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Chapter Text

That mellifluous baritone voice was a delightful melody to his ears.

Crisp air filters into his lungs as he settles into his seat. Through the open windows, tilted on a single axis to push them open, warmth filters into the room. His seat by the window is pleasant enough. Sunlight kisses his skin on colder days and a gentle breeze cools it on hotter ones. 

He spares a sideways glance past the pane of glass, taking in the breathtaking spectacle of the Golden Gate Bridge. There were benefits to the location of the Starfleet Academy. San Francisco is a nice place. The climate was ideal. A Mediterranean-type climate, characterised by mild, wet winter months and warm, dry summer months. 

This, however, was an inconsequential detail. 

His gaze is diverted, brought back to the present and to the front of the classroom, the room encased by smooth, opulent walls and filled with white desks. Pristine with not a single scuff mark on their surfaces. 

An inconsequential detail indeed.

Compared to those calculated movements, most things could be. A fluid raise of an arm draws the eyes of the class. 

Dense musculature lies beneath the surface of a black uniform. Skin-tight and enough of a distraction for his mind to wander into dangerous territory. That golden Starfleet insignia on his outfit glints in the sunlight, making him look more elegant somehow. 

James Tiberius Kirk was only a man. If placed before someone this attractive, he couldn't be expected not to stare. To take in the gloriousness that was his form. 

Immaculate skin with not a hint of stubble. A jawline sharp enough to cut glass. 

Those delicately pointed ears.

Obsidian spheres within his eyes, dark and scrutinising. They dart from person to person, catching the eyes of many of the cadets. Perfected poise. Eye contact lingering long enough to grab attention without dallying on any particular individual.

And oh, how he finds himself suppressing a shiver each time those eyes fall upon him. 

As if they peer into his very being, into his soul. 

He bites his bottom lip when they move elsewhere. His breath was stolen with only a glance.

This man was eye candy.

There weren't enough words to properly encapsulate his figure. The beauty of it. It transcended his highest expectations of attractiveness. It made him both delirious with desire and hopelessly insecure about his own meagre form.

Not only was he eye candy, but he was intelligent.

God, he could listen to him for hours. Carefully crafted explanations of the material and precise elaborations when one of the cadets dared to ask. Dared to speak. 

Many remained silent, warring with their confusion on the difficult subject matter and their healthy fear of the Vulcan professor. 

He wasn't afraid. 

In fact, he found a certain pleasure in challenging him. This may be a complex headache-inducing subject, but he was no pushover. 

Jim could work his way around the intricate details of a mind-boggling physics question given enough time to mull it over. His aptitude scores were no fabrication. For all his randy fuckboy shenanigans, he too had a brilliant mind.

And boy did he love a bit of debate. Passionate words and strong opinions clashing together in a battle of wit and tongue. While not as eloquent and well-crafted, he could present his point in a clear and concise fashion. 

He'd often derail the point of discussion into a nuanced section of advanced physics at such a rate that not even the professor himself would realise the topic has been diverted off course. Not until the class was over and the rest of the cadets had been thrown so hard off their brain shuttles that they had to come back after class to acquire additional notes. 

He did this to feel connected to this unattainable desire of his. For all his intelligence and wit, he was lacking in one major aspect. 

Jim was not, and could never be, what this man desired. 

Vulcans were rigid in their beliefs, rarely deviating from logic unless logic itself dictated it was necessary to abandon it. A paradoxical statement, but one that rang true for the Vulcan people. 

There would be no purpose in indulging the illogical human in a game of cat and mouse. In the dance of courtship.

They were both male. To do so would mean their union would be born of love or lust rather than to reach that final goal of reproduction. It was impossible. It would never happen. Not in even the most unhinged universe. 

Jim didn't do forevers, anyway. Nobody would want him and the indistinguishable scrap metal flotsam of trauma that surrounded the mothership called his brain. Not for anything permanent.

He would sell his soul to sleep with this man just once in his mortal life. 

For his lips to brush over cool Vulcan skin. Kissing and sucking faint bruises into the tender flesh, trailing down until—

No. He cannot imagine such things here. In his mind, he wills away the semi, which popped during that nefarious thought. Thanking the stars for the desks being closed in the front, he zones back into the present to listen instead to that enchanting voice of his.

Professor S'Chn T'Gai Spock. There were few able to pronounce his full name. Even he hesitated to attempt it. He does not have such a talented tongue. Not like that drop dead gorgeous cadet, Ahura, who he'd met in a bar. She'd roll his full name off her tongue with ease. 

Another person he'd love to sleep with. There were many men and women alike who Jim would take as temporary bed mates. 

His current fantasies were filled to the brim with deep, dark eyes that sucked him in like a blackhole. A low voice with little to no inflection, murmuring intelligent yet sexy promises into his skin as those plush lips trail down to his—

Okay, he really needs to get those thoughts on lockdown.

The wind is knocked out of him when he concentrates on Spock because those eyes are trained on him once more. Their purpose is to regain his drifting attention. To pull him out of his daydreams and lead his mind back into the lecture. 

It works in an instant. He tunes into the words spilling from those captivating lips.

By the time the lecture ends, he's buzzing with jittery energy. A sexual charge in his veins that cannot be ignored. It will not. 

It's the last lesson of the day, thank the stars, and he retreats from the class as quickly as he possibly can. He catches the eyes of his object of desire one last time, relishing in the faintest raise of an eyebrow he gets in response.

It sends a shiver through him. God, he could get lost in those eyes. 

The trip back to his apartment is uneventful. He waits in sections of traffic on his motorcycle, letting his mind wander back to the perfection of his professor.

Spock was young. Three years older than him. So it wasn't one of those student-teacher crushes with a massive age gap and some wild implications. Jim could be forgiven for ogling his professor a smidgen.

The engine of the powerful machine under him burbles to life as the traffic moves, the cold biting at his skin. It's a grounding sensation, one he welcomes when he's supposed to be focused on steering. He may be a daredevil, but he doesn't intend to meet God earlier than his time. 

Once he's safely back in his apartment building, he parks his vehicle and moves inside faster than he'll admit. 

There is a rushed greeting at reception, an offered compliment to the woman standing there. She bats her eyelashes in an obvious flirtation, a grin curving those plump red lips upwards. 

Yes, he decides; he needs a temporary bedmate. 

Now.

With all his tomcat finesse, he pauses and turns to the counter with a grin. The coquette hums a delighted response, leaning over to indulge him in meaningless conversation. Fleeting glances down her curved frame, lingering stares at the bosom she puts on display for him. She leans further than she has to, pushing in her elbows to press her breasts closer together. 

She wasn't a petite woman. No, to describe her that way would be to tell a lie. This woman had broad shoulders and strong arms.

His thoughts flicker back to a certain Vulcan professor.

By the end of their charade, he has her at his hip when he's reached his apartment. 

He presses her into the door once inside. A nameless, faceless woman whom he knows not the name of. Her hair is dark and long. Silky with a shine in the dim light of his apartment. 

It's cut dead straight. A familiarity that makes him shiver.

So too do her eyes resemble his true object of desire, as black as the night sky. Her contralto voice is a perfect female replica of the one he wishes he could hear right now. 

Her moans are quiet hums of pleasurable delight. She's taken right then and there against the door. A short, desperate attempt to rid himself of the heat coiled in his gut from earlier. 

Jim does eventually get the sense to introduce a condom, moving the activity to the couch.

The thought of Spock's beautiful figure in his mind has him seeing stars before he's ready. He reaches climax at an embarrassing rate, but she doesn't get too huffy when he compensates by trailing down her elegant curves and pressing his tongue between wet folds until she cries out in ecstasy.

Then she's gone. Out of his apartment for the night.

Jim rolls over on his couch once he's locked the door. The event was fleeting. 

It sated his urge for the time being, but he knew it wouldn't last. 

He needed that man more than he needed to breathe. No amount of one night stands were going to give him that relief. 

Just one night with that man. That's all he'd need. 

To have that lean muscle over his form. A luxurious body pressed into his skin everywhere. Passionate, lustful kisses. All heat and no finesse. 

An expanse of naked torso with chiselled muscle denser than his own. Whispered words of praise in the dark.

His dick twitches traitorously to life, and he wishes he kept the woman with him for another round. 

Instead, he reaches down to his groin, biting his lip as he takes it in hand, still slick from before. What would it be like to be inside Spock? To feel him clench around him?

Vulcan blood was green, so his blood engorged cock would be too. Flushed an alien emerald colour at the head instead of the deep red of his own. 

A wave of pleasure enters his mind. Heat rises to his face at the thought.

Lying on his couch, way too small for his tall frame. His face is surely flushed red up to his ears by now as sweat beads collect along his body and soak into the velvety fabric beneath him. 

It feels devoid of warmth, empty without another person. Yet his skin burns with the fire of arousal in his veins.

The weight of his erection lies heavy in his palm as he gives it a hard tug. Imagining that the hand is not his own but somebody else's.

That his irresistible Vulcan professor was nestled in behind him and flush against his body as his large, soft hands covered his arousal and stroking it with tentative movements. Well calculated with a precision that would make his veins sing. 

A quiet groan joins the ambient sounds of the room. 

And he wonders what it would feel like as Spock pressed his clothed erection into his ass. The shape. The size. How his moans would sound if he did moan. If he didn't, the faintest whisper of breath. A soft groan. Even a growl. 

A flash of teeth against his neck and a wet stripe licked up his ear. A deliberate, shaky breath against the shell of his ear as he tugs it between his teeth.

Jim moans wantonly.

Stilling his hand to swipe a rough thumb pad across the slit, he relishes the pleasurable shudder it pulls out of him. 

He groans louder this time as he cums. His orgasm was washing over him in a wave of blinding heat. He catches it in his palm to spare his couch the disservice. Caked with sweat and bedecked by a gross, itchy feeling, he sits up. 

His hand leaves his softening cock as he collects some of his own ejaculate onto his fingers to stare at it.

His pleasure-fogged mind drifts across empty thoughts in the silence of the room.

What would Spock taste like?

Jim swallows the lump forming in his throat, trying to vanquish the scandalous thoughts. They persist. So he resigns himself to lying back on his couch in the loneliness of the night. The ceiling provides him no solace, and the cold night air begins to nip at his skin. 

Jim wipes his hand on his t-shirt, shoving it under the couch so his housemate doesn't lay eyes upon it. He pulls on his underwear and his pants, making himself look half decent. His uniform jacket gets draped over the back of the couch.

If Spock knew of all the sinful images his brain conjured up of him, he'd be truly disgusted. Those black eyes would glare daggers at him, bearing down the heaviest of judgements. No doubt the cold shoulder would be swiftly employed, perhaps even a restraining order brought into it if Spock was uptight enough. 

It's unprofessional. It's wrong. It's borderline obsessive.

He's in deep trouble. He has been for quite some time.

Somewhere within these sombre thoughts, his consciousness mercifully flickers out. A blanket of sleep washing over him.

When he comes awake again, it's to the sound of an irritable grumble and a bubbling kettle. The living room leads into an open-style kitchen to save space. 

He blinks the sleep out of his eyes to find the source of the noise. 

"Congrats, you somehow manage to snore louder than a Klingon auctioneer can yell." A low voice rumbles out. It's rough, disapproving, yet familiar.

Jim smiles as he stares at his back. "Good morning to you too, Bones."

Leonard McCoy, the man he shares an apartment with, spares him a sharp glance over his shoulder. "Damn it, man, would it kill you to take a shower? You smell worse than a Caxtonian in a bar."

Jim splutters for a moment in his indignation. "I don't smell that bad, do I?"

The man turns a full one-eighty with a cup of coffee in hand, taking a minute-long sip. 

Point taken. 

《☆》

These exams. These avenues of dead silence with the occasional shift of a restless cadet in their seat. The echo of diligent footsteps as the supervisor trots past each individual to ensure no dishonesty. 

Jim doesn't need to cheat. Not for these exams. This was pure memorisation and logic skills. He didn't need to be dishonest about that. His aptitude scores weren't some elaborate lie twisted into existence by Ferengi tradesmen.

His screen goes blank as he swipes across it with the final answer. It calculates his percentage before presenting it in a neat little gift-wrap of satisfaction. A flawless score. 

Footsteps pause at his back, and he spares the man a glance over his shoulder. A smug grin playing at his lips. 

His eyes follow the path of a pointy helix as Spock examines him with a silent regard. Then a decisive nod of approval. There is the faintest twinkle of pride in his eyes. 

His nerves sing at the unspoken praise. 

He remains in his chair even after he's left to his devices. It's an option for him to leave the examination room. They are set up so you cannot see another person's screen from afar. The text is tiny, and the screen is too dim, given the distance between each cadet. The species' with better eyes sit right in front. 

