Disclaimer: Warehouse 13, the world and the characters that inhabit it do not belong to me in any way, though sometimes I lie awake at night wishing that they did and what I'd do with them if they did. And then I write those thoughts down.
I haven't written anything "substantial" in a while, so this is me basically just trying to get back on the horse and try something new. And what better way to do that, than with smut? ;) A huge thank you to Aurora who I have forced into being appointed as my smut checker and who I basically force fed this to in small increments.
It's the touch of expert fingertips fluttering over every inch of you, except where you need it most, that steals your breath. It's the sound of teasing laughter, the feel of it ghosting along your cheek, that has you fisting the sheets and pulling mumbled curses past your lips. It's the feel of her body, unreal in all her naked beauty, hovering so close to your own that makes you feel so unbearably alive. It's too much. Never enough.
Lips scorch a line of fire along your neck and suddenly you're suffocating, the flames stealing every last ounce of oxygen from your lungs. Your eyes are closed, might never open again, but you're aware – in some dark corner of your mind – that she is watching you. Calculating your every minute movement. And it has taken so long to get here, and you've overcome so many things to reach this point, that you know you'd do the same if your positions were reversed. That you will do the same, when they are. Then her mouth finds yours and she's breathing life back into you, urging you to live with every press of her tongue. And you think, for one eternal moment, that you might drown.
"Myka." She calls your name to pull you back, but you're already too far gone. Your lips burn from her assault, dominating and tender, and you know that there's no hope for you now. She has you, all of you. And she hasn't even taken you yet. You dig your heels into the mattress and bend your knees with no real thought towards your actions, but she settles between your legs like she belongs there and that tugs the coil of desire lurking at the pit of your stomach ever tighter.
"Please." And you don't beg, you've never begged. You've been left by lovers and you've watched as the man who'd snared your soul was gunned down before your eyes, but you've never begged. Then again, you never thought yourself capable of forgiving betrayal, of loving again, of believing in the utterly impossible and yet here you are. Caught by all those things and so many more, and you're helpless. And desperate. And pleading.
"Tell me," her whispered words are like wine, rich and intoxicating, "that you want me." And it strikes you that you've never wanted anything more in your entire life. "Tell me, Myka." She's always been the wordsmith, years before you yourself were born, but words have been good to you until now. Haven't failed you quite this spectacularly before. They're gone, there's not a trace of them left, and you open your mouth more out of habit than anything else. She laughs again, almost breathes her humour into you, and somehow that's enough.
"Please, Helena." Your voice is foreign, trembling, and your eyes flicker open to watch the amusement fade from her smile. It leaves her open and vulnerable and awed and then your breath is gone again. You can see your own desperation reflected in her eyes and it sends a thrill through you so painful, so undeniable, your back begins to arch. But she's above you, hanging like a passionate shadow, and there's not a force in all of nature that can move her from you now. And she sees it, somewhere draped across the curving lines of your face or wading through the depths of your eyes. Just how much you want her. Need her. You don't need to speak, though in truth you know that you never really did. She'd only wanted to hear you say it and had your grasp on language remained firm, you'd have been happy to oblige. But the only language you can recall is that of the body and, slipping your fingers into hair as thick and black as night itself, you tell her everything she wants to hear without a single word.
Your mouths mesh as though they were formed solely for the task. Slow kisses traded back and forth burn with a hunger and desperation that only a sense of finality can birth. Warms your skin and settles upon your heart like lava, and you know that when it cools you'll feel the change to your very core.
The idleness of her fingers as they trail over the swell of your breast and across the plains of your rapidly rising and falling stomach is belied by the tremor you can feel shaking them. You want to say something, ease her nerves, reach out and grasp her, steady her, but you can do nothing but cling to the silk between your fingertips as hers graze the inside of your thigh.
The gasp that leaves you at the first press of her against your aching centre is breathy and the groan that follows, wanton. But these aren't the things that register. There's nothing but the feel of her skin against yours, the reassuring weight of her slender form, and the touch of cool fingers against molten heat. Your eyes flutter and your mouth falls open as your hands slip from her hair, curving around to grip uselessly at her upper back. There's no grip to be found, your fingertips can't gain purchase on gently toned muscle, but the way they try, digging into flesh to pull her closer, sparks something unnameable and suddenly she's sliding into your for the first time and you're sure the world around you takes a moment to stop. Expand. Implode. Shatter. Everything you ever were breaks apart in an instant and all that you'll become takes form as she begins to move within you.
