Continuation of Lady!Pike/Winona: Wherein Jim shows up (1,568 words, NC-17, Lady!Pike/Winona)
I fully intended to append this to the Lady!Pike/Winona fic, but I wrote a sentence of that draft and suddenly realized, That's the final note. There is no more.
A lot of this continuation was written very early in the process, when I was still going by the original prompt (which is... somewhere on rubynye's journal. Anyone have that link?) and hadn't yet realized what the fic was really about. There's an image from Sex is not the Enemy which inspired this, but I can't find it atm and I daren't host the pic anywhere, as it is explicit.
1,568 words, NC-17, Lady!Pike/Winona + Jim
Chris lets out a bark of laughter and prevents her from shimmying down his body by threading his fingers deeply into her hair to massage her scalp. Winona shoots him a narrow-eyed pout but goes boneless anyway. She nuzzles in between his breasts and moves her head from side to side to guide him to the most sensitive spots.
"Not fair," she mutters. "You have dogs."
"You have too much hair," he retorts, and smirks at the disgruntled little whine it earns him.
Winona uses what freedom of motion she has to stretch her arm down a little more and set at his clitoris in earnest, alternating between light, twitchy strokes over the surface of it and determined circles on the periphery, pressing deeply to stimulate beneath the tissues.
Chris's thighs angle themselves without volition. He's a few seconds away from wrapping his legs shamelessly around Winona's waist before he gets a hold of himself and grips her forearm.
"You're cheating," he says.
"You're really hot when you growl like that," Winona says. She lets him pull her arm up easily enough but it's a false surrender; she slurps her fingertips with an unrepentant smile. "And you taste nice."
"Thank you for the compliments," he says.
Winona beams a you're welcome and ruts against the bony protuberance of his hip. "I wanna go down on you," she says, sucking in a quick breath at the end of her sentence. "Are you ready for that?"
Chris will allow the possibility-he hasn't fully tested this body, after all-but he has little faith that the mystical female multiple orgasm will make itself known. Most likely he'll flat-line and end up staring at the ceiling, chafed and slightly bored.
He palms the lower scallops of her ribs and murmurs genially, "You haven't come yet."
"I'll catch up later," Winona says cheerily. "Come on, Chris, are you scared or something?" Her psychological manipulation is a feat of subtlety, surely.
Chris snorts and levers up on his elbows. Winona does her best to hold him down but, though Chris is smaller now, he still has his wiry musculature. "I'd really appreciate it if you would let me return the favor," he says, nudging her off. "I try to be polite in bed."
Winona ends up sprawled on her belly and lifts her head up enough to give him an insouciant grin. "You're lying," she says, a cross between a finger-wag and a dare. "I bet you just shove your partners around into whatever position you want them in."
"Is that so," Chris says. He curls his hands firmly-commandingly-beneath her hips and tugs up.
Winona lets out a delighted shriek and gets her knees under herself. "You captain types are all the same," she says.
Chris curves his palm over the inside of her thigh and just rests it there for a moment, feeling the heat of her against his knuckles. He slides a few fingers into her-initially two, adding a third when he remembers that his fingers are slimmer than usual-and presses firmly, goes deeper with little jabs that make her back arch.
She leans heavily against him and the curve of her waist snugs up to the gentle pouch of his belly. Chris instinctively sucks in as if he can retroactively avoid being reminded that his knifelike abs, a point of pride, have been obscured by a pad of fat for which he has no need.
He ignores his own body. It's easy to when Winona is draped over his thighs like some kind of liquid and her shoulder is tucked in at just the right angle (purely by coincidence, he's sure) to expose the swell of her breasts. He rubs his palm between her shoulder blades, partly to prove that he can resist the insistent pink of her nipples, and partly because her skin looks like it might have been poured onto her muscles from a silver carafe.
The slick is collecting in the palm of his hand. It doesn't take long before Winona is whimpering into her forearm, hips pushing back in small, greedy thrusts.
Someone knocks on the door.
Chris draws upon his reserves of eloquence: "Shit."
"This isn't fair," Winona moans, and pulls a pillow over her head.
"I'll get rid of them," Chris promises. He scoots out from under her, patting her rump as if to assure her that he'd rather not leave.