If you turn around during one of these examinations, you are immediately rescheduled for a different one and given a disciplinary hearing. It's against the rules.

Though you may do this once your test is over, you cannot do this while it is still in progress.

Jim lifts his head to peer over the data on his screen. His gaze follows Spock's movements across the room. Each step holding a pantherine grace, which he, as a human, could never hope to achieve. 

He turns back to his screen when the man spares a glance in his direction. His lower lip is sucked between his teeth. 

That was close.

Jim makes the decision then to leave, chancing another fleeting look at the gorgeous man across the room before exiting the room with quiet, measured steps. 

Each fleeting glance he shares with that man leads Jim's mind into hopeless delusions about a world in which he might take a chance. Except he wouldn't be able to stand the embarrassment of failure. If he took a shot and missed, he'd be stuck in this cycle for all eternity. 

He wonders for a moment how one would seduce a Vulcan. A being so ethereal, so logical. Someone who doesn't give in to crude desires like lust. 

There must be a way. Some method of testing the waters. To be able to dip his toes in without fear of the consequences. 

A certain grouchy doctor slides up next to him as he walks down the hallways. Each footstep lands with a resounding click on shining white tiles. 

"You finished your exam too, huh? What did you get?" Jim chuckles as the man bristles with discontent at the question.

"I would've aced it if they didn't ask a question about the innards of a male Gorg." 

His lips curl around a smug comment before he can stop them. Not that he would; he lives for this. "Better luck next time then. Sorry Bones." 

"Bet you hacked your damn console." He grumbles.

Offence rises to the surface in the form of a scoff. "What? No way! I aced that exam without a hint of trickery."

"Uh-huh," muses the doctor. "Knowing you, that score was about as honest as a pack of unsupervised Ferengi."

At that, he barks a laugh. He raises both eyebrows with a coy smile. "Honestly, Bones, you should have more faith in your future captain."

"Captain my ass." It comes with an obligatory eye roll. "You'd be lucky to make it as a pilot."

A comfortable silence settles over the pair as they walk with long strides side by side into the warm outdoors. 

It's true that he could have hacked his console, but he rarely did. As much as he prided himself on his ability to bend the rules to his liking, he still respected that they had a purpose. It was all about balance. 

When to break the rules and when not to. 

If he hacked every test score he got, he'd be a very poor captain. 

If he hacked...

An idea crosses his mind then. He may not be enough of a daredevil to try his luck with his professor, but what difference did it make if his professor never knew it was him? 

The thought makes him giddy.

It was perfect. All he'd do is design a fake alias to disguise his true identity and cover the programming in meticulously crafted cover-ups so the Vulcan wouldn't be able to trace it back to his system. He could create his very own anti-hacker firewall that also allowed him to hack into other systems. It was genius.

Thank you, Bones. 

With a newfound secret gratitude for his grouch of a best friend, he heads to the old library with a data pad in hand and a plan. 

It would take a week or so to get it up and running, but it would be worth it in the end, if only to cause the man frustration. The mystery of it all would drive the Vulcan insane.

Jim sat in front of his PADD screen, his thoughts hyper-focused on creating this anonymous program. He knew that once it was finished, his professor would have no idea who was behind all those messages. This anonymity created a certain sense of thrill, a forbidden aspect to their communication. Fingers flew across the screen with determined precision, coding the various elements of the program together.

He couldn't help but smile to himself as he worked, knowing that this would allow him to interact with Spock in a way that was far beyond the boundaries of their professional relationship, or, rather, lack thereof.

Jim spent countless hours crafting the backend of the program, making sure it was secure and efficient. 

He took satisfaction in creating something that could elude even a Vulcan's keen analytical skills. Once the back-end development was complete, he moved onto creating the algorithm. 

He aimed to make it as complex and puzzling as possible—something that would drive the decidedly unemotional Vulcan to the brink.

Debugging was the most tedious part, but Jim refused to settle for anything less than absolute perfection. He laboured over every line of code, determined to make certain every aspect of the program functioned flawlessly.

His assumption that Spock wouldn't be able to decode his program in an afternoon was a bit cockish. Although he was willing to bet it would at least give him a nasty headache.

Now that the program is completed, comes the hard part.

To avoid easy tracing back to his system, also so he doesn't have to hack the hell out of Spock's because God knows that would be a shitshow and a half, he needs to upload it as a virus into a device Spock uses. Whether it be a data pad, a console, or some other device. 

The program opens an anonymous communication channel; it's not actually a virus. So legally, he should be in the clear there.

Not like he intends to gain access to the data on this man's computer system. Now that would be illegal. 

Jim is not a patient man. He's willing to admit this to himself. 

The lecture ended minutes ago. There was a flurry of cadets filing out the doors in a disordered fashion. His intended target sits at his console in front of the room. Fingers fly across the screen as he inputs information and reads over various materials. 

He's the only cadet left. His own PADD and the necessary data port rest in his hands. His stocky fingers grip tight to the surface, tapping along the glass in silent consideration. 

What he finds most difficult is finding an opening. It's damn near impossible with the Vulcan keeping his data on him wherever he goes. It seems to Jim that he plans to spend quite some time here, completing whatever task was pulled up in front of him.

An unbroken concentration fixed upon the screen. He admires it. Dedication like that was often hard to come by. 

The man's focus never wavered. His eyes lit up with a silent enjoyment of his work. When he's studying a new concept or calculating a complicated equation, his eyes always light up like that. 

A faint, but noticeable twinkle behind those eyes that rivalled the night sky. 

If only they'd look at him like that. They'd take in every inch of his form, scrutinising every detail of his body. Clouded with lust, they'd lock onto each imperceptible flutter of his eyelids while those large hands moved over his skin. Analysing. Studying. 

"Spock, can I talk to you for a second?" His thoughts are snapped away in an instant, his gaze fixing upon the newcomer.

Captain Pike stands in the doorway.

His every muscle goes taut with excitement. A window of opportunity. Wrapped in a neat little bow. 

Spock rises from his seat, oblivious to his intentions, as he follows the captain with a crisp: "Yes, Captain."

So formal. He fixes his gaze on those tight shoulders, wondering how they'd look when—

Okay, enough of that. 

"Walk with me." Pike says with a nod.

Spock glances up at him before leaving. Once a few seconds have passed undisturbed, he rises from his seat and inspects the desk for anything he can plug the data port into.

His PADD is lying right there. 

Jim checks the doorway one last time, deciding to close the door as if he'd left. Just in case. 

He sees what Spock had been busy with before. A few open tabs open of the chemistry behind a newly discovered alien plant and the things it does. Jim memorises the name at the top so he can dive into it later because that does look interesting.

It was a public file; he could find it online. 

He plugs the data port into the PADD, letting the code run over the screen in complex patterns of his own making. 

The screen lights up with a loading symbol as a green download bar creeps across to the other side. It jumps the first forty percent before slowing down significantly.

Let's hope they take a long time, he thinks, I can't get caught doing this.

Agonising over the silence is his only pass time as he waits for the program to install and properly weave itself into the code. It'll root itself in every system. Spock would have to reset everything to factory settings to get that out. 

Jim thinks he might do just that, but he didn't do this without knowing the likelihood of failure was a near guarantee. Spock might not be able to work out who it was, but he'd certainly be able to get him out of his computer system in a heartbeat if he wanted to.

He'd be out of there by nightfall if the Vulcan didn't humour him or attempt to locate the source of his signal. 

All the more reason he doesn't feel bad about this, if the Vulcan truly did not want him there, he'd be removed effortlessly. Simple.

Sure, he'd be left desperate and horny for a while, but he could recover from that. No doubt about it. A bruised ego wasn't anything to cry about. 

Any old glass of brandy could fix that.

Right?

All goes well in the next few minutes, that is, until the telltale sound of footsteps reverberates beyond the door. A sharp click of heels on a tiled floor. Measured, precise steps with little to no variation in their gait. He can recognise that level of precision anywhere.

They’re still at a reasonable distance and his installation is at around ninety percent. Jim curses silently, praying to God the conversation lingers beyond the door for longer than need be. The hairs on the back of his head stand on end in the meantime.

They pause, at a distance, and he almost weeps with joyous relief when the program uploads and he snatches the data port. His victory was short-lived.

It’d be suspicious if he walked out the door the he just closed. 

Shit.

Chapter Text

Silence engulfs his surroundings as he pauses outside his classroom. His feet come to a standstill barely a foot from the door. 

His mind plays back the memory of his Captain's words as he stands there taking in the sight of the old door. It was a concern brought to his attention in a polite but stupefying manner. To think Spock capable of something so inexcusable. 

He is not offended. Words alone could not achieve such a severe reaction.

Favouritism. 

One simple word. 

A human failing. He did not engage such emotions during his work. No, he would not judge his students based on a preference for one particular individual. The very idea of doing so was an inconceivable injustice on the part of the remaining cadets who worked equally as admirably.

The assumption alone tugged at the edges of his Vulcan control, something of indignation flared in his chest at the mere insinuation. His emotions would not cloud his judgement. 

He did not experience guilt. He did not pity another.

He is Vulcan. These things were human failings.

He examines the wood of the door. The surface was sanded down to prevent splintering and left with a remarkably sleek surface. 

This building is of advanced age. Doors on copper-coloured hinges rather than those which could simply slide open at the first sign of a person with the required clearance. It was advanced through technological instalments over time, the actual integrity of the building needed considerable upkeep compared to the more advanced architectural masterpieces on Earth.

And he stands engrossed in his thoughts, replaying the memory of his Captain initially calling him from the confines of the mostly vacant room. 

Did he close the door? He does not recall having done so. Perhaps the remaining cadet had done so following his departure. A logical assumption.

With that thought, he reaches for the handle.

Oxidised iron hinges creak as the door is pushed open. The classroom is as he left it, minus the cadet from earlier. 

That particular cadet had a knack for being wherever Spock was, he noticed. Oftentimes he would wonder if it was purely coincidence or deliberate. Piercing larimar eyes would fix themselves on his form at every opportunity, as if looking through him into his heart and soul rather than simply at him. 

It was absurd to be able to identify someone purely based on a sensation burning along your skin. To be able to ascertain who was looking at you based on nothing more than the intensity of their gaze.

And yet. 

The air in the room feels wrong. Unexplainably so, however, unequivocally wrong. There is nobody here but there is the unmistakable feeling of eyes on him that he cannot quite shake. An instinctive part of him knows, somehow, that he is being observed. An eerily familiar sensation crawls along his skin in the form of a phantom spider. 

It’s illogical, but he lifts his chin to examine the still room. 

Nobody. 

Nothing. 

He turns back to his console without further thought. 

He couldn’t allow an unco phenomenon to affect his work, so he returns to his study of the Risian flora, of which he finds himself struggling to attain samples of. This was no surprise; the titillating effects of the plant would no doubt result in a monumental disaster if handled incorrectly. Still, he needed to find some way to effectuate its arrival. 

It was one thing to study theory. 

He needed to be able to peer at this thing through a microscope to satisfy his curiosity. Spock needed to get his hands on something to truly dissect it in full.

Ah…

There’s that irrational feeling crawling along his spine again. As if it is burning a hole into his very being. An intense, unwavering gaze boring into the very atoms of his being. 

He looks up. He isn’t vexed by it, Vulcans are not agitated by things which are not veridical. It is merely… perplexing. That is all.

In any case, he decides to relocate his studies to his apartment for the day. It would be easier there anyway, he decides. Yes, it is the logical thing to do. Spock shuts off his console then and picks up his data pad without sparing the imaginary pair of eyes another glance. 

It would serve no purpose.

《☆》

It's at 2313 hours when his hyperfocus is interrupted by a peculiar window which opens itself and appears on his data pad screen. It covers his screen, blocking out his other windows.

Spock is seated neatly at his desk, ramrod straight as usual with his data pad in hand and some computer screens lit up around him with more visual data of the peculiar orchid plant in the viewer. It had a cone shape and pointed downwards in a manner similar to a Terran bellflower. 

The tab which had opened itself unprompted appeared as a dark square dead centre of his screen. He could, if he so wished, drag it into a corner and work around it. He could minimise it. He could interact with it. He could still access everything on his data pad as usual, but he couldn't, for the life of him, close it.

It did not matter what he did. His initial attempts to use task manager failed on account of the mysterious window not appearing as an active task. Probing further did nothing to help. 

His gaze wandered to his other screens in a brief moment of concern that it was a virus affecting his entire system, but no, it seemed it was limited to his data pad. Unusual, surely a malicious program would have infected all connected devices to wreak havoc on his databases? 

A smaller, blue box appeared in the form of a soft cornered text bubble. Three white dots jumping up and down within it until it appears as a solid block.

[slyfox]: hi

Spock’s eyebrows furrow so deeply he can see them hovering above his peripheral in the form of a dark, blurry shadow. 

