it's getting hot in here (so take off all your clothes) - chekov/kirk (st xi)
"So hot, Keptain," Chekov moaned, lifting the collar of his uniform to fan himself. He tilted his head back as a bead of sweat trickled down the line of his throat.
Kirk swallowed. His throat was parched. That was how he would explain his reaction, it was clearly the heat fogging his mental processes.
It was sheer torture. The climate control had ceased to function at its normal rate but they couldn't afford to divert energy towards repairing it at the present moment because they were low on power as it was. Twenty-nine degrees Celsius was marginally bearable, but hearing his crewmates complain was not.
The only one who wasn't complaining was Spock, and he could have sworn he saw a lustful gleam in that pointy-eared bastard's eyes when Uhura had strolled on deck in a midriff-baring top "just so she could stay cool".
He was the only one left on deck at this point, as most had retired to a room where Scotty had managed to jury-rig a rudimentary fan system that didn't drain too much power. The others were sleeping so they wouldn't have to stay awake and deal with the heat. Well, Chekov was there, but he was sure Chekov would give up soon, given the nostalgic way he kept talking about cold Russian winters when he had to stay on deck.
Chekov sighed and shifted in his seat as Kirk resigned himself to the position of the only one left on deck. Primarily because he didn't want to deal with the glares of everyone over the climate control - even Scotty glared at him despite having been the one who suggested it in the first place.
He was interrupted from his inner Captainly monologue by the sound of a throat clearing.
"Keptain, is wery hot here."
"Won't blame you if you join the rest, they're probably playing cards in between curses."
"Keptain, why do you not take clothes off?"
Kirk paused. Clearly he was getting delirious due to the heat, and was imagining the sight of Chekov shimmying out of his sweaty top, exposing a light patch of chest hair beaded with perspiration.
"Often I imagine you without shirt," Chekov said, leaning towards Kirk like an eager puppy, eyes gleaming with an unidentifiable emotion. A strange mix of lust and enthusiasm and sheer burning heat.
"Is hot here, Keptain," he continued, running one hand through his damp hair. It was just then that he slipped a hand under Kirk's shirt to stroke his chest.
Kirk couldn't help moaning. Clearly the heat, and Chekov's hands were somehow cool despite all this, and it couldn't do any harm to let him take off the shirt? It was clinging to his body and making him so uncomfortable - ah, there it was, he could almost feel cooler already, it couldn't hurt to let him take off his pants too. Chekov was so enthusiastic about it, and why not indulge the boy a little?
His clothes landed in a sweat-sodden thump somewhere on the floor.
The seat beneath him was sticky on bare skin and made a sucking sound as he tried to move. Chekov placed a hand in the centre of his chest and shushed him.
"Shh, Keptain, you have been working so hard today, so sticky with sweat."
Chekov put the palm of his hand to his mouth and licked it, eyes somehow growing darker and slightly hooded. Licking his lips, he knelt down.
"Ah, you are wet down there already," Chekov cooed, swirling his tongue around the head of Kirk's member, already moist with pre-cum. Kirk let out a shaky moan, too turned on to think in actual sentences, all the words bleeding from him due to the sheer heat of the situation.
"Do not worry, will help to clean up," murmured Chekov as he nuzzled the member before wrapping his lips around it, inhaling the musky smell of Kirk.
Chekov's cheeks hollowed as he sucked lustily, his eyelids lowered, appearing as if they had succumbed to the weight of his thick eyelashes. He whimpered around Kirk's cock, the only thing that mattered at the moment, a blush rising to his cheeks. He looked every inch the debauched schoolboy, angelic curls framing his face, eyelids closed, eyelashes damp, his mouth forced open by the girth of Kirk's member.
Kirk's world narrowed to the wet heat of Chekov's mouth, and exploded in a starburst as he came. Chekov gulped furiously - making him look like he couldn't waste a drop of the precious cum. A trickle escaped from the corner of his mouth, and he licked it up.
There was a momentary pause. The air was still.
Kirk leaned back in the sweaty chair, which emitted a creaking sound, and scanned the room for his clothes.
Chekov grinned.
"Ah, Keptain, you cannot put on those wet things again! Here are your clothes!"
He then produced a neatly folded item of clothing from a cranny near his seat. It was a pair of pants. Kirk's pants, to be precise, which were either stolen from the laundry or his room. He couldn't bring himself to be too annoyed at the kid, he'd gone to all this trouble after all.
"...Ensign, I note that ensemble doesn't include a shirt."
"Am well aware of that, Keptain."