Code: K/C, U, Su, Parody, Sulu birthday challenge
Series: TOS
Rating: NCC-1701
Summary: Uhura misunderstands the meaning of slash.

Notes, dedications and disclaimers:

This was written for Robin and the several people who have suggested writing Sulu stories for GT's birthday on April 20.

Beta by Jungle Kitty, who still hasn't worked out what hit her.

The characters and the turbo lift belong to Paramount. Thank you for sharing them.

If you're wondering who Tetsuya Kumakawa is, I'm afraid none of the pictures available on the web do him justice.

This was written to conform with Jungle Kitty's new ratings:

NEW CODES FOR STAR TREK FAN FIC G Girly PG Pretentious & Girly PG-13 Even a 13-year-old girl would think this was Pretentious & Girly R Realistic; if you like stories that are rated G, PG, or PG-13, don't read this one. NC-17 This will be replaced by a new code: NCC-1701, which stands for "Not even Close to Canon; I rolled my eyes 17 times in the first paragraph."

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Lieutenant Uhura turned on hearing a huge sigh. Her colleague, Hikaru Sulu, was seated alone at a rec room table, staring at an untouched plate of fried sushi, and an empty saki glass.

Nyota pulled out a chair and sat next to him. "All alone, sugah?"

"I'm not very good company right now," he told her.

"Thinking about your birthday next week?" she teased gently. "You're taking it too hard. Twenty five isn't so *very* old."

"I don't mind that. Everyone knows we Asian types don't show our age. I'm thinking about what I'd like for my birthday. And how I'm not going to get it."

"Let me guess," she said sympathetically. "The new holographically remastered 'Complete Performances of Tetsuya Kumakawa'?"

"No!" he exclaimed, offended. Then: "Why, do you know where you can get a copy?"

"You're so fickle," she said, and smiled. "So, Chekov is still pretending he hasn't noticed."

"He's not pretending," Sulu expostulated. "He *hasn't* noticed. He's too... pure, to even think about it. He's devoted to his quest, like Galahad, to being the perfect Starfleet officer. He simply doesn't have time for relationships. For me."

Uhura tapped a perfectly manicured fingernail against a gleamingly white upper incisor.

"Perhaps I can do something for you, honey," she purred. "And in return, perhaps you can do something for me."

Sulu pulled as far away from her as he could without falling out of his chair. Nyota Uhura was like a big sister to the younger officers on the Enterprise: encouraging the nervous new arrivals, a shoulder to cry on, a mother to bandage emotional wounds and even a therapist for the deeper hurts of service life. But like all real life big sisters she was older than her honorary siblings. And more experienced. Sulu knew she had tasted more deeply of life's pleasures than he had. He knew she had skills and appetites that she didn't talk about with her proteges.

"Do you think you can really persuade Chekov to give me a chance?" he asked in a very small voice.

"I think I can."

"And in return?" He grawed anxiously on one knuckle of his slender, skilful left hand.

Uhura looked longingly at those clever fingers, and wished she could tell him what she'd really like him to do for her. Still, she had to think of something. She smiled a helpless damsel smile. "Prune my bonsai?"

"Oh, Nyota. Of course. If you'll just *try*."

***

Two hours later, Nyota Uhura found herself in a turbo lift with Pavel Chekov. He was, Uhura guessed, on his way back to his cabin from a fencing match in the gym. He was hot and sweaty, and it looked as if his opponent had lost the guard from his foil, because Chekov's jacket was sliced neatly from left shoulder to right hip. The blade had left its blood red signature in his flesh beneath, but evidently the wound was only superficial, since Chekov was heading in the wrong direction for sickbay.

And, she realised, he wasn't headed for his quarters either. This turbolift was going towards the bridge, via the senior officers section, where Captain Kirk and his first officer, the cold but handsome Vulcan, Mr Spock, shared a bathroom between their two cabins. This arrangement had always intrigued Uhura, given that everyone else on board had their own facilities.

She wondered if the shock of the injury had disorientated the ensign. "Where are you headed for?" she asked, trying not to stare at the panorama of thickly furred masculine musculature.

"To see the captain," Chekov replied.

"Without changing first?" she asked, surprised. "Or... getting some first aid for that cut?"

"I am already late for a briefing," Chekov explained. "I thought I should go directly to his cabin."

The captain often held one to one interviews with his crew in the small office area of his cabin. For some reason, he found it easier to put nervous young ensigns and yeoman at ease in there, compared to the sterile formality of the briefing rooms.

"Oh. Well, don't forget to have it seen to," she said, her girl scout training coming to the fore. "A cut like that can easily be infected by flesh eating bugs, or fast breeding fungi that will use an injury so near the heart to invade your whole metabolism."

He winked at her. "*I* am not afraid of a few mushrooms. In Russia, we *eat* mushrooms."