A communication channel. The user communicating with him appeared to not wish to be discovered, as the alias made clear.

He switches off his data pad and reboots it. When it lights up again, the window is still there. This time, however, there is a new message beneath the first. 

[slyfox]: i have a question

And by all means, he should reset his entire system to remove this intrusion from his sight and hope it didn’t worm its way into any other databases in this short timeframe. Yet, against his better judgement, curiosity wins out and he swipes the channel to attempt to bring up his keyboard. To his surprise, it’s not a one sided channel. 

The program is designed to filter messages both ways.

Which means it can be hacked more easily than if it were a one-way transmission.

He closes his keyboard, deciding to attempt to trace the signal location. Spock pushes the open tab into a corner, out of his way. It is an unfortunate turn of events that hacking this would be more of a challenge than he initially prepared for. 

The coding is intricate and nearly impossible to read. Not just that, it’s constantly changing. It reworks itself over and over again, scrambling its own system in a jumbled mass of incongruous programming jargon that leaves him with both eyebrows lost to his hairline. It adapts to any attempted tampering. Whole sections of code disappear at times only to rewrite themselves in a different format.

By all means, Spock should erase this from his system. It could turn out to be dangerous.

But this is… 

Well, it’s ingenious. 

Whoever designed this was no amateur. He finds himself too impressed by the ingenuity to mind that it’s impossible to close the tab. It’s intrusive but not obstructive. He can minimise it to limit distraction and it makes no audible noise when a new message is punched through. 

When he makes an effort to respond, it asks him to input a name of his own. Which is odd since the individual surely knew who they were contacting. This was no accident.

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: Identify yourself.

A pause, then those three little dots appear under his message.

[slyfox]: no. anyway, just out of pure curiosity and nothing else, whats the vulcan word for penis?

Highly inappropriate for someone with the intellect to install such an advanced work into his system and remain undetected. Spock was determined now to hack this individual’s system, if not only to scold them for inappropriate conduct. 

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: Your programming is impressive, however, not infallible. Identify yourself, or I will.

[slyfox]: well seeing as though ive impressed you, perhaps you can reward me for my troubles, commander?

Arrogant. Though in some ways they did have the right to be. For as much as there was a spark of irritation in the back of his mind,  there was also that begrudging respect for anyone capable of outsmarting him, if only temporarily. 

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: And what may be the nature of this reward?

[slyfox]: answering my previous question, mayhaps?

Spock considers it, ultimately conceding to the request. It’s inappropriate, yes, but lacks anything overtly personal. Though why they ask him of all people to sate their curiosity when all they had to do was open a data pad to find this information online is beyond his realm of understanding. Yet, finding no true reason other than the ones previously stated not to indulge this mysterious individual, he figures it a harmless endeavour.

So far, it seemed there was nothing malicious on his system.

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: The word for “penis” in the Vulcan language is “lok”. 

There is a pause. One that lasts approximately a standard minute.

[slyfox]: short and sweet, i see

He leaves it at that, minimising the tab and returning to his studies for a while. Spock rechecks his computer system as well to identify any possible changes. He finds none, then finds another message waiting for him.

[slyfox]: and for vagina?

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: Your conduct is inappropriate. 

[slyfox]: humour me

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: Identify yourself.

[slyfox]: i thought you would do that all by yourself? ;)

He cannot help the momentary aggrievement which settles as a weight in the back of his mind. Spock controls his outward reaction, though finds the indignation lingering persistently in the form of an insatiable tribble on his own brainstem. 

They were mocking him. And it was working. This was unacceptable. He needed to meditate. So, without even dignifying this aggravating individual with a response, he shuts off his computer systems and rises from his desk in a single controlled movement. 

If his chair rolls back further and more abruptly than he intends, nobody would have to know about it.

Anger is an emotion as any other, he will control it as he does with the rest. Things of the mind were of no consequence. It was simply a matter of processing it and letting it go. 

The dull thump of his rolled up meditation mat reverberates through the silence. The warmth of the building is a comforting embrace in the face of the muted emotion throbbing with a weak determination. It will be gone in a moment.

He rolls out the mat, settling on the spongy surface with his legs crossed and his hands on his knees. 

One steady breath, then another more controlled one follows it. 

Breathe in. 

Breathe out.

Examine the emotion. Watch it with gentle attention. Feel it for a moment. Acknowledge it. Cradle it in your mind and then release it. It drifts away in a bubble, and he feels the minor tension in his shoulders ease with its dismissal. 

In its absence, he continues to meditate on the events of the day. He needs to make a decision on what to do with this venturesome intruder weaved into his data pad’s very own motherboard in some manner. 

Shall he remove this interloper? Perhaps he should, but he finds his interest piqued. Who would be so bold as to install such a platform directly onto his system? And still be intelligent enough to cover their digital tracks well enough that Spock cannot trace the system without an earnest effort on his part?

A better question: why?

To ask inappropriate questions?

It’s perplexing that one would risk discovery simply to enquire about the sexual aspects of a Federation language. No, there had to be some ulterior motive. It may have been unwise to not remove the virus from his computer immediately. 

Kaiidth.

There was no exceedingly personal information to steal. Vulcans did not allow their private lives to be stored in a computer system. The freeloader in his networking history would only find scientific searches and projects, not sensitive data. 

He’s not worried.

They put in all that effort only to find nothing of interest. Spock might even say he finds amusement in the thought—though he laments the loss of any scientific data that may be stored there. His lecture notes, as well.

He spends his night on his meditation mat.

The night gives way to the sunlight of an early dawn of the weekend. Poles of light bleed in through open curtains, elucidating any particles of dust lingering in open air. He breathes his eyes open, taking in his surroundings with more clarity than he ordinarily would. 

It is a new day. There is much to be done.

Spock takes the time to boil a kettle and blend together an array of spices from his home planet to place into a mug. One small flower in the centre. The water bubbles, simmering on low heat until it’s ready and he can pour the water into his mug. 

He brings the mug with him into his study, setting it down nearby as he boots up the system, steeling himself to combat the inevitable disappointment of his scrambled network. 

It loads up, the screen displaying everything in the typical fashion. No scattered code, no warning messages or error symbols. The only thing to suggest something is amiss is the chat box loading up dead centre of his screen with a few new messages. No time stamps.

Spock checks everything. His data is untouched. His network is stable. All is well.

Which… makes no sense. This intruder had to want something out of this. Yet everything is running smoothly, a quick pass through his system with an antivirus doesn’t weed out the program but it doesn’t catch on any abnormalities either. Everything is as it was when he powered it down the night before.

He glances at the new messages.

[slyfox]: hello?

[slyfox]: wait come back

[slyfox]: ill give you a hint if you humour me?

It appears they gave it up when he did not respond. He considers the proposal. It reminded him of the games humans played with one another. Guessing games, which forced the players to think.

Alright, he thinks, since this person appears not to be doing any direct harm (yet), he figures he could play along. If he can identify the individual, he can act accordingly. Such blatant arrogance should be addressed with appropriate punishment.

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: “keshtan-ur”

He waits for 56 seconds before minimising the window and continuing with his work. 

The plant was named ‘Naltex’ by the Risians. It is a spore producing plant similar to liverworts, ferns, mosses, or even algae. Like many of these Terran examples, these spores will only be fertilised far from the mother plant in a damp place. 

Inhaled, however, those same spores appear to invoke a state of heightened arousal in most humanoid species. 

Fascinating.

Spock is quite curious how the plant effects the hormone balances in a species to trigger such a response. Unfortunately the websites he can find don’t provide a substantial amount of data on the subject. It’s all very curious. Why not provide less vague explanations? Surely they had studied its effects before.

Around 2.45 hours pass before he checks on his system’s new resident parasite.

[slyfox]: thats long winded in comparison, why so different, damn

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: I believe you must fulfil your end of the agreement. 

The response is immediate. Spock blinks. Were they waiting for a response?

[slyfox]: sure thing, professor

Ah. 

Now that made more sense. His mind flashes briefly with the face of a certain azure-eyed cadet, but he dismisses the thought. He had a near perfect score on his record and it was unlikely he would risk his entire career to ask one of his educators such vulgar queries. No, it had to be someone else.

It was difficult to narrow the list down from this information alone, but it was a start. An easier alternative than scouring the entirety of the country in search of a single rogue hacker. 

With the knowledge that his efforts may prove fruitful in the end, he is more inclined to observe this imposter within his database until he has answers. 

[slyfox]: how are you?

The question is vacuous, though is not as plebeian as the ones before it. A simple human pleasantry. 

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: I am functioning within adequate parameters.

[slyfox]: computer much

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: Negative. I am not a machine.

[slyfox]: not helping your case, really

Spock has to suppress the urge to sigh. An insufferable individual and woefully smug, that was for sure. He laments having to endure this for however long is required to uncover this person’s identity. 

The hint they’d provided was vague at best and accommodating at worst. Although, he finds it difficult to be disturbed by this. There is the human phrase, ‘a deal is a deal’ , vexatiously vague or no, he did provide a hint. 

Spock pauses his work, deciding to instead make a follow up attempt at hacking their system. 

In the end, it is a fruitless endeavour. Their firewalls are labyrinthine, constructed to mislead him and send him in circles until he yields to their complexity and staves off his own burning curiosity to engage in more productive activities. 

《☆》

Distracting. A fair descriptor for the feeling crawling along his skin beneath the fabric of his uniform. It was an all-consuming illogical itch burning into him from a particular corner of the room. Cerulean eyes boring into every fibre of his being with an intensity that cannot be shaken off.

Nothing new, as far as this class was concerned. This particular cadet—James Tiberius Kirk, his memory now supplies—was a particularly clever cadet. He gave rapt attention to each lecture. With a near perfect score, he had every right to be as confident as he appeared. 

Spock had never spoken to him, personally, merely observed how he carried himself and concluded him to be an elated individual. They often engaged in debates which derailed his lecture, Spock getting swept up in the intellectual discussion. 

Aside from an incident prior to joining the Academy, his record was clear of any transgression. 

Even at lecture’s end, the cadet spends time in his classroom, going over notes and reviewing content on a spare data pad.

Spock takes his leave then, having issued yet another request order for the Naltex samples before heading to the archive to ‘brush up’ on his knowledge on the specifics of plant reproductive properties and methods of spreading. He may benefit from comparing the Naltex plants to Terran species, noting to collect some samples of moss for future use.

He could grow some in the science labs.

In the meantime, he finds himself sitting in the archive, reviewing notes on his PADD and updating them for the sake of his classes. Spock breaks down his explanations further, attempting to simplify the content to make it easier to digest in a single lecture. 

The crisp air around him is cooler than he is comfortable with, but his thermal undershirt keeps him from feeling too cold. 

There are the hushed whispers of cadets and fellow staff within the copious shelving units of the small archive. Many are searching for nuances in a particular subject. 

There are, additionally, chess boards set up along the length of the far wall, for those looking for a break from study. He had indulged many cadets in a game or two, though none posed much challenge. Spock preferred playing against members of the senior staff for something intellectually stimulating.

Kaiidth.

If he was desperate for a decent chess partner, there were always the computer algorithms. It was not difficult to download a program suited for the task. 

Speaking of which…

He checks the chat, finding no new messages. 

Spock experiences something akin to disappointment before catching himself. He is Vulcan. He should not experience disappointment, let alone in regards to an intruder rooted in his data pad’s code.

It would mark two standard days of ‘radio silence’ from the hacker. Illogical, as why would someone go through the effort of making this instalment if they were not going to make use of it?

“Mind if I sit here?”

The voice draws his attention away from his data pad, gazing over at the source. 

Nyota.

A striking human woman. She certainly meets all criteria he’s found for conventional attractiveness. Sleek, black hair always tied in a neat ponytail behind her, long enough to graze over her mid-back. Those warm brown eyes sharp yet soft at the same time. Lips which many may apply to adjectives such as ‘plump’ or ‘full’. 

Spock isn’t blind, he can appreciate beauty when he sees it. It would be illogical to argue otherwise.

It just happened that he had differing preferences, and as lovers, they had parted ways.

It was where the accusation of favouritism had stemmed. An assumption, perhaps, that he may feel guilt for their broken union. Yet it was not what humans may describe as an ‘ugly break-up’ .

“I see no reason as to why you could not.” There was an extra chair. There would be no logic in refusing to allow use of the space. He does not gesture to it, as it should be obvious.

She offers him a demure smile, crow’s feet forming around her eyes as she takes a seat. 

“How have you been?” Her voice is mollified and Spock knows why. They’d broken up only a week ago and she had spent some time recuperating on her lonesome. A human need for space, he thought, as parting ways had little to no effect on him. He was grateful, however, that she had recovered adequately. It was encouraging to know she was unaffected by their parting, as he had come to think of her as a valued friend. 

