A/N: So, here we go. These characters insist on doing stuff with each other and I haven't got the heart to refuse them. This again results in a story without much plot but with a whole lot of emotional pornography (borrowing that term from someone else because it fits perfectly). If we write enough fanfics where they are happy, Bering and Wells will rise again, y/y? (going to update that angsty story soon though, but it's going to have a happy ending eventually so it counts.)
The title is a line from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. Because I'm thieving like that.
Disclaimer: Owns nothing, earns nothing, plays a lot.
HOW SILVER-SWEET SOUND LOVERS' TONGUES BY NIGHT
H.G. Wells is in Myka's bed. In every sense. Somewhere in the back of her mind Myka finds that hilarious, but she is not laughing. Because Helena is in her bed, too, and she is reading to Myka in that voice that makes coherent thought seem like a distant memory. Helena is half-sitting, back resting comfortably against a bunch of pillows, her lower body under the covers. Myka knows exactly what is hidden under there; uncovered silken legs and ridiculously short equally silken cream coloured pyjama shorts. The younger woman is lying on her side, curls flowing over the pillow her hands are tucked in under, gaze firmly on Helena's face as she listens intently. Myka has never been very fond of audiobooks, but this is a whole new definition of the same that is considerably more appealing. She watches familiar lips form around words, sentences, paragraphs; intricately woven into a story like no other. A story written by Helena G. Wells over a hundred years ago. Myka still cannot quite wrap her mind around that thought. Helena looks so relaxed, so comfortable in the moment, and Myka is utterly in awe of being the only one allowed this close – physically, mentally, completely.
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As if they have a mind of their own, it does not take long for Myka's eyes to start wandering down Helena's throat, passing delicate collarbones and landing on the chest that is slightly flushed as it often is when the author is focused intently on something, or when she is agitated, or when Myka looks at her with intent, or… The agent swallows as her gaze moves even lower; past a tiny freckle to where bare skin meets the silky loose-fitting top, the thin fabric leaving little to the imagination. Absently, she admits to herself that the meaning of the words flowing steadily across Helena's lips is of less importance at the moment. What matters is that she speaks, as every word seems to pass through the air and easily move past Myka's skin, making her body throb with longing for those words to manifest as physical touch. Helena knows this; she has made Myka confess a number of secret desires in moments when the hesitation to share such things was gloriously forgotten.
As Myka traces the outline of a firm breast with hunger, lips quirking into a half-wicked smile, it becomes suddenly clear that Helena is well aware of her scrutiny. Her nipples, previously faint shadows under the fabric, turn into hardened peaks under Myka's gaze. But the author continues to read, chest flushing just a little more while her voice betrays nothing of the swiftly ignited arousal. Challenged, Myka keeps studying every exposed part of Helena's body as familiar passages weave a near-tangible cocoon of intimacy around them. The warmth that first formed in Myka's chest travels lower and lower to finally settle between her legs as overwhelming desire, while her mind mingles the sound of Helena's voice with memories of less intelligible sounds that she knows exactly how coax out of her partner. Myka's heartbeat quickens as she presses her thighs together in search of friction, and she hears herself draw in a slightly shaky breath, well aware that she will not need much to fall over the edge. She never needs much with Helena. From the moment Myka first touched herself while thinking of their new enemy, equally enthralled by Helena's beauty and brilliant mind as she was horrified at the forbidden thoughts, until the last time they had made love, on a blanket in the garden two nights ago, Helena had held absolute power over her mind, body, and soul in passion. But she never misuses it, never demands things that Myka does not want to give.
And for reasons Myka does not quite fathom, she holds the same power over Helena.
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Biting her lip to stop a devilish grin at the sudden burst of inspiration, Myka slowly starts pulling at Helena's cover so that inch after inch of the hidden body comes into view. Helena stops reading to raise an eyebrow at her in amusement, but says nothing and eventually returns to the book just as a hand lands on her thigh. Helena's body betrays her; it radiates warmth, and slender hips move to press the thigh into Myka's hand. As the younger woman strokes it up and down in small circles, Helena swallows and her eyes close briefly, but she hardly pauses the recitation of words.
