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Jim Kirk has eyes so blue they remind Reaper of the Eugenics wars, way back when perfect people were a threat. Reaper’s been physically perfect since he was twenty six, but times change, and it seems like the whole universe has gone blind with age.

Not Kirk.

Two hundred years of practice have made Reaper adept at blending in; by now murky bars on corrupt planets render him virtually invisible. But the young man across the bar can’t keep his eyes off Reaper, his gaze so bright Reaper nearly squints.

Reaper arches an eyebrow and the man – Kirk – looks away. He watches Kirk nod towards a Tauran, could hear his words if he strained but chooses not to. Sure enough, ten minutes later the Tauran comes snarling at him, all six arms swinging. Reaper remembers when they joined the empire eighty-five years ago, has been running into them in bars for almost as long. He downs him with a punch to the dewlap and is about to sit down again – one downed alien does not a mutant make in the eyes of the crowd – when the Tauran’s herd shows up. Seven bodies later he’s made too much of a scene for the locals to ignore and walks out of the bar and into the cold.

Like he’s half expected, Kirk finds him soon after. He holds out a beer like an olive branch. Reaper downs a swig with a casual trust that he knows must make him curious. Fools have mistaken it for weakness, but Kirk’s broad grin means he’s savvy enough to wonder if Reaper just doesn’t give a shit about poison.

Reaper licks his lips when he’s enjoyed his first taste, watches Kirk watch him.

“I wonder.” Kirk’s voice is rough before he corrects it. “I wonder if you’ve heard about the opportunities Starfleet has to offer.”

It isn’t the first time he’s heard the speech, and not even the first time he’s heard it from a handsome young man, and what the hell, why not? A long time ago he was recruited by nothing more than a pair of dark eyes that listened to his life story.

This guy has beer, at least.

“I saw you in the bar.” Kirk takes a sip from Reaper’s bottle, lets his lips linger on the rim. “You’re good. Starfleet can use men like that.”

“Good men?”

“In Starfleet? Those are hard to find. But hard men -- you know what they say.”

That was an old line even when Reaper was human. “So which are you?”

Kirk grins, caught and unashamed. “Definitely hard.”

Reaper can’t help but laugh at the Empire. Sparing a planet that has refused to hand over its land to be raped is unthinkable, but one man propositioning another in public isn’t worth blinking at. In his day it was a fatal offence unless you were very fucking careful, so he takes a certain pleasure in cutting the crap: “I don’t bottom.”

That’s obviously a fly in Kirk’s ointment, so Reaper leans back against the wall of the bar and lets him puzzle it out. He has all the time in the universe.

“I’m sure we can work something out,” Kirk says eventually.

Reaper shrugs and sets his bottle down. “I’ve rented a room nearby.”

He starts to walk, and after a few seconds Kirk catches up. “You got a name?”

Not for a long time. “People call me ‘Reaper.’”

“No shit, if you handle every fight like that. You can call me ‘Captain.’”

Reaper silently dares him to prove the title.


“Working something out” according to Kirk turns out to be riding Reaper’s dick with a grin and a teasing twist to his hips. Reaper gets the sense that this is a precedent-setting sort of fuck so he flips Kirk over and gives it to him hard. Kirk’s tanned skin is scarred and taut, exotic after so many years of his own flawless immortal hide, and he’s got the tight little ass of a man who isn’t fucked often. Reaper likes that, likes the way Kirk curses him, breath rank with alcohol and a little fear, his heart jumping under Reaper’s hands.

Kirk struggles enough to be annoying before he realizes that his best bet is to take it like a man. He stops fighting, wraps his legs around Reaper’s torso and takes it and takes it until he comes with a hot little whimper.

Reaper’s a little dazed, after, the way he always is after fucking humans. Kirk’s sweat is all over him, on his skin and in his lungs, his panting breaths near roaring in Reaper’s sensitive ears. He pulls out slowly, is content to lie next to Kirk for a while and let it wash over him.

The stab to the chest kills the afterglow.

Reaper spits blood and draws the knife out with practiced ease. He should kill Kirk, the way he always has to when people find out who he is. He’s not sure why he hands the knife back instead, handle first, and wipes the blood off his mouth.

Maybe it’s the hair. He’s always had trouble staying mad at blondes.