“I am functioning within adequate parameters.” Spock says, inclining his heart as she chortles in response. He had not said anything amusing. Perhaps her mind had wandered to an amusing subject matter.

“That’s good to hear.” Nyota mimics his gesture and cants her head to the side as well. “Are your classes going well?”

“As you know from attending my lectures, Nyota, my work has remained uninhibited.” He states matter-of-factly. “Your grades have not seen a decline either.”

“Thanks, Spock.” She folds her hands in her lap, a blithe posture about her as she eases into the air of his familiar familiar.

To be polite, he continues the conversation. “I take it that your personal life has been fulfilling as well?”

Chapter Text

Jim thinks he may have underestimated his chances of success. It was like that one metaphor he’d heard about a dog chasing the garbage truck, or whatever it was called back then, and he didn’t know what to do with it. He had uploaded his program under the assumption his intrusion would be unwelcome and removed within twenty-four standard hours.

It has been four days now since he last messaged Spock, uncertain as to how to approach this. He’d already asked two inappropriate questions to test the waters and been honoured with a response. The Vulcan, despite it being entirely illogical, had humoured his technological and possibly illegal (if not morally questionable) dumbassery.

He could not decide whether he should be thrilled or frightened. There was some logical reason for it, no? There is no way Spock would have tarried if there was not. Jim couldn’t for the life of him see the logic in it.

Was he complaining? Oh, no, not in a million-trillion lightyears. This was wonderful.

He leans back against his headboard, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth in the dark. His screen illuminates his face in a supple blue light. The data pad in his hands lit up on the chat screen since he’d finished studying for the day and wanted to try again.

Yet he could never quite think of what to say. Obviously diving straight into it would get flat out refusal and get him removed. Knowing Spock was bothering with him at all made him want to slow down a bit to increase his chances for success here.

[slyfox]: how do vulcans choose their mates?

Not too bad. He’s surprised to get an immediate answer, furrowing his brows at the idea of his professor waiting for a response.

A ding of a notification sound throws him off, his eyebrows shooting up to disappear into his hairline. The program wasn’t supposed to have a notification system.

It was getting into ‘oh fuck’ territory when he briefly abandoned the chat to pull up his code and oh lord help him there was a subroutine installed in the program which he did not place there. He’d designed the code to jump around and do all sorts of funny things and somehow the Vulcan had found a weakness and installed a new link.

His heart drops into his stomach.

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: There is a ritual for it.

Seeing the lack of identity call-outs, he dares to believe he’s safe. 

For now.

[slyfox]: really? what kind of ritual?

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: I believe the agreement was you provide a hint after I provide information to sate your inappropriate curiosity.

[slyfox]: ohoHO if youre gonna put it like that then i argue that my question was hardly inappropriate

He snickers to himself when the three little dots appear and disappear three times in a row. Gotcha.  

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: The ritual is known as ‘pon farr’ and it is the Vulcan time of mating, which occurs once every seven years.

His neural pathways decide then to block off the roads and burn tires to protest because his brain whiteouts and he’s left gaping at his screen. Once every seven years? It sounded ridiculous. No wonder he’s never heard of a Vulcan on Risa, they probably never went there in the first place.

His efforts here may be in vain now.

[slyfox]: wait what

[slyfox]: so its like a heat??? And you guys only fuck once every seven years?

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: Negative. We may copulate when we please. Pon farr is the only time in which it is mandatory.

Oh. That makes more sense. There is hope for him afterall.

Jim gets more comfortable against the headboard, taking in the information. Before he gets too comfy, he reminds himself he has a hint to provide. His mind drifts to any hints he could give without giving himself away outright.

[slyfox]: im slightly shorter than you are

[LCDR-S'Chn-T'Gai-Spock]: I do believe I responded to two inappropriate queries.

Jim blinks. Damn, the Vulcan was adamant on discovering his identity. Considering the subroutine, he ought not to be surprised. Updating his program code would be a wise decision, nevertheless.

[slyfox]: i argue they were along the same thread

The response is so quick he has to take a full minute to process it. 

[LCDR-S'Chn-T'Gai-Spock]: I reason that they were two queries, regardless of their correlation.

Okay, Spock was determined, he'd give him that. Jim finds his attraction to the Vulcan growing despite the nagging in the back of his mind that this was a terrible idea. In essence it was, as stated, a terrible idea, but he had committed now. 

There was no backing out. 

James Tiberius Kirk wasn't one to back out from a challenge either way.

Spock was intelligent, unflappable, and hot. Who wouldn't want him? Nobody could blame Kirk for his interest, even if his actions were morally questionable at best.

[slyfox]: im human

Vague while meeting the criteria for a hint. The image of his blanked faced Vulcan professor staring in annoyance at such a pointless hint amused him more than words in any weirdly specific obscure alien language could describe.

Jim takes some time to work the subroutine Spock installed out of his program so it doesn't make a sound in class.

《☆》

He's late.

Jim woke up this morning with the headache of the century brewing behind his eyes and the snippy comment of his grump of a housemate about how the food processor is acting up again. Upon checking the time, he finds it's almost time for his favourite class. He'll have to get the lecture notes from the professors’ classes he did miss, but he is not missing Spock's lecture.

So, with determination he hasn't had in the better part of a few years, he's on his feet and hoofing it to get ready. 

Bones is less than enthusiastic following him out the door, calling something down the hall about potentially falling and injuring himself. Jim thinks he can handle landing face first on some carpet, thank you very much.

By the time he's parked his motorcycle, he realises something else. Spock is walking into the building, glancing at him for a brief moment before entering.

Spock is also late.

And if Jim managed to get there first, he could argue logically that since he was there before Spock, his attendance to this particular class isn't ruined. He just needs to, y'know, get there even half a second before Spock does.

If he was hoofing it before, he was beyond hot footing it now. Weaving his way through throngs of people, he gets a glimpse of the turbolift door closing with Spock inside. Dark eyes watch him, a glint of a challenge lurking in murky depths. Spock knew he would be late.

Think fast, Jimmy, you're not defeated yet.

So, as usual, he does something unorthodox, if not inadvisable. 

Jim takes the only idea he has and rolls with it. He pulls out his data pad as he runs back outside the building and around the side where he knows the class is. It's on the third floor, making this a dangerous thing to do but he refuses to be late after the look Spock had given him. It was imbued with a challenge and if there was anything he was good at, it was finding a way to win.

He types in a message, seeing a red head of coiled hair and green skin pop out from the window moments later as he tucks his data pad away and begins to do the unthinkable.

Jim starts scaling the building. 

The windows, while they look smooth and flat, have tiny grooves where he can place his feet. Their attempt at modernising this building was admirable but there was only so much one could do with it without the building giving out and collapsing from the inside out.

He uses these little grooves to clamber up, faster than he would if he was trying to be careful. This garnered plenty of attention, several cadets peering from the window with curious stares. Some girls giggle at this, and he keeps in mind that his daring choices do often earn him bed partners, though he didn’t have as much time for them as everyone tended to assume.

Once he's high enough, the girl he'd texted initially (Gaila) reaches for him, grappling with his arms and helping to hoist him inside. Jim stumbles over the Orion and they land on a heap on the floor in the very same moment Spock walks into the class. The group surrounding them scatters, skittering back to their desks in a flurry. 

Jim rises to his feet as well, hoisting Gaila with him out of courtesy. He meets Spock's gaze, finding no emotion bleeding through to the surface.

It's a dead stare, one suggesting several questions and perhaps a firm reprimand.

Spock makes no actual comment, given Jim was not late. He begins the lecture as usual. As if the entire event had never occurred.

It's after class when he realises his professor never intended to abandon the subject. He's about to send another message to Spock on his data pad, when the man himself begins making a beeline for him and Jim frantically closes the tab and switches to something related to the lecture notes before letting the screen fall back as he spares Spock a glance. 

He smiles, polite. “Professor?”

“Cadet Kirk,” Spock acknowledges. “While impressive, I would not suggest you resort to scaling the academy building for any reason.”

Jim shrugs, as his actions weren't against the rules, though he might be part of one of their ‘I told you so’ morning meetings amongst the Starfleet Academy staff. Wouldn’t be the first time an establishment made a rule just because of him. “I just didn't want to be late for your class. Won't happen again.”

Spock stares at him, those obsidian eyes piercing through to his soul. It felt as though he were looking through him for a fleeting moment. Those obsidian eyes looking into the depths of his soul and unlocking all of his darkest secrets. 

What if he knows? Jim wonders. What if he finished hacking the system?

The silence feels charged. Spock's heady alien scent creates a miasma which suffocates him in the presence of his wrongdoings. Surely he would be disgusted if this were the case? He can't know.

Jim experiences the irrational urge to apologise before any sort of confrontation can occur, and feels the urge to confess to things Spock surely can't know he's done. 

“See to it that it does not.” Spock's flinty tone breaks him from his premature bout of panic, settling his nerves as the Vulcan turns to walk away. “It poses a risk to your physical well-being and is not the behaviour of a future Starfleet Captain.”

Jim breathes, having now realised he'd been holding his breath. It's shaky to his own ears and he hopes Spock didn't notice the deviation in his breath. He feels rickety. Residual anxiety coils in his gut like a cobra ready to strike. Jim turns his attention to the lecture notes he opened, perusing the contents for something to do. 

Since when has he cared about his physical well-being? Anyone could ask Bones and be met with an exasperated physician trying to keep his flighty patient alive.

His hands are clammy, shaking minutely as he holds his PADD.

He considers resorting to his previous intention to message Spock once more, but instead finds himself reluctant. Today, he'd leave him alone. Jim checks the chat once more, to reread some of the messages with a smug grin, but instead finds himself surprised to find Spock had messaged him first. 

One glance over at the professor, standing back at his console with a laser focus on some project. Right, the plant sample. He never got around to it. 

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: I had assumed as much.

There may not be any timestamps, but he knows this message was not sent to him yesterday. It was sent to him today, and one can deduce the reasoning was to prompt a conversation. Did Spock want to talk to him? He fights off the smile which threatens to creep onto his face. His chest swells with an odd sense of pride at gaining Spock's interest to this degree, even if it is attention meant to discover his identity.

Chancing a glance at Spock to find him as absorbed in his work as ever, he messages the Vulcan once more. Wanting to test his patience and tolerance for him, despite previously telling himself to be careful, he asks the question that's been brewing in his brain since he sent the first message.

[slyfox]: what does your dick look like?

A notification sound rings in his ears from across the classroom, and he looks up in surprise.

Wait.

Wait no.

Didn't he remove the notification sound?

His professor glances up at him with an expression he can describe as timid. Right, Spock didn't tend to have his devices unmuted when in a professional setting. Not once in attending his classes has any of his devices made any noise.

Spock looks away, eyeing his console. Then, his face flushes down to his shoulders in a delightful green colouration. The Vulcan male looks up at Jim again, who raises both eyebrows in a mock display of surprise. If he behaves as a normal cadet would, befuddled by his professor's sudden embarrassment, he could convince Spock he was innocent. 

“Professor?” Jim calls, cautious but curious. “Are you okay?”

Spock clears his throat in the most awkward attempt at composure Jim has ever seen from the stoic man. 

“All is well.” He assures in a clipped tone, turning back to his console.

Another message pops up on his own data pad, silent. Jim blinks.

There had been two subroutines.

Oh, this was going to be hacker warfare.

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: I am not answering that.

[slyfox]: not even for another hint? ;)

The notification sound rings in the room, creating a tense silence between the two. One unaware the other knows what they are talking about. Jim finds he enjoys messaging the man whilst in the same room. Seeing his reactions in real time is invigorating. 

And… arousing. He feels his traitorous dick give a twitch of interest at the idea of this conversation leading into more nefarious things. Would Spock be into sexting? Jim bites his bottom lip and hides behind his data pad like a cadet trying to ignore his professor's frantic attempts to shut down the notification system while blushing furiously.

Did he not program an off switch? If not, Spock likely would have to remove the entire string of code from the program. 

Jim opens up the code, copying the code before it promptly vanishes from sight.

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: It is green.

Once he sees the message, he plugs Spock's notification sound effect back into his program. 

[slyfox]: hardly encompasses the entirety of the question. like, yeah that's part of it but how big is it? does it work the same as a human penis?

The sound startles the Vulcan visibly, his shoulders tensing as it rings in the silent room. Jim has to purse his lips to keep from laughing as he reopens his program and watches the code vanish. Then he puts it back. It vanishes again. He replaces it once more.

Another string of code pops up, different from the previous one.

Oh, shit, that's the other notification sound—

With his head filled with curses, he removes it and rushes to power down his PADD at lightspeed. Once this is done, he tucks it into the bag draped over his shoulder and stands. His erection had flagged in the sheer magnitude of the dread he'd felt.

