A man dressed in the bright gold of Imperial Starship Command. A man crowned with a head as fair as his clothing, and eyes that were a searing blue.
Cold blue.
Merciless eyes.
Reaper began to shake. Not an Imperial Starship Captain...someone trained in both Assassination and avoiding that fate. He had wanted a weak willed monster, someone he could shatter.
If this man wasn’t enough, he was flanked by two men in gleaming blue, one with the pointed ears of a Vulcan, the other...who looked like him.
His breath stuttered.
“Five Thousand credits, Captain?” the Auctioneer gasped, looking at Reaper critically and then at the fair man, “Sir the bidding had only reached 300. This man is dangerous, a trained killer. Not worth five thousand...”
“I am aware.” The Captain’s eyes never left Reaper, mouth curling up into a cruel crooked smile. “He is exactly what I want. Pay the man Spock. Bones, check him over.”
The man who looked to be almost a carbon copy of him moved over to him, checking over his bound limbs with practiced efficiency. He even gave his cock a quick tug which caused Reaper to snarl and a blow to crack down over his back from one of the slaver guards.
“Enough!” The Captain’s voice cracked through the air, more biting than the whip had been. “Give Doctor McCoy his Leash, Spock get his papers. Good day, gentlemen.”
Their procession out of the Hall of sales was one watched silently by everyone present.
No one spoke.
And Reaper knew that he was going to have to rethink his escape strategy.
The Doctor, his doppelganger, didn’t loosen his grip on the leash until they reached the ship.
“The ISS Enterprise.” The Vulcan, Spock, informed him on the Transport pad as McCoy passed the leash across to the Captain.
“Thank you Mr. Spock, Doctor. Bones, get a sample, I want a complete check run on him, make sure this is who we want.”
“And what if I’m not?”
The first words he had spoken since his capture, dark eyes focused on the Captain before him.
“He speaks. Good I was beginning to think they had cut off his tongue along with his balls.”
Reaper snarled, stepping towards the man, ignoring the sudden lift of phasers out of the corner of his eyes.
“My balls are just fine. I just don’t flash them around like a pretty boy Starship Captain.”
The Captain laughed, a dry sound, devoid of any real humour.
“Bones.”
The Doctor stepped forward, pressing a silver instrument to his neck and withdrew a small vial of blood. Reaper turned and snarled at him, making a threatening move forwards, but the Vulcan was there, ready, ready to restrain him, so he stilled, scowling.
Then that hated leash tugged, compelling him to follow his new owner out of the Transporter room, down the hallway, aware of eyes watching him, as crewmembers saluted their Captain.
Then the world tilted.
Entering the Captain’s quarters a simple scent sent his body hurtling from its state of drooping shame into tense, aware, alertness.
Everything in his body was screaming, protectprotectprotectprotectprotect.
His eyes were immediately drawn to the slender form bound to the bed before him; the white arms stretched high, soft, young body arched painfully taut. His gaze took in the soft curls, and the wide blue grey gaze, and his body recognised instantly that this was the source of that scent, that instinct.
ProtectprotectprotectPROTECTPROTECT!!
The Captain knew, Reaper could see it in the sharp look that was sent his way. The Captain knew that Reaper would happily tear him apart and then curl around that small body, shielding it from any further harm.
“Bathroom. There are some clothes in there. Dress then come back out here.”
“Is that an order…?” Reaper’s voice was light, deceptively mild.
“Yes. Go.”
Reaper went.
Not because he was cowed by the Captain, not because he feared retribution. No he went because he feared his response to the young man on the bed, feared the animal inside him, which was screaming to protect. He went because he wanted, in that deepest most primitive part of his mind, he wanted that boy.
Re-entering the room, control back in line, and dressed in a black undershirt and black standard issue pants, his gaze once more was drawn to the boy, no longer bound to the bed, but also dressed, with a command gold shirt and blue-grey gaze fixed on him.
The Captain was beside him.
“Bones just commed me.” The Captain said, bright blue gaze on Reaper’s face, “He tested your sample.”
“And?”
“You are John Grimm, UAC patient number 261113, known as the Reaper. And you are who we were looking for.” The man hesitated and then stepped forward, “I am Captain James T Kirk, of the ISS Enterprise.”
Reaper nodded and then his gaze was drawn unwillingly back to the young man beside Kirk.