[The person at the door is Jim, and he hits on Pike like his usual horndog self. The typical banter of opposition/resistance goes on for a bit, and then:]
"Give it up, Jim!" Winona calls from beyond the divider.
"Mom? Mom! What are you doing here? I called dibs!"
"Some things transcend dibs, sweetheart," Winona answers. She comes into view: barefoot but wearing her skirt uniform sans black undershirt (and also sans bra, but that is the lesser of Chris' worries at the moment.) Chris hopes that her hair, the tangled, whimsical mass that it is, will stay put for the remainder of this treacherous conversation, covering up the nasty bite-mark he left.
"Things like what?" Jim says. He crosses his arms and sets his jaw mulishly.
"The preferences of the person upon whom dibs are being called, perhaps," says Chris. Jim and Winona don't appear to have heard him. How shocking.
"Common sense, for one thing," Winona says. "You've never been a woman, Jim. What did you expect to do for him that he couldn't already do himself?"
Jim takes a moment to digest this.
Chris sits on the edge of his desk. Winona's acted on her word; he is comfortable in his body now, and leans back on his hands instead of crossing them protectively over his breasts.
The Kirks turn their heads in unison to look at him. Jim looks like he's had his hand slapped while reaching for candy. Winona winks.
"Just so you know," says Jim, "I'm calling pre-emptive dibs on McCoy. If he ever turns into a woman I get to sleep with him first, ok?"
"I promise not to sleep with Dr. McCoy before you do if he turns into a woman," Winona says with all the solemn precision of a lawyer.
"I don't suppose you'll find it necessary to inform Dr. McCoy of this agreement," Chris says. They don't ignore him this time, but use his remark as an excuse to rake their gazes up and down his body again rather than actually listening. Jim, especially, seems interested in the loose V where the lapels of Chris' robe overlap. Chris worries that it's falling open a hair too wide to be modest, but he refuses to check or otherwise show signs of discomfort.
"I'm really mad at you, Mom," Jim says, sounding more hurt than anything else.
"I know, sweetheart," Winona says. "I'll make it up to you." She steps forward and steers him back to the door. Chris notes the lazy angle of her wrist, the way her palm cups the nape of his neck as if it were a fragile fruit. It should be a tender moment, he knows, something for a holiday vid, but instead he thinks of his mother in the abattoir. Her knives were slim and sharp like extra fingers, and she bowed her head while coaxing meat away from bone.
Chris hopes Winona had the forethought to wash her hands. She probably did; the Kirks have yet to be in the same room and not touch each other at least once.
Jim is almost out the door before he suddenly ducks back in and says with mock-solemnity, "Mom, be careful. He's a biter."
Winona shoots Chris a glance over her shoulder and slides it over to give Jim the narrow-eyed leftovers. "Later, when there are no witnesses," she says in a forboding tone, "I'll ask how you know that."
Jim's smirk is irritating, but impressive in its sheer audacity. "I told you I called dibs!" He darts out the door, not quite fast enough to avoid the sharp smack Winona applies to his rump.
Once the door has slid shut and locked behind him, Winona turns back and looks at Chris for a minute. "Stay there?" she asks. "It's just, you look really good like that. No, don't move your hands." Her tone makes it a suggestion rather than an order so Chris complies, just to be nice.
"I'll need my hands to continue what we were doing," Chris points out.
Winona shakes her head as she kneels in front of him. "Nope, sorry. Your turn is over."
"That doesn't seem fair," Chris says.
Winona shrugs. She isn't too concerned about fairness at the moment; all of her attention is focused on the soft lapels of Chris' robe, and how easy they are to push off his shoulders. She sits back on her heels and drinks him in for a moment, consuming with her eyes and a little with her fingertips, too, which are stroking his ankle.
He feels his heartrate pick up again. Now, seeing out of the corner of his eye with Winona kneeling in front of him, he can enjoy his own breasts: sweet sloping things, paler than the rest of him, but soft.
"Not that I don't love the current scenery," Winona says, "but when you turn back into a man, can I see you naked again?" She looks impressively guileless. "You know, just for the purposes of comparison."
No. "Perhaps," says Chris. "If circumstances allow."