“Are you having trouble with your console? You seem… unsettled.” He asks in as casual a tone he can muster, walking down the steps of the lecture hall towards the Vulcan. 

Spock blinks, looking up as though he'd forgotten Jim was there. “Indeed, however, I will be able to rectify this on my own.”

Shuffling on his feet, he examines Spock's face suffused with an emerald green. 

“Maybe.” Jim agrees. “Would you like some help?”

There is a lengthy silence which seems to be interminable. Dark gaze fixed upon his screen as though avoiding eye contact would make Jim disappear. A cadet offering a professor help may be embarrassing, Jim realises belatedly and wants to slap himself. 

“I highly doubt you possess the necessary skills,” says Spock.

“Depends on what skills they are. There are others in the class who could help you if I can't. I know practically everyone.” Not really, he knew most of the female cadets and some of the males from their connections to said females.

“Programming.”

Jim pauses to create a deliberate stillness. “What programming language is it in?”

“I believe it is called ‘python’ .” 

“I know a bit.” It's not a lie. “Let me take a look. What's the problem?”

Spock's hands fly over the console, setting up something Jim cannot yet see.

“The notification audio appears not to possess any method of silencing it.” He states, stepping aside and gesturing for Jim to take a look. Surprised, Jim does so, examining Spock's handiwork once more. He's plugged the code into a separate program so Jim cannot see the chat. 

Fair enough. He wouldn't want a random cadet to stumble upon such an inappropriate conversation either.

“Did you write this?” Jim asks, acting impressed as he reads over the code for the umpteenth time today.

“Indeed.”

“What do you want me to just… add an off button?” 

“As previously stated, I am able to do so myself.” 

“Well, you were taking an awful long time to do so.” Jim says, flashing him a cheeky grin. Had he played poker against Spock's expression then, he would have suffered a miserable defeat.

“Python, as you must know, is an ancient Terran programming language. It takes time to learn.” There's a defensive edge nestled within the words, a spark of indignation. When you look for them, Jim thinks, you can see a Vulcan's emotion as clear as the stars in a twilight sky.

Yeah, that's why I used it. He thinks.

Aloud, he says: 

“So add an off button.” Whilst typing in an extra few lines of code. It takes him a few minutes to get it organised into something he hopes might work. Without the ability to test it, he won't know until later. “What are you trying to program in python anyway?”

The silence is loud.

Gotcha.

“Professor?” 

Spock clears his throat, standing rigid and stiff, as though he were a nervous cadet speaking to a high ranking officer. The flush creeps back onto his face. “I was merely attempting to reprogram a communications program installed on my PADD.”

Jim takes it without further inquiry. He shouldn't be invested in this, as an ordinary cadet.

“Seems like you butchered it in the process,” he says.

“Indeed…” 

It hits him like a bundle of bricks; this is the first true conversation he's had with Spock beyond the boundary of pure professionalism. It makes him giddy, like some school girl talking to her crush.

He's fucked.

And not in the way he wants to be.

“Well, if you ever need any more help…” Jim trails off, unsure of his offer. This was a risky manoeuvre, but he couldn't resist the tantalising allure of this man. His sharp features accentuated by a dark uniform and eyes with enough depth he's sure he could suffocate in the infinite expanse of space behind them. In the glittering sunlight, they look almost brown. 

Human. He thinks, remembering Spock's half human heritage. Jim had never noticed it prior to this occasion but Spock's eyes were remarkably human. They weren't as cold and unfeeling as other Vulcans. They were softer, rounder. Not black, but a deep brown which could be mistaken for it at the wrong angle.

These are details he couldn't see from afar. The plumpness of his lips, the way his cupid's bow curves in a delicate line upwards. All these make his face softer than one might first think. At first glance he was no different from his Vulcan peers, but it wasn't true.

Somehow, it makes Jim more curious. It makes him want to reach out and feel his skin. He's never seen a Vulcan with a beard, or body hair. Spock always wore long sleeves and shirts up the neckline. He covered every detail of skin with a barrier of cloth. Which, granted, most Vulcans did, but being who he was, he'd seen Vulcans bared somewhat. Even if just to the shoulder.

Jim wonders what else is different about him. What makes Spock… Well, Spock? What makes him a child of two worlds, in a physical sense, other than his blood?

Did he have a smooth, lean torso? Did he grow body hair and have a bit more fat like most human males?

“I may require additional assistance in the future. If you are available.” Spock says, careful with the words, and Jim blinks back into reality.

Jim has to wrangle his mind back from the hellscape it was barreling towards at terminal velocity. He boxes his mind into the present, forcing it to stay put for this moment even as it screams in protest. There is no way he can chance popping a boner here with Spock's scrutiny directed at him. 

“Yeah,” Jim says, his voice sounding winded to his own ears. “I'm available.”

The conversation turns stiff. Neither knows what to say. Jim has to tread carefully here, on account of it being his program causing this. Spock is likely none-too-thrilled at the idea of revealing his message history to a cadet. 

What has he gotten himself into? 

“You like programming?” Jim fidgets with the edge of the console, not quite sure how to end the conversation and thus awkwardly stumbling through it instead. Since when was he this nervous around someone he wanted to get into bed with? No, he was more amiable. This jittery energy was exclusive to being in Spock's presence.

“I have no particular interest in it.” While not much, it's somewhere he can find traction.

“What do you have interest in, then?” He asks.

“I have an inclination towards research and discovery.” So learning. Spock likes learning. 

Well, he is a science officer. He teaches physics, has an interest in botany (as far as Jim knows), and is the one who oversees their chemistry classes during practical application. These are all things he knows.

“I meant for fun.” Jim says, finding his former confidence and offering the Vulcan a playful eyebrow raise. Spock mimics the gesture. 

“I do not do anything simply for pleasure, however, I believe chess and meditation may fall into the same category.” 

“You play chess?” His own voice sounds a little too high in his ears, excitement clear as day. “Are you any good?”

“That is subjective.”

“Well, can I find out, then?” 

Spock gives him an odd look. A vacant stare which makes his skin crawl. 

“Very well.”

Chapter Text

It works.

The code Cadet Kirk provided is fully functional. Spock finds himself immeasurably grateful for this. His mission to locate the source of this intruder's transmission hasn't changed, however, he would be lying if he said the intellectual challenge it poses doesn't excite him. 

Cadet Kirk, the individual he suspected at first, appears to know nothing of the program. His assistance made Spock less inclined to think of him as his mystery messenger. Although, his knowledge of the programming language is suspect, so he doesn't write him off entirely either. 

Spock catalogues the information he has so far. The individual is most likely a cadet, though this does not necessarily mean they attend his courses, merely that they attend the academy. They are shorter than him and they are human. None of this information narrows it down enough to draw any conclusions.

[LCDR-S'Chn-T'Gai-Spock]: The specific details are not stated within the question and are therefore an afterthought.

Spock picks up a mug of tea he brewed earlier, taking a tentative sip as he considers his options. This game has gone on for long enough for him to decide this intruder was not malicious. All his systems ran fine, there was no spy software running in the background of his programming as far as he could tell. It was what one may call harmless. Irksome, but harmless.

Being an irritation wasn't a crime, though civil claims could be filed against this individual. 

[slyfox]: not budging on this one :/

Spock permits himself a sigh. He does not know how ‘big’ he is because it is illogical to measure such a thing. In the end, his desire to uncover the identity of this individual outweighs the flicker of indignation. 

He shifts his chair back, untying the front of his robe and allowing it to hang loose for a moment as he picks up his tricorder from his desk and sets it to measure the length of an object. This is deplorable for any Vulcan. Spock has to remind himself the purpose wasn't to sate his own curiosity, but somebody else's. There was logic in this, an end goal.

The problem was, in order to measure his size, he needed to become erect. The shaft is internal, sitting inside a sheath designed to shield it from the elements. It also lacked the dual function of a human penis, being used in copulation exclusively. 

Spock moves his robe out of his way, sitting with his legs spread. Despite the privacy of his home, he feels his face heating up. 

Embarrassment, he quickly identifies.

He will rectify it with meditation at a later time. 

He places the tricorder on his desk, shimmying his underwear down enough for him to reach the slit without hindrance. While it was rare for Vulcans to masturbate, given the emotional implications of such a carnal action, he did indulge in it on occasion. Spock wasn't juvenile; he knew what to do.

His fingers slide over delicate folds, the stimulus engorging the area with blood overtime until each pass back and forth evokes a fluttering sensation of pleasure. Expression kept neutral, he slips his fingers past these folds, finding the shaft near the entrance. 

Spock attempts to ignore the sensations, the temptation in his actions. No, his purpose was to measure and be done, he did not intend to pleasure himself to completion now. 

Brushing a pad over the head, it pushes out farther, peeking out in interest. His face burns hot with both embarrassment and arousal. 

He removes his fingers, breathing sharply at the spike of pleasure brought on by the movement. No, he is Vulcan, he is in control. Spock uses his thumb to make small circles around the peeking head with his hand already coated with his own slick.

It slides further out, far enough for him to take in hand. A few strokes is all it takes for it to emerge in its entirety, standing tall and curving towards his stomach. Once he removes it, he finds himself tempted to place it back. The thought of using this time for pleasure further excites his lok. A gob of precum slides from the slit at the head, trailing down the shaft.

Ignoring this, Spock picks up the tricorder with his clean hand, measuring his length and girth with a hazy mind. To be besieged by one's own tumescence is unacceptable. His resolve is resolute. Once he has the measurements, he ignores his erection in its entirety. 

He pushes it back inside even as it resists him and pulls his underwear back over it. Then adjusts his robe with shaky hands. This was why he didn't indulge in it often. It was tantalising. His erection pulses in complaint as he clenches his muscles to keep it inside his body. 

Spock cleans his hand with a cloth kept in his drawer in case of liquid spills, then puts it away to worry about later. Returning to his data pad, he types in the information. 

[LCDR-S'Chn-T'Gai-Spock]: 6.2 inches in length and 5 inches in girth. The lok does not serve the same dual function as a human penis.

His face is still hot. His skin screams in protest of being provoked into such a state and then ignored. His veins sing with a need he has trouble fully processing.

The question is, by far, the most inappropriate one he has answered. He realises this, late enough to wonder what the potential repercussions would be.

For all he knows, this information could be used to blackmail him.

Kaiidth.

He should have thought of that before sharing it. 

[slyfox]: eyo why did that take so long

The flush heating his face spreads down to his shoulders. 

[slyfox]: did you measure yourself? oh my god (rhetorical question, don't answer that)

So this is what humans meant when they said they wanted the ground to open up and swallow them.

Spock hasn't experienced this level of utter humiliation since he was a child. At the time he'd been bloodied and bruised with sore knuckles and impending dread at what his father might say.

Not… sitting with a straining erection feeling like he wants to crawl out of his own skin.

A cadet, he reminds himself.

[slyfox]: are you still hard?

[LCDR-S'Chn-T'Gai-Spock]: I believe you owe me a hint.

[slyfox]: put it on my tab for a second

[slyfox]: are you?

Spock considers lying, but Vulcans do not lie. Seeing this is a second question, and therefore another hint, he vanquishes the thought.

[LCDR-S'Chn-T'Gai-Spock]: Indeed.

[slyfox]: oohhhh my god

[slyfox]: ill give you an extra hint if you send a picture? ;>

Spock opens his camera and takes a picture of his desk, facing towards the ground. He didn't realise he could send images in the first place. It adds to the genius engineering of the program itself despite its surface level simplicity.

Fascinating.

[slyfox]: that is not what i meant

[LCDR-S'Chn-T'Gai-Spock]: You did not specify what the picture had to be of.

There is a long pause. 

[slyfox]: touchè

[slyfox]: hold on

The intruder vanishes then. Spock waits for two standard minutes before shifting focus to a different task. Did this mystery messenger just cheat information from him and abandon him without further clues? 

Kaiidth.

There was nothing he could do about it now. 

His arousal dims somewhat.

Some favourable news comes then, a message from a Risian scientist approving his order for the Naltex samples and sending over some forms he is required to fill in. If nothing else, they had distracted him from the hours spent waiting for this moment. 

He is startled by the notification sound once more. 

They had not abandoned him. Spock can appreciate that they at least keep to their word.

[slyfox]: okay, three, right? 

[slyfox]: 1: i like flowers 

[slyfox]: 2: i have short hair

Neither of these details are helpful. 

[slyfox]: i dont have a third one

[LCDR-S'Chn-T'Gai-Spock]: You do. Your name.

[slyfox]: now wheres the fun in that? nono, ill give you a third one, just give me a second

[LCDR-S'Chn-T'Gai-Spock]: It has been more than a second.