“Ensign Chekov.” The young man murmured a noticeable accent in his words, “Pavel Chekov.”
“I am training the boy.” The Captain said, turning to look at Chekov with a smirk, “And he is a good pupil.”
Reaper imagined breaking the man’s neck.
It was good dreaming those kinds of dreams.
UAC had shattered the real dreams a long time ago.
Late at night, listening to Kirk sleep, curled up on his pallet by the wall, he had no choice but to relive his time with UAC.
His sister ripped from his arms as he emerged into the sunlight, injections, drugs, suppressors. Waking in a sterile white lab, the experiments, the mental torture. The eventual death of John Grimm and everything he stood for until all that was left was the Reaper, the fighter, the warrior, the animal that screamed its fury as his mind was raped again and again.
Until the day they made a mistake and the animal broke its bonds, escaping and leaving a path of blood behind him. He never quite left them behind though, knowing they were hunting him, until they caught him on that wet highway to nowhere.
Now he was here.
And here didn’t seem to be too bad.
He was allowed to roam, observe, but he was always shadowed by Chekov. A torture that was both painful and intensely pleasurable. The boy was fiercely intelligent, passionate, ambitious and full of life. For someone like Reaper who had only been full of death for so long it made the animal practically purr.
Some men sneered at Chekov; some made moves as though to touch him, hurt him, thinking his companion wouldn’t interfere. They were wrong, and they often ended up with shattered bones. It was satisfying, especially when he saw Chekov smirk.
Chekov sometimes stayed over in Kirk’s room, but on those nights Reaper was sent away, sent to McCoy who would examine him and ask question after question about his past, but not push when he sensed resistance. He knew the man experimented on the men Kirk wanted gone off his ship. He knew of live dissections, studies into the pain threshold of men.
But perhaps he sensed that down in the heart of the matter McCoy was essentially good. He wasn’t a malicious man, just…curious. So Reaper grew to like the other man who looked so much like him.
McCoy often stayed over at Kirk’s room, and Reaper listened as the two rolled about in their bed, moans and pleasure making the animal within him ache with ferocious longing. He had long ago forgotten love, long ago forgotten pleasure; it was something foreign to him.
But Kirk loved McCoy in his twisted way. He wanted to be in control, have the power, be the one to make McCoy scream. But if someone messed with the Doctor the Captain was instantly there, and the penalty would be viciously swift.
But McCoy loved Kirk, guarding his back with a protectiveness that made Reaper feel that ache in his belly once more. He would patch Kirk up from away missions, would fight to keep him alive. Sure Kirk might be a domineering asshole, but to McCoy, Kirk was his domineering asshole.
Every night Reaper curled up to sleep, and he would think, tomorrow I will leave, tomorrow I will plan my escape.
And yet it seemed tomorrow was not going to come, because he never tried to leave, never tried to escape.
Then it happened.
Chekov and Kirk, along with Spock and a few other ship people Reaper didn’t care to know about, or care about at all really, went missing on an away mission. McCoy was distraught, hidden behind masks of snarky pride and medical efficiency. Sulu, Kirk’s ambitious Helmsman and Chief of Security declared them dead and himself as the Captain of the Enterprise.
“He’s not dead.” Reaper told McCoy, “If he were dead my collar would break off.”
So with Uhura, Spock’s mate and Scotty the ships Engineer, McCoy plotted to send Reaper down to the planet, while they stalled for time.
“Find them.” McCoy whispered to him before Reaper disintegrated into the transporter, “Find them and bring them home.”
McCoy needn’t have worried. Reaper might not love Kirk, but he no longer hated the man, and he liked him a lot better than he liked Sulu. And besides that, Chekov was down there. Reaper couldn’t leave Chekov in danger anymore than he could stop breathing.
So he sought them out, hunting their captors down, until he came to an old stone fort. There he found them.
Entering the fort he could hear the sounds of shouting, banging, raging and he knew it was Kirk. But above that he could hear screaming, the screaming of someone being tortured, ripped apart.
He knew it was Chekov.
The world sharpened brittle like glass as Reaper surged forward, riding the killing wave.
He killed them all, every single one. He killed them and scattered their bodies to the four corners of the room. He tore them apart, the animal howling its victory within him. He was the Reaper.
Carrying Chekov in his arms, the others followed him to the place where they would Beam up.