Myka's hand remains on Helena's thigh even as she moves down on the bed, gently pushing silken legs apart to settle between them. Looking up at the author's face, eyes sparkling mischievously as she notices the flush of her cheeks, Myka places a kiss where her hand just was. Then another. And another. Moving to the other thigh, she bites gently at the soft skin before soothing it over with her tongue. She feels Helena tremble, voice catching slightly, but this does not stop her from reading either. Helena is in her element, those are her own words, and it would take a lot more for her to forget them. She is almost proven wrong, however, when Myka takes hold of her pants and resolutely pulls them down just enough to expose her to the cold air of the room. And to Myka's hot breath as she hovers above her, not touching but slowly blowing air on velvety folds. Helena breathes in sharply, words momentarily forgotten as her body and mind are overcome with sensations. How such a small stirring of air can unhinge her so is beyond Helena's understanding, but for once she is not particularly interested in examining the science behind it. Myka is a fascinating mystery, but not one to be solved.
Leaving her painfully untouched, Myka slides up Helena's body until they are face to face with the book pressed between them. Myka's eyes are dark as she whispers, "I need you to stop reading now", and Helena effectively forgets that she was in the middle of one of her favourite passages (if she may say so herself). When their lips meet, it is almost desperately. The kiss speaks plainly of want, need, love; tongues play with each other as hands tangle in black hair and push hips against wet heat. The edges of the book cut into soft skin but they let it be, the faint pain and rustling of pages as they move against each other adding to their building arousal. Now there is nothing but the air in their lungs, the blood in their veins, the intoxication of a thousand emotions spilling out to fill the small spaces of air between them.
Myka pulls back only because of the necessity to get rid of the book and Helena's shirt. She then slowly begins to retrace her movements downwards; travelling from lips to neck, kissing the well-memorised spots that make Helena gasp. Myka doubts that the sound even passes her brain, it feels like it moves straight from her ears down her body to add to the liquid fire between her legs. Scooting further down, she trails kisses along Helena's collarbones, down her chest to the top of one breast. A gasp followed by a humming noise is the encouraging response when she finds a hard nipple and bites at it gently. Her hand caresses Helena's stomach, fingers fluttering over a certain part of her ribs that elicits more gasps and a small moan. No part of the silky skin is left untouched as Myka moves to the other breast, mesmerised, so utterly there.
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Not for the first time, Myka marvels at how complete she feels while making love to Helena. The act is wholly intuitive, driven by emotions that cannot be described, filed or compared. It is as far away from the analytical and logical approach that is her signature as an agent as anything can be. Being with Helena is like breathing. Even the first time they were together like this – anticipation driving shaking hands that tore desperately at annoying clothes – it was wonderfully easy, every touch an unconscious decision driven by something beyond both their grasps.
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Helena's eyes close and she breathes in sharply, back arching, as Myka's tongue traces a path down her stomach. The younger woman had intended this journey to be slow, lingering, but finds herself impatient to reach the alluring destination. And moments later, after a quick detour to the inside of one muscular leg, she is unsurprised to find Helena equally impatient.
Between gasps, moans, and the steadily increasing moments when she thinks of nothing at all, Helena briefly reflects on the incredible intimacy of the act. In no other position – and with no other person – has she ever felt as vulnerable, as exposed, and yet as completely safe. The contradictory emotions temporarily fascinate her and translate as a slight frown and small smile, to which Myka murmurs "stop thinking, honey." Helena chuckles at this and opens her eyes to gaze into brown ones that look back with an intensity that removes all thought, and quite efficiently pulls her back to here and now and Myka's tongue doing marvellous, marvellous things. Treading her hands through soft curls that she has vetoed against ever being forced into straightness again, Helena's movements become erratic, her moans deeper. In no way does she try to resist the impulse of bucking shamelessly against Myka's mouth, and why would she ever? Then, out of nowhere, Myka pulls back. Helena opens her eyes, an incredulous look on her face.
"Umm…darling? What are you doing?"
Raising her eyebrows in response, Myka sits back on her heels for a moment, watching. She knows perfectly well that she is playing with fire, but god how she loves to see Helena like this. There is nothing but the rawest desire written on every part of her body; the tresses of raven hair clinging to her temple, the parted lips letting out ragged breaths, the chest and thighs that are flushed with rushing blood, the slight bucking of hips that have no intention of stilling their movement, and the glistening wetness that tells of Helena being oh-so-willingly hers.
Helena watches Myka's expression change from the teasing smirk into a look of unreserved wanting. She looks almost feral – lips parted, chest heaving, eyes burning so dark with need that Helena imagines feeling the gaze imprint on her body. Then, in a moment, Myka is moving, discarding her clothes in a heap on the floor before straddling Helena's thigh. Both women close their eyes at the sensation as Helena pulls Myka close, removing all space that dare separate them.