[slyfox]: jesus, okay. i have good test scores

Spock takes a mental note of these details, vague as they may be. Some distant part of him finds this game amusing. These clues will add up in the end, leading to a guaranteed discovery of this mystery individual. What do they have to gain from this?

[slyfox]: how are you?

Answering is illogical, as inappropriate queries are the ones which provide him with hints. This was the agreement. Yet, responding to this query doesn't have any negative effect. 

So he does, wondering how this person could go from focusing on his arousal to ordinary conversation so smoothly.

[LCDR-S'Chn-T'Gai-Spock]: I am functional.

[slyfox]: what are you doing? or were doing… before you messaged me?

[LCDR-S'Chn-T'Gai-Spock]: I was researching an alien flora. 

[slyfox]: a flower?

Ah, yes, they did state their enjoyment of flowers. Deciding to humour them in this, he takes an image of the rich red of the naltex flower and sends it. 

[slyfox]: pretty. here, i have a few of these

An image of a red Terran flower appears on his screen. It's not a rose, and it takes a quick internet search to discover it is, in fact, a tulip. He's seen them before but had never found any particular interest in them. Did this cadet like tulips?

Another photo appears then of the traditional Terran red rose. Ah, the cadet was sending images of red flowers specifically, then.

The next one he had to look up, which was a Terran spider lily. Another was a poppy. 

Spock decides to join in for no other purpose than to have something to do. He finds images of Vulcan flora, with flowers, which happen to be red. Sending each one across, the cadet comments on each one meticulously with some word of praise for the plant. Questions about what they were and other things like what they smelled like, which Spock did not know, and if they had any uses.

The conversation ends with the cadet disappearing without warning, leaving Spock to stare at the screen awaiting a reply until the realisation sinks in. 

His jaw ticks.

His arousal, having flared to life again at the prospect of further provocation from his mystery messenger, aches. 

Spock sighs, no more than a soft exhalation. Controlled yet frustrated.

He waits ten standard minutes before permitting himself to divest himself of his clothing once more. His lok takes the momentary distraction to free itself once more and curl towards his abdomen. Wetness slides along his skin, slick dripping from his sheath.

Spock waits another five before permitting himself to slide his palm along the underside of his erection. Both his hand and his erection are hot. Warmer than before.

The simple touch makes him hiss through his teeth. 

Increased sensitivity. Wonderful. 

If his erection continues to distract him, his work will suffer, and thus he concludes it logical to allow himself release this once. 

《☆》

Near-silent chatter fills the ambience of the library with a staticy hum of noise which humans may not even detect. It should be distracting, but he has grown used to this, given the tendency for differing humanoid species to be vocal in their endeavours.

Spock adjusts the pieces in front of him, finding the rook misaligned by a millimetre.

“Hey.” Comes a hushed, fatigued voice over his shoulder. That now familiar head of blond hair comes into view a moment later as Kirk slides into the seat opposite him. His breaths are sharp and faster than the human average. His face is flushed with a reddish tint. 

Spock concludes this to be the result of unwanted cardio.

“Had to run across campus.” Kirk confirms, meeting his eyes. A coy smile comes across his face, a lilt to his tone conveying a playful coquetry. “Hope I didn't keep you waiting.”

“You did not.” 

“Good, good...” With this, he turns to the checkered board in front of them. 

Kirk makes the first move. 

“Kinda funny, I never see you play in here.” The game goes on between snippets of dialogue. “And I'm in here quite often.”

“I do not typically linger as my work is more easily done at a console or within the laboratory.” Spock meets Kirk's gaze for a brief interval where niether is moving, finding the human focused on the board with a smile.

“The science lab?” He muses, gaze fixed to one side of the board. Spock follows his gaze, trying to locate the source of his interest. What was he planning? “Any projects you're working on?”

“Indeed.” Where there's a glaring weakness in Kirk's position on the board, he takes the opportunity to pressure it. “I am conducting research on a particular type of plant which has caught my interest.”

Kirk lifts his head infinitesimally before dropping it again. “What's so interesting about it?”

“The spores appear to have an effect on humanoid hormone cycles. I wish to understand what causes this.”

“ All humanoid species?” He plays with one of his captured pieces, fidgeting with it by knocking it over and bringing it up again repeatedly. “Well it's obviously a chemical then. What kind of effect? Is it a narcotic? Or does it invoke nausea?”

“Arousal.” 

The piece falls over and rolls off the table. Kirk stares at where it was, blinking once before meeting his gaze. “Now why on earth would you want to study something like that?”

“I wish to understand what benefit it is to invoke such a reaction, as it seems to have a tendency to grow in densely populated areas.”

Kirk nods along, half paying attention as Spock makes his move. Checkmate in two moves if he plays strategically. 

At least, it would have been, if Kirk didn't slide a queen forward from the depths of hell, bringing it up two levels, to put a pin on his king. 

Both of his eyebrows go up.

The cadet picks up his king by its crown as Spock realises he's been beaten, grinning as he holds it upside down. “Maybe it's just perverted.”

“Highly unlikely, as it is not sentient.” 

An amused sigh. “I was kidding.”

“Perhaps one should not project their own image onto a being which is not sentient.” This rewards him with a bark of laughter, warm and vibrant. 

“So Vulcans do have a sense of humour! Who thought a walking search engine could be funny?” 

Spock inclines his head, an illogical sense of pride nagging at the edges of his mind. 

They reset the board, beginning a new game without thought. Spock takes the first move.

“I suppose you heard the rumours then?” Indeed, even Spock has heard the rumours of this particular cadet's promiscuity, though he does not believe any human capable of engaging such a high number of people in coitus. He concluded the rumours were untrue based on this observation.

“Yes, although I would hope to find them to be exaggerated.” He watches Kirk take out a knight.

“Oh, yeah, it's grossly exaggerated.” Kirk chuckles. “I hear people who I've never once seen claim that I slept with them. It's actually kind of irksome.”

“That seems… quite troublesome.” 

“Eh, you get used to it, but I was thinking the other day that if I slept around as much as those rumours said, I would get nothing done.” 

As Spock suspected. His focus is on clearing pathways for both his bishops and rooks.

“Seeing as though we're on this topic, what about you? You got a girlfriend?” Kirk moves his eyebrows in a manner Spock can only describe as ‘waggling’.

“I am not currently engaged in courtship.” 

“That's a surprise.” 

He raises an eyebrow. 

“I mean, you're pretty well put together from where I'm standing. Surprised nobody makes a grab for you.” The smile he shoots Spock's way is all innocence. 

“You are currently seated and I have thankfully not had anybody ‘make a grab’ for me.” This entire time, Kirk has been forming a solid claim to the centre of the board, as if it were something he did everyday. Spock finds himself struggling to reclaim control. “None I have encountered have interested me in such a way.”

“So you've never…” His hand waves in the air in an undecided swing of his wrist. “Courted?”

“I have had a partner before.” 

Kirk hums, becoming irritatingly effective at cornering his pieces. “Oh, I see. I've been around the block a few times but I stopped after getting into the Academy. Never have the time and people want your attention a lot .”

Forced to change to a more defensive strategy, Spock starts looking for openings. “I am gratified that you take your studies seriously.”

He finds one, catching Kirk off guard. The human tilts his head, eyes widening at the change in the rather sudden dynamic. Then a smile tugs at his lips as he leans forward, eyebrows furrowing into an expression Spock recognises to be determination.

“Speaking of studies…” Kirk makes a move, failing to account for the presence of his queen and blundering the bishop in the process. “I was reading up about inertial dampeners.”

His next move doesn't save him, and Spock finds himself edging towards a victory this time. The game itself, while notably having turned into an afterthought, was stimulating. It's been a while since someone has challenged him like this.

“And I thought I'd ask you. Y'know, because you specialise in physics and making people cry.” 

Spock blinks, turning his eyes away from the board. Kirk's smile widens.

“I do not specialise in causing emotional upheaval.”

“Yeah, well, everyone in your class ‘cept for me and some other dude has broken down in tears at least once.” He raises an eyebrow, fingers ceasing to fidget with the piece in his hand. “Gotta admit, you're kinda scary. Why, you could probably kill someone with a look.”

Spock opens his mouth to deny this fact, but finds he can't. It is true, though Spock never figured out why. He thought he was perfectly logical regarding such matters.

It was disconcerting at times, as he attempted to curb sections of dialogue on occasion to prevent it.

He closes his mouth and turns back to the match. Then he speaks. “I doubt looking at someone could result in their death.”

Kirk snickers. “I don't. You'll give someone a heart attack.” 

“Anyway,” he counters Spock's move and leaves the game once again in an unfavourable position, “let's talk physics. Go.”

“Did you not say moments ago that you had studied it by yourself? Surely you have a more specific inquiry?”

“Yeah but I want to hear it explained—” he waves his hand around with a thoughtless motion— “differently.”

“Well, as you are likely to know, the inertial dampener acts as a sort of cosmic shock absorber to prevent our bodies from being torn apart once we enter warp.” 

Kirk leans forward onto the table, elbows pressed into the surface with his hand propped up on his hands. His pupils are blown and he's perpetually smiling. He also appears to be perspiring since his hands are sweaty.

His head tilts, conveying confidence despite the small indicator of what Spock assumes to be anxiety. “They would be functionally useless if not for the artificial gravitational field within the ship itself, wouldn't they? I mean, you have to trick the objects within the ship into thinking they aren't going at lightspeed, don't you?”

“That is correct.” Spock raises an eyebrow, impressed. “Additionally, a second set of generators is used to create a force field in order to absorb the inertial stress created when a starship accelerates to higher velocities.”

“So those inertial dampening field generators form a structural integrity field which reinforces the external structure of the ship?”

James Kirk, Spock finds, is very good company.

Chapter Text

His mind hadn't drifted once, which he finds to be a monumental achievement, given the man before him. Somewhere between his question and now, the conversation had changed course. Discussing the very same thing he was the maker of was stressful, but he could pull it off without giving himself away.

Clammy hands or not.

“So the software shouldn't be there?” He posits.

Spock pauses, seemingly realising he's made some kind of verbal error somewhere to give himself away. If Jim didn't know already, he's sure he would've still managed to figure it out.

“Why don't you just… delete it?” Jim tries, raising an eyebrow as his queen is backed into a corner on the board. 

“It acts as a virus. It will not release my system.” He says, as if that saves anything. What he really wants to know is why Spock didn't get rid of it. It was bothersome, wasn't it?

“Yeah, but I mean, surely you can weed it out with a factory reset?” He saves his queen somehow, then leans back. “Unless it infected your entire network.”

“It did not.”

Yeah, I know. It doesn't answer his question.

“I wish to locate the individual who installed the program in the first place.” 

But that does. “Sooo… you want me to help?” 

“While I am capable of locating methods of my own—” this must be an ego thing because he has never once met a Vulcan who didn't have to justify needing help— “I would appreciate some assistance.”

“Well I could definitely try, but from what you've described… It's not exactly easy hacking. Why don't you report it?” And Spock, honest to God, blushes. He sees a brilliant green suffusion overtake his ears and dust his cheeks in light splotches. It's only for a second, Spock regains his composure with commendable ease, but Jim relishes having caused the momentary lapse in control. So he continues. “Surely the admiralty has members more suited for—”

“Yes I am well aware of this fact, Mr Kirk, and if I wished for their assistance I would have requested it.” There is little infection in his voice, yet Jim can tell this is the Vulcan equivalent of snapping at him to get off his ass about it. Jim doesn't push any further, not wanting to ruin his chances at befriending Spock.

His silence must feel oppressive because Spock speaks further unprompted. “The nature of contact is… private. I do not wish to involve the higher ranks when I am able to solve this issue myself.”

Fair enough, he wouldn't want the admiralty poking around on his data pad either. 

And Jim is grateful, he doesn't want to be caught being… well, a creep. He should be disgusted by his own actions but if Spock wasn't so keen on reporting it, he supposes it wasn't so bad. Especially if Spock was willing to humour him to the extent where he'd measure his own dick for him…

Jim wills away the bright red flush he's sporting. It was hard (not to mention hot) to imagine this well put together Vulcan with his hand on his cock.

He's glad there's a checkered board between those intense eyes and his developing erection.

《☆》

When Jim had walked into the bar, he had not planned for any trouble. No, he had brought both Gaila and a begrudging Ahura along with him, for the sake of some pleasant chatter. Also, as the xenolinguistics expert, Ahura could assist Jim in learning a few words in Vulcan. 

He hoped he could impress Spock with it. Sure, maybe he was just looking for a roll in the hay, but it didn't hurt to make it easier for himself, right? So that had been his ultimate goal.

Get a few drinks into the pair and sweet talk his favourite killjoy, whose tongue was sharper than a switchblade, into teaching him a few words of conversational Vulcan. 