Everything happened very fast then. Kirk threw Sulu in the Brig, killed his supporters, and took back his ship. The others had managed to hold out, holding the Transporter room against Sulu’s men, until they had returned. McCoy had been stabbed, but was healing up nicely after his nurse Chapel forced her way to the Transporter room.
Reaper didn’t remember most of it, he learnt of it later, his attention still violently focused on the young man, unconscious in his arms. And he didn’t relax until Chekov’s eyes opened, and McCoy declared him fine.
He thought things would go back to normal then.
He was wrong.
They all gathered in Kirk’s room the next day, Reaper feeling smug since he had spent the night curled up around the sleeping form of his Ensign. It soothed him, in a way he couldn’t explain, that he had spent the evening holding the young man close, able to nuzzle and fuss and protect.
Kirk turned to him, and his hand flicked out. The collar opened, dropping from Reaper’s neck to clang on the ground in the silence. Reaper looked around, stunned, seeing the smile on McCoy’s face, the smirk on Kirk’s and finally the possessive grin on Chekov’s.
“I didn’t purchase you for you to be a slave for the rest of your days.” Kirk informed him, “I wanted you to serve me as a guard because you wanted to. So I bought you, let you go with Chekov, spend time with Bones. Let this place become home. You being so, drawn to Mr. Chekov… that we hadn’t anticipated. But it was useful. So now you are free, and I ask you. Will you stay on the Enterprise, be the Head of my Personal Guard?”
Reaper shook his head, not in denial but in sheer wonder at it all. “You scheming bastard.”
“Yes that’s me,” Kirk smirked, looking across at Chekov, “By the way…my training Chekov.”
Reaper snarled.
“…was never sexual.”
Reaper stopped snarling and looked at his new lover curiously. Chekov smirked back.
“He is the one I want to succeed me as the Enterprise’s Captain. Spock and I have been training him in poisons, torture, assassination, as well as all that stuff Imperial Starfleet trains them in. He will let me retire, become an Imperial Admiral, and I will name me as my successor. And you will stay, guard him, and protect him.”
Reaper nodded.
“You had it all figured out didn’t you Kirk.”
And he had.
Amazingly everything followed to plan.
Kirk led the Enterprise for ten more years, and then retired; the Empire’s longest serving Captain. McCoy went with him, and they often sent updates on Imperial politics to the new Captain of the Enterprise and his Head of Security.
The Enterprise became infamous throughout the Galaxy, stories whispered over fires of its Captain, Pavel A Chekov, and his shadow, who they only knew as the Reaper.
But inside their room Pavel coaxed the long dead John Grimm back to life. Outside they might have to fight for every second they lived, but safe inside their home, they were just Pavel and John.
And this time there was no one to catch up to him and tear it away.
It was his.
Author:
miss_m_cricketFandom: Star Trek Reboot/Doom
Verse: Mirror!Verse
Rating: Adults Only
Pairings: Reaper/Chekov, Kirk/McCoy
Disclaimer: Don't own anything at all...
Summary: There with the rain soaking into his dark hair, the gravel scraping his cheek and his wrists being bound, Reaper tasted defeat on bloody lips...
A/N: I blame the awesome writers on
treksixwords and smuttysws for this particular monster. It was supposed to be SHORT!In Your Hour Of Need
There is only so far you can run before someone catches up to you.
They had caught up to him on a rain drenched highway, halfway to anywhere. A trap, perfectly executed. They knew exactly who he was, and they had known exactly how to capture him.
They had known he would die rather than submit.
So they didn’t give him that option.
There with the rain soaking into his dark hair, the gravel scraping his cheek and his wrists being bound, Reaper tasted defeat on bloody lips.
Defeated but not broken.
They misjudged that at least, believing him compliant and shackled. Oh they knew nothing of his will, the will of iron that would see him outlast them all. See him outlast everything they stood for.
He would just have to endure.
The smell of the slave pen was atrocious, but it amused Reaper how the other slaves would rather crowd near the privy corner rather than be anywhere near him. Cautious eyes watched him, but he ignored them all. They were not important, this cage was not important. Out there was important.
Tomorrow someone would buy him.
Tomorrow he would earn his name.
He would be the Reaper for his new Master, defiant and faster, stronger than he expected. He would crush his bones, destroy his controlling collar, and be free. Never again would they chain the Reaper.
Mercy was a luxury.
Slaves had no luxuries, especially not mercy.
