Title: In Limbo
Contact: saavaant @ yahoo . com
Codes: Spock/Khan, K/S
Summary: After they die in STII, Spock's soul meets Khan's. Thanks Farfalla for the idea! You are my TWOK ear slug, curling around my brain and putting WEIRD thoughts in it!!
Warning: death, rape, hatred, vengeance. Very dark.
Note: Part of the Khan Fest.
Note: Someone compared this to Beetlejuice. I have never watched Beetlejuice and know nothing about it, so any similarity must be completely coincidental.
Disclaimer: I disclaim Star Trek characters. I disclaim having invented them. I disclaim to be profiting monetarily from writing about them. I am not Roddenberry. I am not Paramount. I am Saavant. So There.
As I come out of black nothing into a strange form of consciousness, in a state of being I do not recognize, all I know is rage.
I have thought many times of the day I might die. I have imagined heaven and angels; I have imagined hell and devils; in my mind I have placed myself in the Norse Valhalla as a great warrior, and in the Greek Hades as a weary shadow. I have run the gamut of possibilities set forth by the religions of a thousand cultures, and a few times even pictured my mind disappearing into oblivion with the cessation of my body's function.
Some of the ideas have horrified me, some have excited me... in any case I would have expected a thrill of some sort, were I to find myself suddenly in some form of afterlife. Yet now that it has apparently happened, I feel nothing but hatred.
Hatred for the Admiral who left me buried alive on a deserted planet, left my wife to be ravaged by brain-devouring parasites, and finally drove me to this dishonorable death, perhaps escaping without the slightest injury to his person. Will he ever fully know what I suffered at his hands? Will he ever suffer for it himself? Will the universe hear his story, forever neglecting mine? For the first time in my existence, I know the aching frustration of utterly useless rage.
And then, I begin to feel an echo of rage, reflected back at me. Or rather, for a moment I think of it as an echo, but as I extend my consciousness to perceive it more fully, I realize that it comes from another mind.
There is someone else here.
This non-corporeal state irritates me. I want to see the intruder, instead of merely sensing his mental presence. I strain my mind; I try to resolve my surroundings into a visual picture. When I dream, I can often alter circumstances merely by imagining them as I wish them to be. I have a feeling that this afterlife is like a dream, and I can perceive it any way I wish, if I make the effort.
In a few moments, I succeed. I can now see as I would see with my eyes, the eyes that Admiral Kirk destroyed when he destroyed my body. I savor the small triumph. Even destroyed, I still have some control over what befalls me... even if it is only the choice of whether I can see my surroundings.
What I see is a plain white room, with several padded chairs and nondescript little tables. I am seated on one of the chairs as I look about the room. It reminds me of waiting rooms in hospitals, a hazy memory from my youth on planet Earth. In the air hangs the same sterile anxiety.
And on a chair across from me sits a man in red. His uniform is torn; his dark hair disarrayed. His body slumps at a strange angle in the seat, as if he were in pain. His hands and face are charred, his eyes tight as if swollen shut. I wonder if he is dead.
"Yes," he says, his voice a rough croak. "I am dead, as you are. And like you, I await the next phase of death."
In a flash I recognize him. "You are Kirk's first officer. His Vulcan lover." I spit out the last word, making it an insult. I do not know or care whether they have ever shared a bed, but I feel no urge to be polite to this being.
He neither confirms nor denies it. "And you are the man who murdered me. Fascinating." His voice has a note of bitter irony.
I hiss at him in the back of my throat, like an angry cat. "Much as I regret it, I did not murder you. I died too early, alas. If you have been killed, someone else has had that pleasure."
His voice is still bitter, but calm and even. "I died in the radiation chamber, repairing the damage you did to the ship. You had died already by the time I did, but you are ultimately responsible for my death."
"You gave your life to repair the ship?" I snarl, my mood not improved by the assurance that Kirk and his ship are now safe. "How heroic. How honorable. To save a murderer and his brainwashed crew. How noble."
"Admiral Kirk is not a murderer. He granted you an entire planet of your own, when he could have brought you to justice and had you punished as you deserved. He had no way of knowing that circumstances would drive you later to a less habitable planet and that some of your people would die as a result."
I do not know how he has the strength to stand, but he rises to his feet and moves toward me. "When you called me Admiral Kirk's lover, you were correct. You were wrong, however, in thinking the word would offend me. I am offended by your contempt of our love, but your opinion has no importance to me. Of all the things I did in my life, bonding with him is the thing I would be most ready to do over again."
He is standing almost over me now, and my seated position seems to make his calm lecture all the more outrageous an insult. I spring to my feet and stare flames into his eyes. They are disgusting to behold; they have strained and stretched and managed to open a few millimeters against the swollen flesh around them, revealing scarred and bloodshot sclera. I look into them and hope the radiation burned the retinas blind.
"But you cannot do it over again," I taunt. "Now you are as helpless as I am. A man may kill as many as he pleases, but death will someday claim him, too. Perhaps this is hell, and the universe has decided to punish us by making us spend eternity together. But you'll never see your Admiral alive again, Vulcan whore. You'll have to wait here, just as I will, until he comes in torn and bloody from his last battle."
A fever is on me; a vicious inspiration seizes me all of a sudden. I grab him roughly by the shoulders and push him down until his broken body sprawls face first over a chair. "You'll wait, and dream of fucking him, and wake up and I'll be here laughing at you. Years and years. Eternity. There's no time in death."
I have torn the back of his trousers open, and begin to open the front of mine, breathing heavily. Beneath me, he lies motionless, resigned to his fate. His pale and scrawny buttocks twitch slightly in anxiety. "And in the meantime I'll have you-- I'll have what he thought could only be his."