"Oh, Chekov. You're so brave. I'm so frightened of flesh eating bugs, and fast breeding fungi." She paused and took a breath. "When I'm alone at night, sometimes I can imagine them getting into the ventilation system. And you know, I'm not the only person on this ship who doesn't like to be alone at night..."

Unfortunately, before she could lead the conversation any further round to the subject of Sulu's infatuation with his young colleague, the lift doors opened to admit the captain himself. He, too, had obviously realised he was late for his appointment with Chekov. A lock of golden hair had fallen over his brow, which was dusted with the finest spackling of perspiration. His chest rose manfully with each quick breath, and his hazel eyes, in which mica slivers of gold swam intriguingly, were alert as always to every minute change in the condition of his ship and crew

Uhura was standing with her back to the wall of the lift next to the door, so Captain Kirk didn't notice her.

"Chekov," he said, in a fatherly, encouraging tone. And then his eyes travelled down to the ripped white fencing jacket, its fraying edges now decorated with the ensign's ruby ichor. "You've torn your jacket," he said, in a voice trembling with sudden intensity.

To Uhura's surprise, Chekov, instead of answering with a cheery, 'Yes, Captain!', mouthed 'play gooseberry' at her, *licked his lips* and lounged against the back wall of the lift.

Kirk moved forward and reached out a finger to the wound, tracing it across Chekov's chest and abdomen. "How did you do this, Ensign?"

"An accident in the gym, Captain." He swallowed. "It was most careless of me, Captain, not to notice that my opponent, Lieutenant Riley, had lost the guard to his epee. I respectfully submit myself for discipline."

Kirk heaved a sigh. Chekov submitted himself for discipline at least once a week. Loss of shore leave, reductions in pay, solitary confinement and even six weeks of 'walking the deck' under the humourless supervision of their coolly implacable Vulcan science officer, Mr Spock, had so far failed to cure the ensign of this obsession. Or, Kirk thought, to give the young man the satisfaction he so obviously craved.

Looking at the ripped jacket, and the sliced black Tshirt beneath it, and the broad expanse of finely muscled chest, like finest Drescen porcelain, beneath that, he took a deep, deep breath. Suddenly, it was compellingly obvious to him, exactly what manner of satisfaction Chekov wanted.

Uhura could hardly stifle a cry of disbelief. Her captain barked a hoarse, "Halt lift!" and ripped open the concealed fly in his uniform pants. 22 centimetres of rose-red manhood sprung to attention. Its head, a deeper purple, thrust free in a glorious resurrection from the shroud of his foreskin, flaring dramatically, weeping diamond droplets of passion.

Unhesitatingly, Chekov dropped to his knees and placed a reverent kiss on the instrument of passion now revealed to him. He laved it with his lips and tongue, paying attention now to the shaft, now to the helmet, now to its single eye. Now swallowing it, now sucking, now humming and purring with pleasure, eliciting groans and exclamations from his paramour.

Seeing the skill and passion with which the young man carried out this task, skill which almost equalled her own, Uhura could suddenly understand why Sulu was so hopelessly enamoured of the handsome young Russian. Of course, Sulu had never seen *this* side of his friend, but all Chekov's passion for life, his courage, his humour, his selflessness and dedication were here, being applied single-mindedly to his captain's pleasure. Who would not dream of experiencing such imaginative pleasuring himself? Or herself, Uhura admitted silently, feeling her uniform grow damp beneath her.

But even as she fantasised, her heart was breaking for her friend. Sulu, she knew, could never compete with James T Kirk for Chekov's heart. His cause, it seemed, was lost.

"No. Wait," Kirk was suddenly husking. "I want to..."

What more could anyone want? Uhura wondered.

"Be inside you. Fill you. *Take* you."

Her disbelief swelled to new magnitudes, as Chekov, seemingly *willingly*, pulled away from his captain, rose to his feet, loosed the fastening of his pants, allowed them to fall around his ankles and turned to lean his face and hands against the wall of the lift opposite where Uhura was still standing, unseen by her captain, and seemingly forgotten by her young friend and protege.

'Oh, no...' she breathed silently. She knew, of course, that some men did this with other men, but she had never imagined, had never wanted to imagine, her friends and colleagues, a man she admired as much as James Tiberius Kirk, doing *this*.

How could Sulu ever respect Chekov now?

She shook with horror. It had never occurred to her that Chekov might actually be... homosexual.

Still, she could not tear her eyes away as Kirk helped himself to a lubricant dispenser from the maintenance locker and smoothed a double handful of the slick fluid onto his throbbing piston.

"I'm pretty big, Chekov," he said warningly, always considerate of his crew's feelings.

"Please," Chekov whispered throatily, "call me Pasha. And... I like big men."