He just had to remember that, and shut out the voice of Sam that stayed his hand when the violent monster within threatened to rear.
Hands grabbed him, forcing his arms back, tearing his clothes away. Clothes could hide imperfections.
So too could bright lights.
He stumbled as the light lanced into his eyes, his captors dragging him across the stones, up, up onto the platform where he was turned to face a sea of faces.
The bidding began, but he ignored it.
It wasn’t important. Whoever bought him would pay for their purchase that day in blood.
And it wasn’t going to be his.
Suddenly a voice rang out through the amplified room.
“5,000 credits.”
His head snapped up.
A slave, one like him, clearly not useful for the violent bedroom games, ones with strength and weapon expertise only ever sold for around a couple of hundred credits.
Not five thousand.
Coming through the crowd was a man who made all fall back with deference and no small amount of fear. A man dressed in the bright gold of Imperial Starship Command. A man crowned with a head as fair as his clothing, and eyes that were a searing blue.
Cold blue.
Merciless eyes.
Reaper began to shake. Not an Imperial Starship Captain...someone trained in both Assassination and avoiding that fate. He had wanted a weak willed monster, someone he could shatter.
If this man wasn’t enough, he was flanked by two men in gleaming blue, one with the pointed ears of a Vulcan, the other...who looked like him.
His breath stuttered.
“Five Thousand credits, Captain?” the Auctioneer gasped, looking at Reaper critically and then at the fair man, “Sir the bidding had only reached 300. This man is dangerous, a trained killer. Not worth five thousand...”
“I am aware.” The Captain’s eyes never left Reaper, mouth curling up into a cruel crooked smile. “He is exactly what I want. Pay the man Spock. Bones, check him over.”
The man who looked to be almost a carbon copy of him moved over to him, checking over his bound limbs with practiced efficiency. He even gave his cock a quick tug which caused Reaper to snarl and a blow to crack down over his back from one of the slaver guards.
“Enough!” The Captain’s voice cracked through the air, more biting than the whip had been. “Give Doctor McCoy his Leash, Spock get his papers. Good day, gentlemen.”
Their procession out of the Hall of sales was one watched silently by everyone present.
No one spoke.
And Reaper knew that he was going to have to rethink his escape strategy.
The Doctor, his doppelganger, didn’t loosen his grip on the leash until they reached the ship.
“The ISS Enterprise.” The Vulcan, Spock, informed him on the Transport pad as McCoy passed the leash across to the Captain.
“Thank you Mr. Spock, Doctor. Bones, get a sample, I want a complete check run on him, make sure this is who we want.”
“And what if I’m not?”
The first words he had spoken since his capture, dark eyes focused on the Captain before him.
“He speaks. Good I was beginning to think they had cut off his tongue along with his balls.”
Reaper snarled, stepping towards the man, ignoring the sudden lift of phasers out of the corner of his eyes.
“My balls are just fine. I just don’t flash them around like a pretty boy Starship Captain.”
The Captain laughed, a dry sound, devoid of any real humour.
“Bones.”
The Doctor stepped forward, pressing a silver instrument to his neck and withdrew a small vial of blood. Reaper turned and snarled at him, making a threatening move forwards, but the Vulcan was there, ready, ready to restrain him, so he stilled, scowling.
Then that hated leash tugged, compelling him to follow his new owner out of the Transporter room, down the hallway, aware of eyes watching him, as crewmembers saluted their Captain.
Then the world tilted.
Entering the Captain’s quarters a simple scent sent his body hurtling from its state of drooping shame into tense, aware, alertness.
Everything in his body was screaming, protectprotectprotectprotectprotect.
His eyes were immediately drawn to the slender form bound to the bed before him; the white arms stretched high, soft, young body arched painfully taut. His gaze took in the soft curls, and the wide blue grey gaze, and his body recognised instantly that this was the source of that scent, that instinct.
ProtectprotectprotectPROTECTPROTECT!!
The Captain knew, Reaper could see it in the sharp look that was sent his way. The Captain knew that Reaper would happily tear him apart and then curl around that small body, shielding it from any further harm.
“Bathroom. There are some clothes in there. Dress then come back out here.”
“Is that an order…?” Reaper’s voice was light, deceptively mild.
“Yes. Go.”
Reaper went.