Winona gives him the half-smile that Jim does sometimes, lenient and content enough, but with a hint of something Chris doesn't quite understand. Longing, maybe. "Fair enough," she says.
A lot of this continuation was written very early in the process, when I was still going by the original prompt (which is... somewhere on rubynye's journal. Anyone have that link?) and hadn't yet realized what the fic was really about. There's an image from Sex is not the Enemy which inspired this, but I can't find it atm and I daren't host the pic anywhere, as it is explicit.
1,568 words, NC-17, Lady!Pike/Winona + Jim
Chris lets out a bark of laughter and prevents her from shimmying down his body by threading his fingers deeply into her hair to massage her scalp. Winona shoots him a narrow-eyed pout but goes boneless anyway. She nuzzles in between his breasts and moves her head from side to side to guide him to the most sensitive spots.
"Not fair," she mutters. "You have dogs."
"You have too much hair," he retorts, and smirks at the disgruntled little whine it earns him.
Winona uses what freedom of motion she has to stretch her arm down a little more and set at his clitoris in earnest, alternating between light, twitchy strokes over the surface of it and determined circles on the periphery, pressing deeply to stimulate beneath the tissues.
Chris's thighs angle themselves without volition. He's a few seconds away from wrapping his legs shamelessly around Winona's waist before he gets a hold of himself and grips her forearm.
"You're cheating," he says.
"You're really hot when you growl like that," Winona says. She lets him pull her arm up easily enough but it's a false surrender; she slurps her fingertips with an unrepentant smile. "And you taste nice."
"Thank you for the compliments," he says.
Winona beams a you're welcome and ruts against the bony protuberance of his hip. "I wanna go down on you," she says, sucking in a quick breath at the end of her sentence. "Are you ready for that?"
Chris will allow the possibility-he hasn't fully tested this body, after all-but he has little faith that the mystical female multiple orgasm will make itself known. Most likely he'll flat-line and end up staring at the ceiling, chafed and slightly bored.
He palms the lower scallops of her ribs and murmurs genially, "You haven't come yet."
"I'll catch up later," Winona says cheerily. "Come on, Chris, are you scared or something?" Her psychological manipulation is a feat of subtlety, surely.
Chris snorts and levers up on his elbows. Winona does her best to hold him down but, though Chris is smaller now, he still has his wiry musculature. "I'd really appreciate it if you would let me return the favor," he says, nudging her off. "I try to be polite in bed."
Winona ends up sprawled on her belly and lifts her head up enough to give him an insouciant grin. "You're lying," she says, a cross between a finger-wag and a dare. "I bet you just shove your partners around into whatever position you want them in."
"Is that so," Chris says. He curls his hands firmly-commandingly-beneath her hips and tugs up.
Winona lets out a delighted shriek and gets her knees under herself. "You captain types are all the same," she says.
Chris curves his palm over the inside of her thigh and just rests it there for a moment, feeling the heat of her against his knuckles. He slides a few fingers into her-initially two, adding a third when he remembers that his fingers are slimmer than usual-and presses firmly, goes deeper with little jabs that make her back arch.
She leans heavily against him and the curve of her waist snugs up to the gentle pouch of his belly. Chris instinctively sucks in as if he can retroactively avoid being reminded that his knifelike abs, a point of pride, have been obscured by a pad of fat for which he has no need.
He ignores his own body. It's easy to when Winona is draped over his thighs like some kind of liquid and her shoulder is tucked in at just the right angle (purely by coincidence, he's sure) to expose the swell of her breasts. He rubs his palm between her shoulder blades, partly to prove that he can resist the insistent pink of her nipples, and partly because her skin looks like it might have been poured onto her muscles from a silver carafe.
The slick is collecting in the palm of his hand. It doesn't take long before Winona is whimpering into her forearm, hips pushing back in small, greedy thrusts.
Someone knocks on the door.
Chris draws upon his reserves of eloquence: "Shit."
"This isn't fair," Winona moans, and pulls a pillow over her head.
"I'll get rid of them," Chris promises. He scoots out from under her, patting her rump as if to assure her that he'd rather not leave.
[The person at the door is Jim, and he hits on Pike like his usual horndog self. The typical banter of opposition/resistance goes on for a bit, and then:]
"Give it up, Jim!" Winona calls from beyond the divider.
