DISCLAIMER: The characters of H.G. Wells, Myka Bering, Pete Lattimer, Artie Nielson and Mrs. Frederic are not mine. The ones you don't recognize probably are. I do not own, nor do I have any official association with Warehouse13, SyFy or pretty much any other profit making entity. No infringement is intended. I'm simply borrowing the characters for a bit.
WARNING: Kink fic and blood play (mild) but Myka *is* wearing vampire fangs people. And she uses them.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
FEEDBACK: To Racethewind10[at]gmail.com
Helena really didn't "get" Halloween. Oh she understood the appeal of Masques, but that was different. That was adults in expensive gowns and custom made costumes and delicious drinks and gilded banquet halls. It wasn't children running amok around neighborhoods and getting candy from strangers.
Pete - unsurprisingly - was remarkably excited about the upcoming holiday. He tried on several occasions to get Helena "into the swing of things" (his words) but the author merely smiled and waved off good naturedly.
In truth it wasn't the holiday itself that bothered her, it was the distance from her previous life that it represented that HG couldn't quite reconcile.
Also, Americans had the most ridiculous ideas about what constituted a proper costume. The sheer variety of "slutty______" outfits the Brit had seen on her various trips into Univille was simply horrifying.
Thus when the actual night rolled around, Pete and Claudia decked themselves out (Claudia as someone named "Trinity" and Pete as a roman gladiator) and prepared to give out candy and Helena retired to her room with a book for fun and the significantly updated version of the Warehouse field manual for 'work'. Lost in her reading, it was a soft knock at her door that finally shook the author loose from the pages in front of her. Looking at the clock in surprise, Helena realized it was well past midnight and the house held the hushed feeling of a place whose occupants have all sought their beds. Apparently, Halloween was over.
Marking her place in her book and stretching, Wells walked to her door and opened it.
Whatever she had been expecting, it was not Myka Bering, her skin powdered pale and her lips the color of freshly spilled blood, standing (or rather leaning) in her door, wearing black leather that looked as if it had been poured on her lean frame.
Helena quite forgot how to breathe.
It was not - the author noted with what little of her brain seemed still able to function - the Agent's normal (and rather adorable) smirk. No this expression was sinful, predatory wicked. It was a smirk that acknowledged exactly the effect Myka's appearance was so clearly having on Helena and reveled in it.
Without waiting for an invitation, Myka brushed past Helena and stalked into the room.
"I realize Halloween might be an unfamiliar concept, but I know that even in your day, society was fascinated with the idea of vampires," Myka purred, her voice low and husky. The tones wrapped themselves around Helena's spine and grabbed a hold of her brain, promising darkness and blood and pleasure all at once.
Myka had never sounded like that.
And then the Agent licked her lips and sure enough, the author caught a glimpse of sharpened fangs. Not the cheap plastic dime-store variety. These looked real and sharp. The images that followed swiftly from that realization were enough to make Helena's knees weak.
Which was apparently the intention.
Whatever Myka had come here to do tonight, waiting was not a part of it.
With an almost arrogant grace, the leather clad woman flicked the overhead light switch, plunging the room in darkness. Moving apparently from memory (for Wells had no other idea how she managed to make it across the room) Myka struck a match and lit the thick white candles Leena had given HG when she moved in. There were three on the dresser and one on the top of the book shelf. Four pools of warm golden light were all that existed to see by.
It was enough.
Enough to allow Helena to watch as Myka - her hazel eyes dark and fathomless - paced toward her. Plenty to behold the way the leather the Agent wore seemed to absorb the flickering light even as it left her body revealed in near perfect detail. And it was sufficient to make out the pulse point in Myka's neck that Helena had wanted to kiss so badly, so many times.
And then Myka was in front of her and analysis became impossible. Before she could react, pale, slender fingers slipped into Helena's hair and yanked her head back almost savagely, even as a slim arm held the author fast to the taller woman's body.
The unexpected aggression sent Helena's heart racing and god help her but she actually whimpered at the feeling of being held fast against Myka's body. Her scalp burned pleasantly and she was so utterly aware of everything in that moment: Her breath, her heart, the way her clothes suddenly constricted her skin, the way her body melded to Myka's, and just how incredibly hot she suddenly was.
Oh yes, Helena understood the societal fascination with vampires - she was familiar with their tropes and what they represented. But all of that flew quite out of her head as Myka Bering bent her head and grazed her lips tenderly along Helena's neck. Those lips were warm and almost unbearably soft and yet, beneath them lay hidden danger.