Laughing in triumph, I bring out my cock, as thick and strong as it was in life. I grasp it tightly, savoring its weight, stroking it to hardness. Yes, the puny Admiral with his delusions of honor managed, by some random fluke, to defeat me in battle. But I shall defeat him in a far deeper way. He killed my wife, but he never stole her body from me. My vengeance will more than repay her death.
The thought galvanizes my erection. Feeling a drop of moisture on its head, I stroke hard a few more times and then release it, letting it stand up proudly between my thighs. I put my hands on the Vulcan's age-softened flesh and begin to part him. "You know how weak you are," I growl in his ear. "You don't even fight. You know I can overpower you, even in death. You weak, impotent, lovestruck, crippled old man..."
And suddenly, to my utter bafflement, he has leapt up-- turned around-- grasped me by the collar. "I am stronger than you think," he rumbles, holding me so high that the tips of my toes scramble for purchase on the floor.
"Yes, I am dead, and like you, I wait for what is to come. But I know what is in store for me. A Vulcan has control over his soul."
He shakes me, and his ugly, ruined eyes hold mine with terrifying force. "Before I went to my death, I mind-melded with Doctor McCoy. I formed a link that would cause my living spirit to inhabit him as soon as my body died. I reside now within his brain, waiting to make myself known."
And with a stab of absolute horror, I find myself thrown face down on the chair, exactly where he was a moment ago. I struggle fiercely, but his hands are like stone, holding me down. "I am separate from his thoughts now, hiding in a dark corner of his brain, and so I find myself in the same limbo you are in. But soon, I shall interact with his mind and body. Through him, I shall show Admiral Kirk and the rest of the crew that I am there."
He pushes up behind me, and I almost scream at the pressure of an enormous erection, twice the size of mine, attacking me through our clothing. His voice now as hard and angry as his cock, he continues his tirade. "On Vulcan, my soul can be transferred to a special receptacle and given a place of honor in our sacred hall. To perform this transfer, my body must also be present; the receptacle must be modeled physically after my brain, so that it can house my spirit as my brain once did.
"As soon as it is clear that I reside within McCoy, my father will explain to my bondmate that the body is needed. My will states that Jim shall choose my body's resting place. I should have discussed the transfer ceremony with him earlier... I fear he may have left my body on Genesis, and it would be a great effort-- even a risk of his career-- to retrieve it from there.
"But *I know he will do it.* That is the difference between me and you, Khan. I have proven myself loyal with all my heart to one man, and won his absolute loyalty in return. You have no such relationship. Even if your soul could be retrieved from the afterworld, there is no one who would do it for you. But for me, there is James Kirk."
He pushes into me a little harder. I feel the swollen head of his cock between my buttocks, pressing the rough fabric of my trousers against my anus. I clench and twist my body in rage.
"I know my future. Soon my soul will be gone from this limbo, housed with the souls of my family, on my home planet. As long as James Kirk lives, he and I will stay in contact through our bond. I will come to him in dreams and make love to him; he will continue to love me as if I were with him physically every hour of every day. I know my bondmate, Khan, and he is fiercely in love with me. If he found a way to bring even my body back from the dead-- I know he would do it."
And the Vulcan's burnt hands have pushed my pants down to my thighs, and pulled his monstrous green organ out of his own trousers, his seared lungs breathing heavily with passion and anger. "You have never known the kind of love I have. You are defeated and ashamed. You must await your afterlife, your judgment, whatever it may be. And you are miserable. Do you wish to forget your misery for a moment?"
And suddenly, there is nothing I wish for more-- I am desperate for anything, for a few moments of sensation intense enough to blot out my shame and degradation and rage. "Yes, damn it! Fuck me, Spock-- fuck me-- hard-- make it hurt-- make me forget!" And I twist on the chair, overcome by desire and disgust at my desire, scraping my cock and dragging trails of semen across the rough cushion.
His erection shoves into me with a blunt pressure that pulls every nerve it meets into a taut cord of pain. He is slightly damp from his own arousal, but it barely eases the friction; I feel each molecule of flesh that penetrates me, each micron of its huge diameter, rasping, burning, stretching me until I feel as if I'll rip apart. I shove back, wanting more, wanting anything that will keep me from having to think about what has happened to me. I whimper like a helpless child or animal.
And he gives me what I need: he moves, hard, fast, in and out, getting slipperier but still managing pain through sheer force. His body slams into mine, he growls, he presses his heaving chest to my back, and bites me between the neck and shoulder.
I am lost, rubbing my cock raw against the roughness of the chair, and coming endlessly, thrusting into a puddle of semen that drips off the edge of the cushion onto the floor. I can't stop the orgasms-- they roll over me like the wheels of a thousand-car train, crushing me with their force and not giving me a chance even to catch my breath. It won't stop and I don't want it to; I want to go on feeling this sharp pleasure and violent pain until my very soul is obliterated, ground into a cursed dust and scattered to the floor of this waiting room of hell.
And it does go on, for minutes, hours, years-- death has no time. I forget everything, I lose all real consciousness, I know only the rhythm and the friction and the primal responses of my own flesh.
It is heaven.
And then, very slowly, it ends. Neuron by neuron-- or whatever makes up a soul's brain-- I come back to awareness.
For a second I see the white room, but I strain my thoughts and make it disappear. Floating in senselessness is better than being there.
And Spock is gone; there is no one to bend me over a chair and make me forget again.
He has gone back to his Admiral, and I... I have no one. I must await whatever is in store for me.
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