"Mom? Mom! What are you doing here? I called dibs!"
"Some things transcend dibs, sweetheart," Winona answers. She comes into view: barefoot but wearing her skirt uniform sans black undershirt (and also sans bra, but that is the lesser of Chris' worries at the moment.) Chris hopes that her hair, the tangled, whimsical mass that it is, will stay put for the remainder of this treacherous conversation, covering up the nasty bite-mark he left.
"Things like what?" Jim says. He crosses his arms and sets his jaw mulishly.
"The preferences of the person upon whom dibs are being called, perhaps," says Chris. Jim and Winona don't appear to have heard him. How shocking.
"Common sense, for one thing," Winona says. "You've never been a woman, Jim. What did you expect to do for him that he couldn't already do himself?"
Jim takes a moment to digest this.
Chris sits on the edge of his desk. Winona's acted on her word; he is comfortable in his body now, and leans back on his hands instead of crossing them protectively over his breasts.
The Kirks turn their heads in unison to look at him. Jim looks like he's had his hand slapped while reaching for candy. Winona winks.
"Just so you know," says Jim, "I'm calling pre-emptive dibs on McCoy. If he ever turns into a woman I get to sleep with him first, ok?"
"I promise not to sleep with Dr. McCoy before you do if he turns into a woman," Winona says with all the solemn precision of a lawyer.
"I don't suppose you'll find it necessary to inform Dr. McCoy of this agreement," Chris says. They don't ignore him this time, but use his remark as an excuse to rake their gazes up and down his body again rather than actually listening. Jim, especially, seems interested in the loose V where the lapels of Chris' robe overlap. Chris worries that it's falling open a hair too wide to be modest, but he refuses to check or otherwise show signs of discomfort.
"I'm really mad at you, Mom," Jim says, sounding more hurt than anything else.
"I know, sweetheart," Winona says. "I'll make it up to you." She steps forward and steers him back to the door. Chris notes the lazy angle of her wrist, the way her palm cups the nape of his neck as if it were a fragile fruit. It should be a tender moment, he knows, something for a holiday vid, but instead he thinks of his mother in the abattoir. Her knives were slim and sharp like extra fingers, and she bowed her head while coaxing meat away from bone.
Chris hopes Winona had the forethought to wash her hands. She probably did; the Kirks have yet to be in the same room and not touch each other at least once.
Jim is almost out the door before he suddenly ducks back in and says with mock-solemnity, "Mom, be careful. He's a biter."
Winona shoots Chris a glance over her shoulder and slides it over to give Jim the narrow-eyed leftovers. "Later, when there are no witnesses," she says in a forboding tone, "I'll ask how you know that."
Jim's smirk is irritating, but impressive in its sheer audacity. "I told you I called dibs!" He darts out the door, not quite fast enough to avoid the sharp smack Winona applies to his rump.
Once the door has slid shut and locked behind him, Winona turns back and looks at Chris for a minute. "Stay there?" she asks. "It's just, you look really good like that. No, don't move your hands." Her tone makes it a suggestion rather than an order so Chris complies, just to be nice.
"I'll need my hands to continue what we were doing," Chris points out.
Winona shakes her head as she kneels in front of him. "Nope, sorry. Your turn is over."
"That doesn't seem fair," Chris says.
Winona shrugs. She isn't too concerned about fairness at the moment; all of her attention is focused on the soft lapels of Chris' robe, and how easy they are to push off his shoulders. She sits back on her heels and drinks him in for a moment, consuming with her eyes and a little with her fingertips, too, which are stroking his ankle.
He feels his heartrate pick up again. Now, seeing out of the corner of his eye with Winona kneeling in front of him, he can enjoy his own breasts: sweet sloping things, paler than the rest of him, but soft.
"Not that I don't love the current scenery," Winona says, "but when you turn back into a man, can I see you naked again?" She looks impressively guileless. "You know, just for the purposes of comparison."
No. "Perhaps," says Chris. "If circumstances allow."
Winona gives him the half-smile that Jim does sometimes, lenient and content enough, but with a hint of something Chris doesn't quite understand. Longing, maybe. "Fair enough," she says.