Uhura, realising how often Chekov stood close and looked *up* into the eyes of the captain, could only nod her head in sad agreement.

"That's good," Kirk said, "But we'd better be careful. I don't want to have to discipline you for rendering yourself unfit for duty."

Both men chuckled as the captain worked one, two, then three fingers into his ensign's perfectly rounded, parchment pale ass. It was as soft and flawless as two just ripe peaches. Even in her fascinated horror, Uhura could imagine taking a bite of sweet, juicy flesh out of either cheek, and feeling the honeyed ripeness of Chekov's climax anointing her lips.

'Don't!' she wanted to cry out, 'don't sully him, Captain! Don't defile yourself, Chekov!'

But the only voice that broke the silence in the lift was Kirk's, sighing, "Pasha... ahhhh... yes... so tight... so firm... squeeze me... ahhhh... now..." And then the captain sheathed himself fully and ground his groin against that perfect backside. One hand adjusted the position of Chekov's cheeks, and the other reached round to take a firm, commanding grip on the ensign's smaller, but still larger than average, rod.

"You're going to come for me," he ordered, "on my mark, and not before. Understand, Mister?" Kirk's tone was at once light, joking, and inexorable. It was a tone none of his crew could disobey. Uhura knew right then that the moment the order was given she would come too, and give her presence away. She did not need to stimulate herself. She only needed to listen for the word, and when the word was given she would come.

Chekov was sobbing with pleasure, yet the captain was paying only perfunctory attention to his erection. It was as if, in the ensign's dark and secret centre, there was some intense erogenous zone. But what it might be, Uhura could not imagine.

'Oh, Chekov!' she mourned in her inner being, as she watched the innocent young navigator being spoiled forever for the tender affections of his noble and deserving friend.

Kirk was a good man. An honest and fair man. He had made no promises to Chekov. He had never hinted, even for a moment, that this affair would last for a moment once they left the turbolift. Yet she knew that the ensign wanted, needed, more. He needed love, as well as passion. Devotion as well as duty.

He needed Sulu, and suddenly she knew that she must make it possible. Sulu must never know this had happened, she must use her presence here to frighten -- or at least startle -- both men into staying away from each other in future, and Sulu must be allowed to redeem the ensign through his example of proper, comradely love, the love of one man for another man, expressed in comradely ways. Hygenically.

But just as she was about to speak up, the captain forestalled her. "On three. One, two, three!" And her orgasm threw her to the floor of the lift. Her cries went unnoticed as both men roared out in climax.

"Spock!"//"Captain!"

She picked herself up and stared in bemusement at the moments-before lovers. Chekov, still seemingly unaware of her, pulled up his pants and fastened them, his very full lower lip quivering furiously.

"Spock?" he echoed. "You were thinking of Mr Spock?"

"I'm sorry, Chekov," Kirk said hastily, tucking his now deflated organ back into his uniform. "I can't help it. You drove him out of my mind for a brief moment with your torn jacket, but my heart belongs to Spock. I know our Vulcan Science Officer, Commander Spock, is cool and unemotional, and incredibly annoying, but... but I can't help it. He's Spock, and I love him. I'm sorry," he said again. "You were great, really great, but this shouldn't have happened, and we must both make sure it doesn't happen again. Lift, resume."

And just then the lift doors opened, and Kirk wheeled to the right and departed without ever noticing Uhura.

Chekov raised his lowered eyes and looked at her. "Thank you," he said, his accent thick with the depth of his emotion, "for letting him think we were alone. I just wish..." He choked. "I just wish it had worked out differently."

"I'm so sorry, sugar-pie."

"He doesn't love me."

"No, I'm afraid he doesn't, honey-bun."

"I feel so... dirty, and used."

At that Uhura's heart jumped for joy. He wasn't homosexual at all! It was all just a youthful indiscretion. She seized her moment. "I know someone who does love you, really loves you. Someone who'll never make you feel dirty and used."

"Who can that be?" Chekov asked, with new hope dawning in his eyes. "Surely not..."

She smiled, wondering if this was how it felt to give birth, or carry out successful brain surgery. "Hikaru Sulu."

"Sulu? Hikaru? But we have been working right next to each other for years, and he has never said anything."

"He was afraid you'd be offended, that he'd lose your friendship without ever winning your heart."

Chekov bit his lip, as he mourned his ill-fated love for his captain, got over it and moved on. A single tear started in his eye, and dried before it could fall.

"I know he's not very big," Uhura said apologetically. "And..." She swallowed uncertainly. A relationship should never be founded on a lie, but Chekov must realise that he could never behave with Sulu as he had with the captain. And today's events must never, never reach the helmsman's ears. She sought carefully a delicate way to express this, but Chekov was not paying attention to her. He was sighing delightedly.

"I don't know why you say that. He has small hands and feet, so he *must* be big."

The End