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The initial message was heard hours and quite unfairly, delivered minutes before the start of Alpha shift.
Since then, Spock has worked through both his primary and secondary shifts, spent several hours in the labs before finally—finally—he’s allowed the chance to react to the things that were said—or more accurately, the things that he heard.
It was unprofessional, he wishes to say—the content of the message left on Spock’s padd. But as he corners the Captain in Jim’s quarters, delivering such a retort turns out to be the last thing on his mind.
In the middle of the cabin, Jim is seated on the sofa, reading a book of all things—with paper pages, yellowed from the changeover of so many oiled hands. The sound of each slip of Jim’s thumb as he turns them are loud for some reason, as if echoing in a cavern when Spock nears the room, bouncing off his ears.
Immediately, Spock narrows his eyes. Jim is wearing his reading glasses, daring even to feign lost attention—like he hasn’t heard, hasn’t noticed Spock breathing from five feet away. His memory—his imagination—supplies him with what the Captain must have been doing before his shift, when Jim decided on some ludicrous idea that leaving evidence of such wanton behavior was acceptable.
Briefly, Spock thinks of Jim’s fatigues around his ankles, the points of two of Jim’s fingers deep in his own ass as he gasped into the comm.
The thought swells a heave of air into Spock’s lungs—and then at last, does Jim take notice.
“Oh, hey Spock. How was your day?”
Spock’s eyes narrow further, “I believe you are aware of how my day has been.” He retorts—though, he knows control, carefully determined to tear through his duties without a sliver of suspicion in his unexpected compromise. It had been an endurance—trying of his focus, his concentration, his efficiency having dropped an unacceptable one percent; he cannot allow these transgressions to go unpunished.
Jim smiles at him, knowing and slippery when he takes off his glasses. Spock watches him set it on the table behind him, reaching around in a way that Spock can unavoidably discern the shift of muscle in Jim’s back.
Spock takes a step closer, pivoting to push the coffee table out of the way. He can feel Jim’s confusion to his left.
”Spock, what’re you—.”
But he ignores it. There will be no breaking of anything outside of correcting the injustice left burning inside of his skull.
Spock stands once the table is sufficiently out of the way. He takes Jim’s book from his hands and places it on the same shelf as Jim’s glasses.
Blue eyes stare almost bewilderingly up at him. But the Captain is an intelligent creature, those lips quirking, tongue sweeping the seam; it does not take long for Jim to understand. But it’s not enough to prevent the shock—the yelp—in Spock’s direction when suddenly Spock reaches down and flips Jim over.
Kicking Jim’s feet aside, Spock kneels down between them, tugging at Jim’s fatigues until they’re trapped around the Captain’s thighs.
“Spock—.”
He hears Jim say, breathless and trembling with anticipation, then a gasp when Spock unceremoniously breaches two of his fingers inside him. Spock watches Jim clamor the armrest—and around his fingers it’s warm, wet, still slick with lubricant from Jim’s actions earlier in the day—
He knew it.
Spock leans over Jim’s back, thrusting his fingers, twisting and scissoring Jim apart. He follows the line of Jim’s spine through his command shirt, leaving spots of random kisses, brushes of his lips.
“I received your message this morning, Captain,” he says and above him, Jim moans, “A reckless action on your part.” Spock undoes his trousers with his free hand, pulling himself free before trailing his cock between Jim’s legs, teasing where he pumps his fingers, “What if you mistook the recipient? Anyone on this ship may have been subjected to your illicit behavior—.”
He glances at Jim shaking his head despite how it’s hung low between his shoulders, hands clenching the side of the sofa.
Jim makes a noise of disagreement, “Just you. It was just—.”
The answer fills Spock with baser instinct—pride, pleasure, both. It is always him. And as a reward, he retracts his fingers, mourning the loss only briefly as he lines himself up and in one brutally swift movement, pushes inside. The two of them groan together, Jim, bowing his back while Spock curls over it.
Spock brackets Jim’s hips and sets a powerful pace, long strokes that have knotted their faces, pinching their eyes and drowning the noises of their labored breathing. It’s rough and messy and fast, and when Jim can’t help himself, can’t keep it back any longer, forms Spock’s name breathlessly on his lips, Spock makes an unintelligible sound as he shoves up Jim’s shirt and bites down on the round of his shoulder.
He feels Jim buck in return, fucking into the Captain senselessly with almost all their clothes on; there will be bruising most likely—though, in this moment, neither of them care. It’s only when Jim says Spock’s name louder, curdling with his head thrown back—pleading—“Spock, please—,” that Spock shows mercy.
“Yes, Captain.” He breathes back, sounding almost amused if it weren’t for the catch in his voice, the way it stutters as he wraps his hand around Jim’s cock. Spock’s body betrays his need and Jim shuts his eyes as they, for a time, abandon themselves to it before careening over the edge.