And it's as though every moment that has led to this, every second of every day that's passed since you crossed paths in a hallway in England settles atop your chest, and you think you might explode from the pressure of it all. Instead, her slow strokes seem to coax some sense of lightness to life and all at once you're floating, though her presence above you never fades. She's close, so close, and somewhere in the shadowed recesses of your addled brain lies the notion that you are too. And it's too fast. You don't want it to be over yet. You want it to go on, want to linger in this moment forever. You want to tell her to slow down, but if she moves any slower she'll simply stop. There's a passion in her movements that you can feel in your bones and the fingers of your right hand slip back into her hair as she drops her head to press her forehead against your temple. You can feel her restraint too, the way she's fighting against a need that's the opposite of yours, and you aren't sure how she's doing it. Fighting an urge so powerful that you yourself can feel it, but the pace of her movements is so drawn-out it's almost painful, and you love her just a little bit more for that determination.
The word strikes you at the same moment her lips brush your cheek and a wave of heat crashes over you that threatens to drown you in warmth. Because of course, of course it is. That's the only thing that's made sense, even during those moments and days and weeks when it shouldn't have.
"Myka..." The muscles in your thighs contract of their own volition at the sound of your name spilling from her and you're squeezing her without thought. You don't stop, even as her strokes turn toward thrusts and her movements, though they remain slow, turn ever more unsteady. It hits you then; she's shaking. Trembling even worse than you. "I need you." And you're sure, almost certain, that this marks the first time those words have passed her lips. H.G. Wells rarely needs anyone, even rarer is it for her to admit to such a thing, and all you want in that moment is to tell her that she has you. Has always and will always have you. That you understand and it's okay. You'll still be there when the sun comes up. Even if she isn't. That you didn't realise it before now doesn't matter; you'd long ago resigned yourself to waiting for her.
"I'm here." You manage, though the how of it is beyond you. The words are tremulous and hushed but you can feel her smile against your skin and you know she hears them. Her fingers shift inside you, their angle changing every so slightly, and the movement rips from you a moan so erotic, it borders on the obscene. And still, you feel her smiling. Her breath is hot where it laps at the shell of your ear and your eyes roll into the back of your head as your hips jerk to meet her with a lack of coordination that the more schooled side of yourself is likely screaming at, not that you can hear it. Hear anything over the sound of her living right beside you, and it's almost deafening against the backdrop of memories that flash through your mind as you feel the muscles in your stomach start to knot.
You've almost lost each other so many times. Too many.
Your fingers dig into her shoulders with enough force, you're sure, to dash the skin with little crescent moon designs, but you can't stop yourself. The thought doesn't enter your head. You won't let go, not now. Not ever. And as you rock against her, feeling the fingers of her free hand tracing the curve of your neck, over and over, and the one still occupied steadily sweeping you towards some brilliant oblivion, all notions of thought and memory slip away. Leaving you with nothing, but her.
Your breath hitches and catches in your throat as your mouth opens to release a silent cry. Your back arches without consent and your head slips back and you start to come apart, but she holds you. Steady, safe. There's a blinding light in the darkness behind your eyelids and your chest feels like it might swell enough to burst as every emotion imaginable seems to fill it in an instant and then there's love.
Only love.
You cling to her as you come down, aware of how white your knuckles must be but too focused on regaining your ability to breathe to do anything about it. You can hear your heart beating madly in your ears and you feel the gentle curve of the tip of her nose as it brushes over your cheekbone. Her lips are on you again, pressing against that same spot and then moving down over your face until their touching yours again.
And the pressure in your chest doesn't ease, only changes. Settles.
It's the way she says your name, hushed, full of wonder and breathy disbelief. It's the way she looks at you and sees so much more than even you believe. It's in her eyes when you open yours and gaze at her as words escape you again.
It's love. And you'll never let go again.