“What are you?” Kirk demands, angry now that even this kind of penetration hasn’t worked out.

It’s a good question. Once upon a time Reaper was a human with a few genes gone fubar. Now he’s a man with time on his hands, no particular plans.

Maybe he’s a Starfleet officer. “A guy who needs a shower, at the moment.”

Kirk laughs, low and easy like they’re old friends.

He joins Reaper in the shower, running his fingers all over Reaper’s soapy, flawless skin. Reaper lets him. He likes watching Kirk’s bright, dangerous eyes and could watch them a while more, but he doesn’t care one way or the other.

Or so he tells himself until Kirk drops to his knees in the shower stall.

“Come back with me,” Kirk says, after he pulls off Reaper’s cock with an obscene slurp. His hand’s still wrapped around Reaper’s hard dick. “I’ve got a place for you on my ship.”

Reaper isn’t quite sure why he agrees. Part of it is the novelty – he hasn’t served on a ship yet – part of it is the promise in Kirk’s generous lips and hot hand, and maybe part of it’s how Kirk watches him under the calculating blue, like he’s more than just a stranger.

He shrugs. “All right.”


Kirk takes him to his First Officer first. Reaper isn’t happy to find out he’s a Vulcan: telepaths always cause trouble, and Vulcans are notorious mind-rapers.

“Spock, this is...” Kirk must realize that all he has is “Reaper.” He arches an eyebrow but Reaper says nothing. It doesn’t matter. “This is Jack.” He says it with finality, as if he were an alien that didn’t use surnames. “He’s going to be the new head of security.”

“Yes, Captain,” says Spock, although he’s looking at Reaper.

Reaper stares back, ready for a fight if Spock proves himself a threat. But Spock stands with his hands clasped behind his back, head tilted in only faint curiosity.

Spock’s expression stays with him when he runs into the other crewmembers, who stare with open amazement. A glance from Kirk and they duck their heads, nervously clutching their agonizers, but Reaper can’t help the tension rising in him as Kirk shows him the rest of the ship. He’s spent years perfecting his disguise, and yet everyone stares at him like they know him, or worse, like they should know him but see that he’s foreign somehow. Alien.

The ship itself makes him feel more out of place, gleaming everywhere, near blinding when the light hits a certain way. The other crewmembers scurry by, bright red and blue and yellow, sashes sparkling even brighter than their polished knives. Reaper remembers when space travel was darkness and faded fatigues and feels old.

He can’t help balking a little when their last stop is Sickbay. Medical records are about the only thing left that can make him nervous.

Then he sees the doctor.

Reaper honestly considers leaving. He’s lied about who he was countless times, but he’s never pretended to be anyone else. And there’s no question now who Kirk wanted to be fucking down on that planet, who Kirk was thinking about with his lips wrapped around Reaper’s dick and his fierce blue eyes on Reaper’s.

“Bones, meet Jack. He’s our new head of Security. Handsome, isn’t he?”

The man is scowling, but Reaper can see the veins in his throat jump.

“And this is my Chief Medical Officer, Dr. Leonard McCoy,” Kirk says. Between the smell of Kirk all over McCoy and the way both of their hearts are hammering in their chests Reaper gets a pretty good idea of what his personal prime directive will be.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”


Leonard Horatio McCoy is a hero to the empire and a joke to the fleet.

At the very least he’s a joke to Reaper, who can smell Kirk on him from fifty feet away. He knows he’s not the only one who laughs behind McCoy’s back. Kirk probably does, when he’s plugging him, and far out of earshot the rest of the crew does too. Like all of the Enterprise’s famous crew, McCoy’s face is plastered all over the empire. Reaper imagines that even while the masses eat up the tales of the heroism not a few private citizens see his pretty face and Kirk’s shit-eating grin and snicker as they guess the truth.

Not a few aliens have heard about him too, McCoy the saint with the scalpel, and look for the distinctive hazel eyes and arching eyebrows when they try to find a weakness in Kirk to exploit.

Kirk counts on it.

Their first attempt on Monvo III is almost a disaster. Reaper can fake human, but faking weakness is another thing entirely. He hasn’t held a scanner in a century, and when their captor aliens leer at him he wants to lash out in disgust. But Kirk’s glare is an order no soldier can ignore, so he knuckles down and treats every fucking booboo in the party and shivers at the alien eyes. Kirk looks at him with care so calculatedly faked that Reaper can almost hear the aliens cackling.