Not because he was cowed by the Captain, not because he feared retribution. No he went because he feared his response to the young man on the bed, feared the animal inside him, which was screaming to protect. He went because he wanted, in that deepest most primitive part of his mind, he wanted that boy.
Re-entering the room, control back in line, and dressed in a black undershirt and black standard issue pants, his gaze once more was drawn to the boy, no longer bound to the bed, but also dressed, with a command gold shirt and blue-grey gaze fixed on him.
The Captain was beside him.
“Bones just commed me.” The Captain said, bright blue gaze on Reaper’s face, “He tested your sample.”
“And?”
“You are John Grimm, UAC patient number 261113, known as the Reaper. And you are who we were looking for.” The man hesitated and then stepped forward, “I am Captain James T Kirk, of the ISS Enterprise.”
Reaper nodded and then his gaze was drawn unwillingly back to the young man beside Kirk.
“Ensign Chekov.” The young man murmured a noticeable accent in his words, “Pavel Chekov.”
“I am training the boy.” The Captain said, turning to look at Chekov with a smirk, “And he is a good pupil.”
Reaper imagined breaking the man’s neck.
It was good dreaming those kinds of dreams.
UAC had shattered the real dreams a long time ago.
Late at night, listening to Kirk sleep, curled up on his pallet by the wall, he had no choice but to relive his time with UAC.
His sister ripped from his arms as he emerged into the sunlight, injections, drugs, suppressors. Waking in a sterile white lab, the experiments, the mental torture. The eventual death of John Grimm and everything he stood for until all that was left was the Reaper, the fighter, the warrior, the animal that screamed its fury as his mind was raped again and again.
Until the day they made a mistake and the animal broke its bonds, escaping and leaving a path of blood behind him. He never quite left them behind though, knowing they were hunting him, until they caught him on that wet highway to nowhere.
Now he was here.
And here didn’t seem to be too bad.
He was allowed to roam, observe, but he was always shadowed by Chekov. A torture that was both painful and intensely pleasurable. The boy was fiercely intelligent, passionate, ambitious and full of life. For someone like Reaper who had only been full of death for so long it made the animal practically purr.
Some men sneered at Chekov; some made moves as though to touch him, hurt him, thinking his companion wouldn’t interfere. They were wrong, and they often ended up with shattered bones. It was satisfying, especially when he saw Chekov smirk.
Chekov sometimes stayed over in Kirk’s room, but on those nights Reaper was sent away, sent to McCoy who would examine him and ask question after question about his past, but not push when he sensed resistance. He knew the man experimented on the men Kirk wanted gone off his ship. He knew of live dissections, studies into the pain threshold of men.
But perhaps he sensed that down in the heart of the matter McCoy was essentially good. He wasn’t a malicious man, just…curious. So Reaper grew to like the other man who looked so much like him.
McCoy often stayed over at Kirk’s room, and Reaper listened as the two rolled about in their bed, moans and pleasure making the animal within him ache with ferocious longing. He had long ago forgotten love, long ago forgotten pleasure; it was something foreign to him.
But Kirk loved McCoy in his twisted way. He wanted to be in control, have the power, be the one to make McCoy scream. But if someone messed with the Doctor the Captain was instantly there, and the penalty would be viciously swift.
But McCoy loved Kirk, guarding his back with a protectiveness that made Reaper feel that ache in his belly once more. He would patch Kirk up from away missions, would fight to keep him alive. Sure Kirk might be a domineering asshole, but to McCoy, Kirk was his domineering asshole.
Every night Reaper curled up to sleep, and he would think, tomorrow I will leave, tomorrow I will plan my escape.
And yet it seemed tomorrow was not going to come, because he never tried to leave, never tried to escape.
Then it happened.
Chekov and Kirk, along with Spock and a few other ship people Reaper didn’t care to know about, or care about at all really, went missing on an away mission. McCoy was distraught, hidden behind masks of snarky pride and medical efficiency. Sulu, Kirk’s ambitious Helmsman and Chief of Security declared them dead and himself as the Captain of the Enterprise.
“He’s not dead.” Reaper told McCoy, “If he were dead my collar would break off.”
So with Uhura, Spock’s mate and Scotty the ships Engineer, McCoy plotted to send Reaper down to the planet, while they stalled for time.
“Find them.” McCoy whispered to him before Reaper disintegrated into the transporter, “Find them and bring them home.”