Especially since he'd been avoiding Spock for three days online and offline. He's not too sure how to pretend to dismantle his own program or how to pretend he doesn't know exactly where to hit the code. In his effort to get closer physically, he'd managed to get himself into two pretzel knots of well fuck and what the fuck.

Like, how could he have known the man would touch himself, or at least, that’s what he assumed he was doing, just for a hint? It had shocked him so badly he’d very nearly fallen out of his chair whilst in the midst of studying.

Oh well, he dug this grave, he may as well lie in it.

Gaila skips ahead into the bar, fiery coils bouncing up and down as she goes. Ahura follows Jim, remaining at his side until they settle at the bar counter together in a huddle. 

“I'm paying this time.” Ahura says, giving him the world's most criminally offensive side eye. 

Jim laughs, waving her off. “Like hell you are.”

She hums as they order their drinks, the three of them settling into comfortable chatter. Gaila always starts them off with an excitable recount of her day, and they build off of it with ease. The night was progressing exactly how he’d wanted it to. Ahura had been easy to coax into giving him basic lessons in Vulcan, which was a nice surprise, and he’d been so caught up in figuring out how to pronounce: ‘Dif-tor heh smusma’, without an accent, when shit hit the fan.

It started off lightly, with Ahura and Gaila scurrying off together to the bathroom (in a pair for safety reasons, though he wasn’t sure Gaila needed the protection as much as Ahura might, but with her ability to death glare he still doubted it). 

This had been okay. He drank alone for a bit, examining the crow decoupage and chatting to the lanky insect-looking guy next to him. Jim was trying to remember the name of the species for most of the conversation when a hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around fast enough to give him whiplash. He could’ve sworn it bruised him. 

When he looks at the face…

He wishes they’d stayed on campus.

“You brat.” 

For years he’d thought this encounter would involve a lot of screaming. Hell, he’d imagined clocking the guy on sight. All those times spent daydreaming about a time where he could tear this man down with a well delivered speech consisting of all the despicable things he’d done to him… to his mother, although she was no saint herself.

Instead, all he has to say is a pathetic utterance of recognition.

“Frank…” 

It takes every ounce of willpower to remind himself he’s not the defenceless little kid whose arm was broken after he drove the man’s car off a cliff.

 Was it deserved? 

Maybe, but Jim never dreamed of doing something so cruel to a child of any age.

《☆》

The universe was laughing at him when he walked (now he says this generously, as it was more of a limp) into his apartment with Bones standing in the kitchen drinking a glass of water. The temperature in the apartment borders on frigid, making him wonder if the heating system broke or if his friend was secretly a reindeer. 

They lock eyes, and he knows he’s knee deep in shit from the expression on the man’s face. “My God, man, did you pick a fight with a boxing champion?”

The pain searing along his body is evidence enough of his plight. Jim would laugh if he didn't get to loathe the tears forcing their way to his eyes. The world is both blurry and somehow has developed its own axis to spin on. 

“I’m like… ninety percent sure boxing champions don’t hang out in bars.” He slurs out. “Really that bad, huh?”

A wordless motion for him to sit down says yes. 

Jim is half tempted to head to his room, but knows his resident mother hen will follow him with several curses and additional barked orders. 

His entire face in the nasal region feels like it were a sponge allowed to soak up too much liquid. One eye is functionally useless to him with how badly it’s tearing up. He doesn’t even remember being clocked in the face but whatever. 

“Got banned from the bar.” For the first time since joining the academy. 

Sure, maybe his ego needed to be knocked down a few pegs, but there was no way this wasn’t getting to at least a couple of his professors. 

If this gets to Pike… 

Actually when this gets to Pike. 

This was definitely getting to Pike, no doubts about it.

Jim didn’t even start the fight. 

The moment he laid eyes on the man, he knew he’d rather swallow a box of nails with strep throat than put his fists between them with the very real potential of losing.

Well, he didn't lose, exactly. They were kicked out the bar not even a minute into it.

Bones takes a seat next to him. “You look like a pufferfish.”

“Sorry.”

Bones was muttering something about swelling and bruises as he waved a tricorder around his face and arms. Oh yeah, his arms… he didn’t think much of it. 

The humming of a regenerator started up, prompting him to look at the faint blue light as it fanned over him. Bones leaned closer. The man’s brows were furrowed in concentration with his bottom lip pulled between his teeth. “Dammit, Jim. What happened this time?”

“Just got into another brawl. Nothing new, Bones.”

“Bullshit. I know you’ve been avoiding bar fights like the black plague since you joined Starfleet. Out with it.” When met with an unyielding blank stare, Bones sighs. “Look, kid, I know you’ve got a habit of avoiding your problems but this is important, y’know?”

He knows. 

He doesn’t want to talk about it, because if he does he’ll start sobbing and he can’t do that to his best friend. Bones didn’t sign up to take care of his ass all the damn time. He’s not his mother.

His mother's still off planet somewhere.

“My step-dad showed up.” It’s a murmur, one he hopes Bones will understand means he’s not up for a conversation about this. Jim flinches away from the disinfectant-soaked cotton swab wiped over the flesh under his eye. “It’s fine.”

Quality regenerators were a godsend but they weren’t the best for super minor injuries. Jim used to have a regenerator for more minor injuries but it died.

He'll buy a new one on his way home from the academy.

Bones wasn’t going to waste the life of a medical grade regenerator on a bunch of bruises. The humming had stopped and the swelling was down a fair bit, aside from the puffiness of one eye, but that could be left to heal on its own. 

Not the prettiest but he’d live.

“Jim—” 

He shrugs off the hand on his shoulder. 

“It’s fine, Bones, really.” Jim has to use the remainder of his willpower to tear his gaze away from the kicked-puppy expression forming on his friend’s face. His gaze softens from the usual eternal grumpiness.

Pity, Jim thinks.

“Alright, Jim.” Bones mutters, putting his medical supplies away with unhurried movements. 

While he appreciates the company, he doesn’t want it for when he inevitably breaks down. He can feel the tears beginning to prick his eyes insistently. Then there's the telltale tightness of his throat.

“Goodnight, Bones.” Jim is up before Bones can stop him, ignoring the guilt clawing at his being when he catches a glimpse of Bones jumping to his feet as he slams his room door shut in his haste. 

He didn’t mean to slam it. 

He stands there in the dark, not bothering with the lights. 

He didn’t mean too. 

When this happened as a kid Frank would burst into his room telling him off for having an attitude, then beat him senseless since he wanted to be a brat. It takes several seconds for him to settle down from fight or flight and remind himself Bones won’t do the same. 

He can apologise in the morning, but for now? 

For now he needed a fucking minute.

Maybe a hug but he wasn’t going out there after slamming the fucking door.

Jim takes a shaky breath, being as quiet as possible in making his way to bed. 

He curls up under his covers, seeking solace from the warmth of the blankets and the faint hum of the electronics in his room. The snake coiled around his lungs tightens until he finds himself breathing raggedly against his will, staring into the darkness. Tomorrow he’ll be back to being the fearless and cocky bastard he always was. 

Here and now? He was a man in distress. Not James T. Kirk, future starship captain, but a man alone, crying soundlessly to himself in pitch black. 

“Damn it, Kirk, pull yourself together…” His voice is lost to the darkness, meek and chewed raw by the snake which had travelled from his lunges to lodge in his throat. 

‘Ding!’

Jim flinches, hesitating before he sits up and turns towards his bag, where he’d hung it over his chair and left it for the evening. 

The idea of someone messaging him at this hour was preposterous. Gaila, maybe. She would worry about his disappearance from the bar more than Ahura would. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if Ahura didn’t notice his absence in the first place.

Emotions stir and simmer beneath the surface, tucked determinedly away. 

A hurricane that hides under the surface in the same way a mouse may scurry beneath wooden floorboards.

Invisible unless lured out by something it finds to be of interest. 

A poor metaphor, given that the object of interest is usually a mouse trap, and he doubts this would devolve into such a rapid consequence. 

But one snap and the mouse dies.

He feels like the mouse.

A tiny, fuzzy thing with no real defenses other than a determined little scurry in the opposite direction of something that might hurt.

The floorboards creak under his feet as he finds his footing, rising up to close the short distance from his bed to his chair and retrieve his PADD from the bag. The screen lights up once in hand, displaying the open chat between Spock and him. 

His eyebrows furrow, looking through blurred vision at the message. 

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: [Image attachment]

It was a Vulcan flower, he could tell, yet it resembled the Terran ‘Luna Red’ Hibiscus flower. The message was random, unnecessary, and odd. 

Spock did not message him first unless he could brush it off as answering a previous query or statement.

Yet this time it was unprompted.

[slyfox]: looks like luna red hibiscus

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: Your ability to identify plants by name is impressive, but it is not a Terran flower.

Jim laughs dryly, taking his data pad with him to lie back down on his bed in silence. He lies on his side, cradling the PADD in his hands. 

Tears still fell, of course, and the feeling didn’t go away, but at least he could talk to someone who didn’t get to know about it later and treat him like he was made of glass for the next few days.

[slyfox]: i know

Jim figures it’ll be the end of the conversation if he doesn’t… well, ask something, but he doesn’t know what to ask. His mind is not on such things at the moment. All those questions about how his human half affects him have vacated his mind.

He is no more than this hollow feeling and these stubborn tears.

His eyes drift shut, attempting to find something to ask, yet he comes up blank. Another shaky breath and a sinking feeling of inutility. 

‘Ding!’

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: For what purpose did you seek contact with me?

Ah.

[slyfox]: just to ask you stuff

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: It seems illogical to ask one of your lecturers inappropriate queries.

[slyfox]: maybe

It ends again, and he sighs, letting his PADD fall to the bed. What was the point of this anyway?

‘Ding!’

Jim blinks away some more tears. What was with Spock’s persistence today? Was he trying to prompt another question from Jim so he could get another hint? It wasn’t going to work, he could barely think beyond the pain behind his ribs and the dull ache of the bruises on his body from Frank.

‘Ding!’

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: You exhibit an unusual lack of enthusiasm.

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: This is a common sign of distress in humans.

Wow, okay, leave it to the pointy-eared bastard to read him like a book without any body language to work with. He doesn’t know if he should be uneasy or impressed.

[slyfox]: yeah and? doesnt matter 

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: I am compelled to disagree.

[slyfox]: compelled by what?

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: My desire to discover your identity. Your distress appears to have significantly hampered your ability to engage conversation, therefore meaning I do not acquire further hints.

Jim, in spite of himself, snorts.

[slyfox]: thats a really funny way to say you care about my well being, pointy

There is no response to that. 

Spock ignores it flat out, in fact.

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: What causes your distress?

His anonymity makes him consider it. It’s not as though Spock would ever know if he was vague enough to avoid key details. Keeping it personal and not mentioning the bar.

[slyfox]: you really wanna know?

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: Affirmative.

[slyfox]: my step-dad showed up specifically to beat the shit out of me

Spock disappears for a second. Jim somehow knows he’s still there, but feels his anxiety climb at the prolonged wait. Those three little dots ease his mind somewhat, but not after the fifth attempt on Spock’s end to think up a response.

Knowing the Vulcan (and he barely knows him) this was just another attempt for extra information. It wasn’t likely he signed up to be a therapist when he woke up this morning and Jim doesn’t even blame him when he disappears again. That was probably the Vulcan equivalent of hitting a wall.

Except it doesn’t last.

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: Filial bonds are not my strong suit.

[slyfox]: what, your dad also a dick?

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: I would not phrase it so colourfully but, in essence, yes.

Huh… guess humans aren’t the only ones with daddy issues.

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: Although, assuming you are an adult, the situation sounds as though you could very well involve the authorities.

[slyfox]: nah thats overkill

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: You were assaulted.

[slyfox]: hes my DAS

[slyfox]: dad***

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: That does not change the fact.

[slyfox]: im not reporting my dad to the police, good god

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: Very well. Are you in a safe location?

[slyfox] yes

[slyfox]: wait why does it matter to you

Jim knows the question comes off as rude, but the question itself felt unusual. Like, he was straight up harassing Spock with this chat system and the man still appeared concerned.

It didn’t make sense. 

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: You are a cadet.

Leave it to Spock to answer his question in the slightest.

[slyfox]: i literally installed an irremovable messaging program on your padd

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: Your inappropriate conduct is irrelevant in this context. As your superior, it is still my duty to ensure your safety. 

He sits up, leaning against his headboard with the data pad held loosely between his fingers, his free hand wiping at drying tears. “Seriously…”

The smile on his face won’t go away now.

[slyfox]: fair enough

Because he isn’t going to argue about it. He’s just grateful Spock managed to make him feel better.

[slyfox]: yknow what fuck it

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: What do you mean?

[slyfox]: i have blue eyes

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spoc

k]: ?

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: I have not answered any inappropriate queries.