The kidnapping goes according to plan until the aliens want to experiment on him. They strap him down and minutes later they’ve all died screaming and he’s covered with their black acidic blood, as it smokes and sizzles through his skin.

He waits, as he’s waited after every kill, for his fingers to turn into claws, for his teeth to lengthen into fangs.

Kirk only looks annoyed. “Who the hell is going to sign the terms of surrender now?”

They’ve improved since then. Not one of the proud planets they visit catches the trick until the big fat horse Kirk offers is well within their walls. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am and Reaper has whatever alien leader it is this time by the balls. There’s always plaintive confusion jostling beside the fear: where is the good doctor, the emotional mush under the scowling exterior?

Kirk laughs every time.

Afterwards Spock shows up, cleans up the mess silently and rips whatever information Kirk wants out of their prisoners’ minds.

When the dirty work is done McCoy appears, scowl and scanner at the ready. Kirk always goes to him immediately, stares at him the way he stared at Reaper in the shower that first night. He makes sure to stand between them, as if someone had told him the universe would implode if the doubles touched. Reaper looks into McCoy’s soulful, cautious eyes and knows better.

It’s a weakness. Two weaknesses, if you count McCoy. Bad enough to love in Starfleet, but McCoy really seems to be what the aliens think: sentimental, bruised.

Reaper wonders if McCoy looks like him for a reason.


McCoy is a doctor, and doctors have been Reaper’s sworn enemies since he came back from Olduvai. But McCoy is -- if you believe the jeers whispered behind Kirk’s back -- more a healer than a scientist, one of the rare doctors who took an oath to do more than slice their way up the ladder. Reaper has played the man numerous times but he doesn’t know him, and he wants to find out.

“Do you know what I am?” he asks McCoy in his office, near the end of one of Kirk’s shifts on the bridge. Time has taught him patience with some things, to cut the bullcrap with others.

“Nope.” McCoy rises with his PADD and moves to leave the room. Reaper bars his way, and McCoy finally looks him in the eye.

“Don’t you want to?”

“No,” McCoy repeats, and tries to brush past Reaper again. Reaper doesn’t move, so he scowls.

“Why not?” Reaper’s never met a doctor who got a hint and couldn’t stop from wanting to know more.

“Get out of my way,” McCoy says with none of his usual temper.

Reaper stands aside, hears the door hiss open and the sudden addition of a new heartbeat, a jump in breathing. He turns.

It’s Kirk. His eyes widen a fraction at the sight of Reaper and McCoy in the office, before his tongue darts out, lascivious and reptilian. “I’m glad to see you two are getting to know each other.”

“No.” McCoy’s voice is flat.

“No, you’re not getting to know each other?” Kirk enters the office, the door shutting behind him. He perches against the desk. “Maybe you should.”

“You’re kidding me with this,” McCoy sneers. He’s staring at Kirk, his expression closed off to Reaper.

Kirk just smiles. “Reaper, take your pants off.”

He could snap Kirk’s neck in half before Kirk could even touch his phaser. He could have his knife at McCoy’s neck in half that time, break a few of his fingers for good measure so Kirk would get the picture. He could kill them both and hole up in Sickbay in the ensuing turmoil; the walls are phaser-proof and so is his hide.

Kirk knows that.

But Reaper has nothing else to do right now but serve on the Enterprise, and Kirk knows that also. And maybe he knows what Reaper is looking for, because that’s why he throws his sash down, follows it with his boots and pants and underwear.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Kirk continues, and points to the floor.

Reaper goes down, watching McCoy. His head is bowed, eyebrows knit together the way they so often are and the muscles of his jaw stark with tension. Reaper wonders if he does that too.

“Go on, Bones.” Kirk makes a little gesture of encouragement. “Get to know him.”

Reaper tells himself that there’s nothing else for McCoy to do, because there’s nothing else for Reaper to do. He leans back on his hands, spreads his legs so McCoy can kneel between them, and bites down on his grunt as McCoy licks Reaper’s cock into his mouth.

McCoy sucks like an Orion whore, has Reaper’s cock hard in under a minute, slides it down his throat without losing his breath. He stares down, lids concealing his expression; the frown marring his brow could be distaste or concentration. His cheeks hollow with effort, agile tongue applying pressure in all the right spots.