McCoy needn’t have worried. Reaper might not love Kirk, but he no longer hated the man, and he liked him a lot better than he liked Sulu. And besides that, Chekov was down there. Reaper couldn’t leave Chekov in danger anymore than he could stop breathing.
So he sought them out, hunting their captors down, until he came to an old stone fort. There he found them.
Entering the fort he could hear the sounds of shouting, banging, raging and he knew it was Kirk. But above that he could hear screaming, the screaming of someone being tortured, ripped apart.
He knew it was Chekov.
The world sharpened brittle like glass as Reaper surged forward, riding the killing wave.
He killed them all, every single one. He killed them and scattered their bodies to the four corners of the room. He tore them apart, the animal howling its victory within him. He was the Reaper.
Carrying Chekov in his arms, the others followed him to the place where they would Beam up.
Everything happened very fast then. Kirk threw Sulu in the Brig, killed his supporters, and took back his ship. The others had managed to hold out, holding the Transporter room against Sulu’s men, until they had returned. McCoy had been stabbed, but was healing up nicely after his nurse Chapel forced her way to the Transporter room.
Reaper didn’t remember most of it, he learnt of it later, his attention still violently focused on the young man, unconscious in his arms. And he didn’t relax until Chekov’s eyes opened, and McCoy declared him fine.
He thought things would go back to normal then.
He was wrong.
They all gathered in Kirk’s room the next day, Reaper feeling smug since he had spent the night curled up around the sleeping form of his Ensign. It soothed him, in a way he couldn’t explain, that he had spent the evening holding the young man close, able to nuzzle and fuss and protect.
Kirk turned to him, and his hand flicked out. The collar opened, dropping from Reaper’s neck to clang on the ground in the silence. Reaper looked around, stunned, seeing the smile on McCoy’s face, the smirk on Kirk’s and finally the possessive grin on Chekov’s.
“I didn’t purchase you for you to be a slave for the rest of your days.” Kirk informed him, “I wanted you to serve me as a guard because you wanted to. So I bought you, let you go with Chekov, spend time with Bones. Let this place become home. You being so, drawn to Mr. Chekov… that we hadn’t anticipated. But it was useful. So now you are free, and I ask you. Will you stay on the Enterprise, be the Head of my Personal Guard?”
Reaper shook his head, not in denial but in sheer wonder at it all. “You scheming bastard.”
“Yes that’s me,” Kirk smirked, looking across at Chekov, “By the way…my training Chekov.”
Reaper snarled.
“…was never sexual.”
Reaper stopped snarling and looked at his new lover curiously. Chekov smirked back.
“He is the one I want to succeed me as the Enterprise’s Captain. Spock and I have been training him in poisons, torture, assassination, as well as all that stuff Imperial Starfleet trains them in. He will let me retire, become an Imperial Admiral, and I will name me as my successor. And you will stay, guard him, and protect him.”
Reaper nodded.
“You had it all figured out didn’t you Kirk.”
And he had.
Amazingly everything followed to plan.
Kirk led the Enterprise for ten more years, and then retired; the Empire’s longest serving Captain. McCoy went with him, and they often sent updates on Imperial politics to the new Captain of the Enterprise and his Head of Security.
The Enterprise became infamous throughout the Galaxy, stories whispered over fires of its Captain, Pavel A Chekov, and his shadow, who they only knew as the Reaper.
But inside their room Pavel coaxed the long dead John Grimm back to life. Outside they might have to fight for every second they lived, but safe inside their home, they were just Pavel and John.
And this time there was no one to catch up to him and tear it away.
It was his.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2010-02-09 02:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-09 03:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-09 04:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-09 05:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-09 06:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-09 08:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-09 10:40 am (UTC)Still twisted though!
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Date: 2010-02-09 01:14 pm (UTC)Wonderful!
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Date: 2010-03-04 05:56 am (UTC)That caught John's attention. hehe
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Date: 2010-03-17 06:52 pm (UTC)i clicked this link out of curiosity, and i find a fic with BOTH mccoy and reaper in it! VERY NICE.<3
i love how feral and primal Reaper is in your POV,where his most primal instincts screaming for him to protect little Chekov...and how sneaky Kirk was :P
very very nice.
i really loved this fic<3
no subject
Date: 2010-03-17 06:57 pm (UTC)Sulu's my favourite...but i totally understand the plot, since hes the helmsman,so don't mind me XD