[slyfox]: consider it a thank you, then, im going to bed

[LCDR-S’Chn-T’Gai-Spock]: Very well.

Chapter Text

Spock does not narrow down his list of possible candidates any further.

The Naltex samples arrive, so when he acquires them he takes them down to the lab with him for study. They are kept in a glass container with an artificial atmosphere inside to keep the flowers alive. 

The cluster of flowers existing on each stem is a sight to behold. They’re gorgeous, and if he didn’t know what their spores were capable of doing to a person, he’d never think to avoid inhaling them. The rich reds taper off into brilliant yellow in the center of the bells as they red towards the floor of their container, sapping nutrients from the soil they were planted in. 

Spock places the plant out of the way, tucked into a corner alongside some other research. This was the academy’s science lab, thus projects like this were put aside until students had filtered out entirely. Now was prior to a class, and so he got to spend some time investigating the properties of these spores.

As he conducted his research, Spock encountered a plethora of fascinating phenomena. Preliminary tests indicated that the Naltex spores contained a complex mixture of volatile organic compounds that stimulated the nervous system in a manner similar to certain hallucinogenic substances. However, unlike typical hallucinogens, the effects of the Naltex spores appeared to be short-lived, leading to intense bursts of creativity, arousal (obviously) and heightened sensory perception.

Despite the allure of his findings, Spock maintained a disciplined approach. He documented every detail, employing rigorous scientific methods to ensure the integrity of his results. His Vulcan heritage instilled in him a profound respect for nature, and he sought to understand the ecological role of the Naltex plant within its habitat.

For now, however, he decided to put his curiosity aside. He had a class to teach in fifteen minutes and he did not intend to have the cadets wait for him to put his research away, so he puts it away now.

The cadets were doing a rather simple experiment for a project they needed to complete by the end of the week, and so all Spock does is supervise and make sure nobody is getting up to anything they shouldn’t. Although, he doesn’t expect them to be getting up to anything at all, seeing as though they’re all training to be aboard a starship where doing something other than what you’re told could get you into trouble. It could get everyone into trouble, in fact, if the situation was dire. 

Of course, he does help if asked, but only for theory work.

The experiment is based upon the effects of artificial gravitational forces on an object, as well as the effect of smaller tractor beams on the encased object. Each cadet has their own equipment and is working alone.

As he supervises, walking around in a circle, his mind goes over the things he knows about his online messenger to pass the time. He finds, in this room, there are several candidates for this. Short hair, blue eyes, top grades, shorter than he is. Well, it narrows it down to about four, considering that having blue eyes has become a genetic miracle amongst humans to begin with.

“Professor.” A light tug to the sleeve of his shirt catches his attention, thus he turns from his path to cadet Kirk. “I don’t think the tractor beam is working.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Well, it’s… watch this, I guess.” Kirk tampers with the buttons on his machinery, and instead of pulling the object, the beam seems to act more as a propulsion cannon, throwing the metal sphere (hovering within the artificial atmosphere) into the ceiling of its enclosure with a soft clink.

Spock furrows his eyebrows. “I see.”

He looks up from the device to address Kirk directly, but pauses mid-sentence at his appearance. One of his eyes is puffier than the other, bruised around the edges similar to a black eye, but obviously healed somewhat by a dermal regenerator.

Spock knows it wasn’t present yesterday. Kirk had passed him in the hallway at approximately 1423 hours and lacked the visible marking. 

He chooses not to think about it.

“Allow me to take a look.”

Kirk steps aside, hands going up to either side of his head as he surrenders his equipment. He backs into a corner, standing with his hands on his hips as he watches Spock open up the circuitry.

And then, as humans say, all hell breaks loose.

One might have expected it to be the faulty equipment, but the error occurs elsewhere.

“Professor!” A female cadet shrieks.

He pokes his head up, only to be thrown off balance when two hands grapple at his shoulders and yank him out of the way. If he'd been prepared it wouldn't have caused him to topple as he did, alas, he was not.

One of the spheres flies overhead, where he was standing, and glass shatters. Just as soon, there is a vapour in the air, the smell being the first thing he noticed.

Sweet and honey-like.

For once, Spock doesn't think.

“Everyone vacate the room!” 

They don't have to be told twice, and he will have to commend them for their obedience in a crisis situation later. Now? Now he had a problem.

Kirk, who had knocked him over to begin with, begins to follow, but he grabs his upper arm. “Not you.”

“What—”

“We were the closest. We are now affected.” Spock stands straighter, firstly accessing the control panel of the room to lock the door and disable the cameras and audio recording systems. Inadvisable, perhaps, but he can the admiralty up later on it. Spock is not dealing with the scandal of a lifetime if he cannot locate some solution.

“I will attempt to locate a remedy.” Then he pulls up a schematic of cures, ignoring the fuzzy sensation crawling along his skin.

“Remedy to what? What is that smell?”

“Do you recall the effects of the plant we spoke of during our game of chess?” Spock doesn't look up when he hears Kirk choke on nothing.

“Wait, it's that flower?” 

He pauses, looking up at Kirk with furrowed eyebrows, scrutinising his expression. The man is looking at the flowers scattered on the floor, an odd expression on his features which Spock cannot identify. Confusion? Acknowledgement? Recognition?

The cadet's hands are shaky and damp. When Kirk looks at him, he freezes, then laughs in a manner he commonly finds humans do to dispel nerves. “Well, it's an… interesting… plant…”

He thinks no further of it, turning back to his console in search of some solution.

What was a fuzzy feeling turns into a warmth spreading all over his body. Reading about the symptoms and experiencing them first hand, he finds, are two very different feelings. The warmth consumes him, igniting as if by a spark to set his skin ablaze. 

He becomes excruciatingly aware of Kirk moving until he’s standing at his back, breathing non-too-discreetly with a heavier breath than perhaps strictly necessary. “Okay, this is hell.”

“Agreed.” 

Kirk adjusts his stance, shifting to stand abreast of him and peer over his shoulder. He knows Kirk is reading the top half of the website when he takes a sharp breath. Spock finds he agrees with this sentiment too. One of the easiest ways in which one could overcome the affliction is via sexual stimulus and he was unwilling to participate in such behaviour without first looking for other alternatives.

“Woooohhh boy.” Kirk moves away, leaving a hollow cold air in his place as Spock double checks his notes. 

His hands tremble with a minute loss of his composure and control and he’s left berating himself for the placement of his research. Had he placed it elsewhere, in another corner perhaps, this would not have been the result. His primary focus would still be on fixing whatever was wrong with Kirk’s equipment and not standing here with arousal worming its way under his skin as he tries to ignore the spores’ effects.

Somewhere behind him glass clinks and crunches underfoot. His vision blurs for a moment, forcing him to blink himself out of the spike of urgent need shooting through his system faster than a rogue phaser bullet. 

Kirk appears next to him, placing the crumpled mass of Naltex samples down and then moving back. Spock pretends not to notice the erection straining the front of the unflattering red bottoms of the cadet’s uniform. 

Again Kirk appears, this time with two Naltex flowers which were not destroyed by the impact. He fidgets with the soil, gathering it and trying to bunch the root together with deft fingers. His nails are clipped and filed down to perfection.

Kirk disappears again, and running water suggests he’s washing his hands. 

Spock’s attention refuses to stick to the screen in front of him. He finds himself focusing on Kirk’s movements in the room. The laboured quality of his breath. The faint scent of salty sweat which clings to the man’s skin.

He’s sweating too, he realises. That should only be possible in the midst of pon farr yet there it was. Though he does note, the aggression which comes with pon farr is curiously absent.

“You… you figure it out yet?” Kirk forces out through gritted teeth. 

Spock turns to face him, finding him leaning over the sink with a white-knuckled grip on the silver basin. Indeed, he is covered in a sheen created from sweat. “Negative.”

Kirk swallows, holding onto the basin tighter. He feels his own self control waning, and clenches his fists to force his nails into his sensitive palms. This somehow sends a spark of pleasure through his system, in response to the pain. The intended effect is lost, driving him further into a thought pattern he doesn’t wish to humour.

Short auburn hair, dishevelled when Kirk prises his grip from the sink to drag his fingers through the strands. It stands up with the dampness of his sweat. It sends a jolt straight to his traitorous lok. 

“Fuck.” Kirk laughs, a high sound. “That… that’s a lot.”

He steps away from the sink, unsteady on his feet and very nearly losing his equilibrium before catching himself. His gaze navigates to Spock’s face as if by sheer force of will before it drops, his eyebrows furrowing. 

The uniforms don’t easily show the dampness from the outside, though he can feel the slick being absorbed by his underwear and probably the inner lining of his pants. 

Kirk swallows, wavering between a step forward and a step back. Spock doesn’t waver, but he takes a step forward when he means the opposite and finds himself in Kirk’s space. Eye to eye. Eyes bluer than the Earth’s skies staring up at him. Lips parted an iota, showing the whites of his incisors.

From this close, he can see a faint scatter of freckles on Kirk’s skin, like the star littered darkness of space. His face is flushed a deep red up to his ears. Spock can see a scar on his face and the exact degree of severity of the swollen skin around his right eye.

The human snaps first.

He leans up, pressing lips together. Spock can’t push him away, finding that he doesn’t want to. Part of him knows it’s the spores while another part of him doesn’t care.

It’s not long and their lips are parting, welcoming the sloppiest kiss he’s ever had, though he discovers Kirk has done this before in a matter of seconds. He presses Kirk into the nearest surface, which happens to be the counter, pressing as much of his body into his as possible.

Hands that have done this more times than Spock has even thought about it undo the button of his pants and his fly. He doesn’t even complain, gasping instead when his lok extends willingly into those questing fingers and is immediately wrapped in the warmth of his palm. 

He’s dizzy with lust and pleasure.

He’s not sure when Kirk’s own penis is brought into the picture, but he knows when they’re pressed together that it is. Their lips never part, taking near desperate breaths between each other before diving back in. To taste, to touch, to feel. It’s a feeling beyond comprehension, beyond explanation. Never has he imagined this stimulation would be this pleasurable.

When Kirk moans, he feels his own slick drip from the sheath and soak into wet fabric. Spock wants to swallow the sound whole.

Or maybe he just wants.

One of his hands inches upwards, wanting to feel what Kirk does. He wants to be in his head. He wants his mind. His body. His soul. Every atom of his being must belong to him. It’s a need. There is no question.

So imagine his surprise when instead warm fingers lace with his, squeezing his hand and bringing it down from his face. Kirk breaks the kiss and noses his way under Spock’s jaw, forcing him to tilt his head upwards so he can drag his tongue over the sensitive skin of his throat. 

He nips at his skin, mouthing at the hollow of his throat before moving upwards to kiss under his ear and then grazing his teeth over the tip of his ear. 

Spock shivers, leaning into it with a soft unsteady exhale. He feels Kirk’s phallus twitch against his own and sucks in a sharp breath. The man smiles against his skin. His hand picks up the pace, moving over their slick-covered cocks with little regard for the obscene noise it makes. His thumb flicks teasingly over both heads, going so far and to squeeze a bit more on the upstroke to pull noises from Spock’s throat which he finds he cannot quite curb.

He feels heat rising in his lower abdomen as well as in his face.

“Cadet—” 

“Jim. God, don’t call me that when we’re.. we’re like this.”

“Jim.” Spock concedes, the name rolling with little effort from his tongue. He finds he quite likes its cadence. 

In this thought, he forgets to warn him first, not that it matters in the end because they both stiffen at the same moment. Jim cries out, Spock’s breath is stolen, and his vision whites-out into a picture of pure bliss which just about knocks his feet out from under him. 

In fact, it does, because when he comes back to himself he’s sitting on the ground, propped up against one of the counters, with Jim sitting beside him, weaving Naltex flowers together.

He feels light-headed and sticky, but he cannot imagine Jim feels much better. 

The burning need is absent. He no longer needs this man, yet the touch still lingers on his skin. Spock takes the moment to tuck himself away with a flush burning his face, finding Jim has already done so to himself. 

“What—”

Jim tosses the weaving of flowers over his head, taking a moment to adjust it. Spock blinks, his brain grinding to a halt.

Jim’s expression is serious yet apologetic as he fixes a flower crown onto his head.

Questions linger on his tongue. How long was he out of it? What happened while he was? Why? Why the crown?

“I know that wasn’t the best way to get to know one another…” Jim speaks, deciding the crown is fixed properly atop his head as he leans back to make eye contact. “But… it’s too late to be worried, I guess.”

A different kind of warmth blooms over his ribs.

Jim smiles, the curve of his lips delicate and dangerous in the same breath. Were the pollen still in his system, he would have blamed it, but he would be lying to himself.

The warmth blooms in his face too, and he knows there’

s an emerald colouring adorning his features when he forces himself to speak. “Indeed…”