He learns Reaper’s cock quickly, too quickly, has Reaper coming apart on the floor.

He wants to touch McCoy, slides his fingers through the hair the same color as his own and takes hold. He doesn’t grip, just likes the feel of it in his hands, the feel of McCoy’s head under his fingers.

“No touching,” Kirk snaps, but when Reaper looks up he’s all lazy smile. “That costs extra.”

McCoy never pauses. Reaper lets go.

McCoy’s just doing Kirk’s orders, Reaper reminds himself. How much choice does he have, a doctor on a ship of killers, with Kirk’s eyes pricking into him constantly?

“Finish him off,” Kirk orders from somewhere. Reaper doesn’t listen to him, keeps his attention on McCoy. His heart is pounding, sweat gathering under his arms and behind his neck. He’s afraid, Reaper thinks. Hopes.

Then McCoy looks up. His eyes are alight, triumphant, as he slides a hand under Reaper’s balls, presses his knuckle in the sensitive spot behind them and swallows Reaper’s cock down.

Reaper closes his eyes through his orgasm, clenches his hands into fists so he doesn’t rip McCoy’s head off.

When he opens them McCoy has pulled off his cock. He’s staring at Kirk, sliding each of his fingers into his mouth to suck them clean. Kirk watches languidly, one hand idly stroking his cock through his pants.

Reaper throws his clothes on and leaves.

Three days later Kirk comes to him with a new drug, courtesy of his pretty CMO, that will let Reaper blend in even better as a human. This one lets his wounds stick around for twice as long. Kirk is overjoyed, claps McCoy on the back, his hand lingering. “He’s a good man, our doctor.”

Reaper disagrees.


Even after that, Reaper doesn’t mind Kirk. He’s blond and cheerful and an excellent strategist. He makes himself approachable, knows his crewmembers like they’re family, and always leads by example. He never lets Reaper see his back and he never asks questions and he never lets anyone with the wrong agenda get their hands on Reaper.

Reaper spends a little time wondering what Kirk would do if some of their alien friends had McCoy in their grasp instead of Reaper, but it’s pointless. When Kirk looks at McCoy he barely blinks; there’s no way he’d let any of the half-cocked plans he’s given to Reaper ever touch McCoy.

Reaper wants to kill them for that sometimes, but then he remembers the days when he gave a shit about someone that way.

Maybe it’s the nostalgia that’s talking when Kirk asks what they should do with the prisoners on Exor V. Maybe it’s whatever part of him is keeping his skin flawless instead of scaly and monstrous. Maybe it’s just old habit -- they die hard in the best of circumstances, and maybe Reaper’s have become as immortal as the rest of him. For whatever reason, all he says is: “Let them go.”

Kirk laughs, and Reaper feels his cheeks go hot for the first time in fifty years.

“Execute them,” Kirk says, still chuckling. He turns away to get get an ensign's report, but Reaper can feel another set of eyes on him. He looks over his shoulder and sees the Vulcan.

“With respect, Captain,” Spock intones, drawing Kirk's attention. “The prisoners may serve our purpose more efficiently if they are alive.”

“Our purpose is to instill fear,” Kirk says, hand ghosting over his phaser. Kirk’s the captain and neither of them wants the job, so they shoot the prisoners between the eyes, one after the other. Kirk grins like he’s won something and flips open the comm to order Scott to beam them back.

Spock is still watching him, is the first thing he realizes as the energy around them starts to swirl.

The second thing is that he’s watching Spock back.


Reaper’s not sure what motivates their first fuck. Neither of them are the chatty type; there’s no flirtation, no fights or shared interests. Reaper’s been a military man long enough to recognize the type and Spock is, in his Vulcan way, quite direct about it. It’s just a certain look, the way he leans in, the quirked eyebrows, but soon enough he’s following Spock back to his quarters, wondering what he’s going to find.

He expects a jump in temperature to match the Vulcan norm, but the air inside is the human average. Spock strips efficiently and does not call for the lights, eyes lingering on Reaper’s face. Reaper doesn’t know that he likes that -- vanity isn’t his particular vice but no one wants to be second best. “You sure I’m the one you want?”