Helena breathes in her lover's scent, feeling every nerve ending ignite at the proximity to this woman, her everything, so similar and yet so different from herself. "Oh Myka, how I love you" comes out in a breath, unplanned, unprecedented.
Myka stills her movement, looking into eyes that have seen history, lived history, eyes that despite having had the opportunity to look into countless eyes before this moment have chosen hers to love. Helena loves her. Myka knows, both of them knew. But to hear those words spilling from swollen lips, while bottomless eyes hold a tenderness that somehow fills Myka's being more completely than any look of pure desire ever could, is overwhelming and Myka is sure her heart skips one, two, three beats before she remembers how to breathe. "I love you too, Helena", she says softly. Helena's vision is slightly blurred as their lips meet in a soft kiss that contrasts sharply to the deep, searing ones they shared earlier. Myka's eyes are glistening, too, and as profound as this moment is, it is not so because it has arrived unexpectedly but because it simply is.
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They kiss for a long time, unhurriedly, the newfound words somehow taking the urgency out of their desire. But as seconds tick away into a night where time has no meaning, straying hands reawaken the passion, and the stillness of the moment is broken when Myka begins to move again, sliding easily against Helena's thigh. The author mirrors her, mouth falling open to let out a sensual moan.
"Please…I need you inside…" Helena's voice is no more than a whisper against Myka's lips, but it could just as well have been an order for all Myka is concerned. She can never deny this woman anything when she is begging, needing, wanting. Or doing anything else for that matter. And she never ever wants to. Her hand finds its way down in response, fingers slipping into Helena with ease. Nails dig into Myka's back, and the slight pain rushes delightfully through her, making her move faster against Helena's thigh and pick up the pace of her hand. They share heated air that seems to thicken as it is filled with sounds; hums of encouragement, moans, the rustling of bed sheets and the occasional creaking of strained wood.
As Myka's free hand tangles in silken hair and her tongue slips into Helena's mouth much like it slipped into another place moments before, Helena feels her breath catch and pushes harder against Myka's hand. A few more strokes, where all that matters is the feeling of that hand, of Myka's skin against her own, of her wetness against her thigh – seconds where Helena's heart pounds without being powered by breathing – and she is on fire; falling, rising, completely overwhelmed by darkness and light and life.
At the sound of Helena's strangled cry and the feeling of clenching muscles, Myka follows her, pressing hard into the thigh even as Helena pushes it up against her. "Helena…" she lets out in a rush of breath. The author opens her eyes then, and takes in Myka's expression, surprised to find her eyes open and staring back, completely filled with pleasure. The look shoots straight down to Helena's centre and new waves of pleasure are suddenly radiating through her body as Myka tremble against her.
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In a rare moment of giving up control of her body, Myka collapses her full weight on Helena, resting her head against a pale shoulder. The author feels her chest constrict, not from the pressure of her favourite body, but from the depth of emotion and trust that simple act attests to. And the fact that she knows Myka so intimately that she can recognise the significance of it. She tightens her grip around Myka's waist and closes her eyes while their hearts begin to consider slowing to something more akin to a normal pulse.
An indefinable time later, Myka slides slowly out of Helena and shifts her weight to one side, while making no move to disentangle their legs or stop using Helena as her pillow. This brings a smile to the older woman's lips, and she opens her eyes to take in the utterly dishevelled state of the bed, Myka's unruly hair, the disorderliness of, well, everything, except the book that Myka unsurprisingly placed, quite neatly, on the bedside table. Chuckling, she says, "It appears we have made quite a state of the bed, love." Myka mutters something, far to comfortable in her relaxed state to be articulate.
"What was that?"
Taking a deep breath because it is worth a try to see if oxygen will bring her back to coherence, Myka finds the words to respond, "I said that was sort of the point".
"Ah. Why, that is a point I shall not argue against."
Smiling, Myka finally raises her head to place a soft kiss on Helena's lips. "Good. It wouldn't do for you to start protesting now, darling."
Laughter bubbling up, Helena swiftly reverses their positions so that Myka is pinned to the bed by the weight of a very smug, but also incredibly humbled H. G. Wells. Smirking, but speaking in a tone that leaves no doubt to the honesty behind her words, she says "Believe me, darling, I am centuries away from protesting."
THE END.