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.