“The doctor does not interest me,” Spock says, equal parts sincerity and condescension. Then he tries to suck Reaper’s brains out through his dick.

He wants to fuck Reaper after, presses him down on the bed like it’s not debatable but then waits like he knows Reaper could break his neck if he felt like it. Reaper likes that, likes the brand of Spock’s hands holding him down. His orgasm has all his muscles uncoiled for a moment, makes him more susceptible to dark brown eyes staring, as if expecting Reaper to confess something any second. Reaper spreads his legs, cocks an eyebrow, and Spock doesn’t need any more invitation than that.

His dick is tinted green, but it’s long and thick and Vulcan strong as the rest of him, stretches him in ways even Reaper’s near invulnerable body protests. It’s a mortal thing, being held down and fucked hard, and Reaper enjoys the nostalgia so old it’s turned to novelty, all the alien heat surging into him, making him feel more human than ever. Spock clamps down at the base of his neck, and he couldn’t leave a mark if he held on for a year, but he tries like he thinks he can. Reaper laughs, pulls Spock in closer and tilts his head back, lets him take his best shot.

He throws Spock off afterwards, sated and fucked and even a little tired, and wishes he could find a cigarette on a starship.

They fuck like it’s two hundred years ago, and the world may end at any moment. They fuck like it’s a secret, hand over mouth behind closed doors. Spock’s thrusts are always mathematically precise, aimed right where it hurts the best, and he’s strong enough that Reaper only has to relax a little to pretend he’s stronger. He doesn’t bother to fuck Spock, doesn’t want to ruin the illusion, prefers to yank his hair instead when his hot mouth is wrapped around Reaper’s dick. Spock never protests, chokes it down until he’s flushed green, and gets up from his knees afterwards with his hair mussed and his hands twitching with the need to hold Reaper down.

Reaper lets him.

Kirk doesn’t seem to mind. He smirks at Spock’s green hickeys, asks him if he’s standing because he’s having trouble sitting. Reaper waits for Spock to straighten him out, for the slaps and jokes to turn his way. He knows Kirk is the kind of man who will consider it an insult that a man who fucks him is getting fucked by an inferior officer, so he goes over plans of how to threaten Kirk into shutting the hell up without winding up under McCoy’s scalpel.

All that happens is that Kirk pours them drinks in his quarters, but doesn’t taste his own. “I like my first officer.”

“He’s a likable guy.”

Kirk laughs. “I like you, too, Reaper. Split Spock in half if you want, but make sure he can perform his duties the next day.”

Reaper can toast to that.

But it comes back to him later, when Spock is sucking at his neck and winding his hands under Reaper’s shirts. Even in this age, a man’s ass is one thing, but his dignity is another. “Kirk thinks I’m fucking you.”

“You are,” Spock points out as he draws back to pull Reaper’s shirts over his head.

“You know what I mean.”

Spock pauses. “I find it is useful to allow the Captain to make certain assumptions about my inclinations.”

Reaper blows him for the first time that night, finds out that Spock’s come is alien-sweet, is shocked when Spock is content to only stroke his hair.

That’s hard to find, in a Starfleet man.


Kirk is the youngest Captain in the fleet, but he’ll grow old, like all the rest. His senses will wither and his muscles will melt under his dried paper skin. McCoy might die first -- render Reaper’s unofficial duties useless -- and maybe Kirk will decide he’s not worth the risk. Reaper’s not sure what he’ll do then. He stopped planning ahead on March 2, 2123, when the last of his mortality went slack with death, her blue eyes still filled with regret.

Spock will live longer, although perhaps not as long as a full-blooded Vulcan. Reaper could calculate the effects of human weakness on the Vulcan lifespan, but instead he wraps his legs around Spock’s torso as he’s fucked deep and ponders chromosome pairs and the Vulcan brain. The most distinguished scientists in the universe and even Vulcans are missing that last ten percent, the same part that Reaper has been working on for centuries.

“Mr. Jack,” Spock begins, as ludicrously polite as ever.

Reaper holds up a hand. “That’s not my name.”

“Oh?” Spock tilts his head inquiringly.

Reaper hesitates. He considers lying again, repeating any of the various aliases he's used. But Spock is staring at him steadily with those dark eyes, silently waiting for him to speak.

“It’s John.”