Fic: Hot 1/1 (R)
I blame/credit Word Wars at jim_and_bonesfor this little piece of idiocy. We were complaining about the heat, and talking about scones, and the hazards of cooking in the nude. Hence the following.
It was too hot to do anything. If they’d vacationed somewhere civilized, there would be air conditioning, but no. It was Jim’s turn to choose the shore-leave venue, and he had insisted on a back-woods cabin, with the only modern conveniences being running water (including hot, or Leonard would’ve walked right back out the door), and a propane stove.
Which Jim was using. Even though the old-fashioned thermometer said it was a hundred and four, which Leonard estimated was about forty Celsius.
“Do you really have to bake, Jim? Now? We’re dying from the heat, and you’re baking.”
“But Bones, scones! Chocolate chip scones, Bones!”
“Which are from Scotland. Or maybe Ireland. Where it hardly ever gets above chilly. You’re allowed to bake if you have to wear a sweater inside to stay warm.”
“Scones, Bones, scones! I’m a poet, and I know it,” Jim said, giggling at his own wit.
Leonard fanned himself with his book and sighed. “How did you finish kindergarten, let alone Starfleet Academy? It’s too hot for this shit, Jim.”
“You can take it, Bones. Georgia’s hot, right?”
“The entire state is air conditioned, Jim. Wealthy neighborhoods have climate-controlled domes over them. Here? It’s just fucking hot. Besides-do you really think it’s a good idea to be cooking in the buff?”
“It’s dough. It’s in the oven, anyhow. And I won’t be using my dick to get the pan out of the oven, either. Hands, with potholders. See?” Jim held up a pair of hideous but functional-looking silvery-grey mitts.
“Well, don’t come crying to me if something happens,” Leonard said, scowling, because it was the thing to do.
"I won’t have to. You’ll be there with your kit before I can even yell.”
The ancient mechanical timer ticked away on the kitchen side of the cabin.
“I’m bored,” Jim said, after thirty seconds.
“Wash the dishes,” Leonard said. “Read a book. Do something self-improving.”
“Have sex?” Jim asked hopefully.
“Not on your life. That involves physical contact, if I recall correctly.”
“But you look hot when you’re hot.”
“Jim, I swear! Go do something!”
“Okay, okay. Ooooh, I know.”
Jim disappeared into the kitchen, and made some rattling sounds. Next came a mechanical whirring sound, with a liquid-like quality to it. Leonard was intrigued, but wasn’t going to give Jim the satisfaction of asking him what he was doing. Hopefully, it was something safe to do while nude. Probably, it wasn’t.
Minutes later, the timer dinged.
“They’re done! Bones, Bo-hones! They’re done! And I made whipped cream to go on them!”
“Sounds good, Jim,” Leonard said. “Be careful getting them out of the ov-”
“Ow! Ow ow ow!!”
Leonard leapt out of his chair, and dashed across the cabin to the kitchen. “What? What happened?”
“Ow, fucking ow! A hot chocolate chip fell off the edge of the tray, and landed right on my dick.”
“Well, put something cold on it, you moron!” Leonard grumbled, getting out his medkit. “And I told you so.”
“Aaaaaah. That’s better. Fuck, that hurt.”
Leonard just stared at the ridiculous sight in front of him. “You’re really unbelievable, you know that?”
A blob of whipped cream plopped to the floor, forming a soft peak. “Wanna lick it off?”
The End.
It was too hot to do anything. If they’d vacationed somewhere civilized, there would be air conditioning, but no. It was Jim’s turn to choose the shore-leave venue, and he had insisted on a back-woods cabin, with the only modern conveniences being running water (including hot, or Leonard would’ve walked right back out the door), and a propane stove.
Which Jim was using. Even though the old-fashioned thermometer said it was a hundred and four, which Leonard estimated was about forty Celsius.
“Do you really have to bake, Jim? Now? We’re dying from the heat, and you’re baking.”
“But Bones, scones! Chocolate chip scones, Bones!”
“Which are from Scotland. Or maybe Ireland. Where it hardly ever gets above chilly. You’re allowed to bake if you have to wear a sweater inside to stay warm.”
“Scones, Bones, scones! I’m a poet, and I know it,” Jim said, giggling at his own wit.
Leonard fanned himself with his book and sighed. “How did you finish kindergarten, let alone Starfleet Academy? It’s too hot for this shit, Jim.”
“You can take it, Bones. Georgia’s hot, right?”
“The entire state is air conditioned, Jim. Wealthy neighborhoods have climate-controlled domes over them. Here? It’s just fucking hot. Besides-do you really think it’s a good idea to be cooking in the buff?”
“It’s dough. It’s in the oven, anyhow. And I won’t be using my dick to get the pan out of the oven, either. Hands, with potholders. See?” Jim held up a pair of hideous but functional-looking silvery-grey mitts.
“Well, don’t come crying to me if something happens,” Leonard said, scowling, because it was the thing to do.
"I won’t have to. You’ll be there with your kit before I can even yell.”
The ancient mechanical timer ticked away on the kitchen side of the cabin.
“I’m bored,” Jim said, after thirty seconds.
“Wash the dishes,” Leonard said. “Read a book. Do something self-improving.”
“Have sex?” Jim asked hopefully.
“Not on your life. That involves physical contact, if I recall correctly.”
“But you look hot when you’re hot.”
“Jim, I swear! Go do something!”
“Okay, okay. Ooooh, I know.”
Jim disappeared into the kitchen, and made some rattling sounds. Next came a mechanical whirring sound, with a liquid-like quality to it. Leonard was intrigued, but wasn’t going to give Jim the satisfaction of asking him what he was doing. Hopefully, it was something safe to do while nude. Probably, it wasn’t.
Minutes later, the timer dinged.
“They’re done! Bones, Bo-hones! They’re done! And I made whipped cream to go on them!”
“Sounds good, Jim,” Leonard said. “Be careful getting them out of the ov-”
“Ow! Ow ow ow!!”
Leonard leapt out of his chair, and dashed across the cabin to the kitchen. “What? What happened?”
“Ow, fucking ow! A hot chocolate chip fell off the edge of the tray, and landed right on my dick.”
“Well, put something cold on it, you moron!” Leonard grumbled, getting out his medkit. “And I told you so.”
“Aaaaaah. That’s better. Fuck, that hurt.”
Leonard just stared at the ridiculous sight in front of him. “You’re really unbelievable, you know that?”
A blob of whipped cream plopped to the floor, forming a soft peak. “Wanna lick it off?”
The End.