As if commanded by Helena's own thoughts, Myka opened her mouth and trailed those fangs - and dear god they were as sharp as they looked - across the vulnerable skin of Helena's throat. The older woman gasped as desire, pure and liquid and hot as blood spilled on snow rushed through her, leaving her pulse throbbing between her unsteady legs.
"Myka," she gasped, clinging to the other woman.
The reply was a low, amused "hmm" against her skin. "Shh, we're just getting started," the agent spoke in that rich, throaty voice that sent the thudding wave of Helena's pulse crashing through her even harder. Swallowing, the author struggled against the yearnings of her body, trying to tear through the clinging fog of lust and the desire to just let go. She had to be sure.
"Myka wait," Helena gasped. "I just need to know is it you?" Cursing her oxygen deprived brain for her lack of coherence, Wells forced herself to step back and look at the woman before her. No matter how much she might want this, if Myka was under the influence of an artifact, she would never forgive herself.
Apparently Myka's ability to understand her was as intact as ever, however. The leather clad agent's expression softened, her eyes warming in a way that owed nothing to the candlelight flickering in the depths of their pupil.
"You mean did I accidentally stand in front of the Studio 54 dico ball again?" Myka's lips quirked, fangs hidden away behind the wholly familiar gesture. "Yes, Helena this is me. Well ok, I mean I don't normally run around in this," she gestured with amusement at the skin-tight leather and its accompanying corset. "I mean, Pete would never be able to concentrate. And apparently, neither would you," Myka's eyes twinkled.
Taking a markedly easier breath, Helena felt herself relaxing. "Forgive me darling, I just " She trailed off. How could she explain the complicated tangle of desire and fear she'd felt?
But again, she didn't need to. Myka's expression melted into the most beautiful combination of fondness and hunger Helena had ever seen and then the younger woman stepped closer.
"I may not be Pete, but he's not the only one who enjoys the opportunity to become something else once in a while. Now " Myka reached up and tucked a strand of Helena's hair behind her ear and the author watched in fascination as that hungry, wicked look came over the younger woman's face again.
"If you are quite finished asking questions Agent Wells, I have so many other, better things I could do with that mouth of yours," Myka's voice dropped a whisper and then she pressed her lips to Helena's.
The kiss was soft, but it was not gentle. Not when Myka's tongue took control of Helena's mouth and those sharp fangs threatened pain with every whisper soft touch. Helena found her face held between Myka's hands and herself utterly unable to move. Not because the grip was harsh, but because the younger woman was using the threat of her teeth to dominate the kiss.
Helena Wells was not a submissive woman by nature. Indeed, the opposite was usually true. She had always quite enjoyed dominating many of her lovers. Not all of course, and rarely in the sense of whips or collars or 'roles'. But when it came to taking charge of the romantic encounter, it was nearly always Helena who chose when and how and set the pace.
But tonight was different, in so many ways and for so many reasons. Reasons that Helena was simply unable to mull over as Myka wrapped slender arms around her waist and pulled the older woman against her again, threading her thigh between Helena's and moving to kiss along the author's jaw.
And so despite her nature, tonight Helena willingly surrendered. Utterly and completely. As the candles danced on their wicks Myka kissed along the author's jaw, nipping at her ear and then kissed her way down Helena's neck. Those tiny points of flame were the only witness as the younger woman began to undress the author, nimble fingers gradually revealing creamy skin that glowed in the golden light.
Helena had been undressed by many hands in her life, but the sheer hunger in Myka's gaze, coupled with the delicacy and torturous slowness with which she moved roving her eyes across Helena's body and drinking in each bit of flesh she exposed made the older woman's nerves scream for more. It was a slow, dangerous tease that Myka proceeded to enact until Helena was completely exposed, her hair a fall of shadows over her shoulders while Myka stood before her, totally in command and fully dressed.
And then Myka removed her belt.
She did it slowly, her eyes never leaving Helena's as the agent slid the thick leather through the loops of her pants until the black length was dangling carelessly from her hand.
"Lie on the bed," the desire thickened words were not a request.
Heart in her throat and struggling to keep her breathing even, Helena obeyed.
She then watched as Myka crawled onto the bed, her movements liquid and predatory and good god but where was the air?
Straddling Helena, Myka leaned down and kissed her lips very delicately. "If you need me to stop at any point I will, otherwise " and without another word, Myka looped the belt around Helena's wrists and twisted it through the slats of the headboard, fastening it. It wasn't tight, but it effectively stopped the older woman from moving. She was caught between Myka's knees and the leather bonds, stretched out along the covers. Her back arched instinctively and she watched as Myka's breath hitched.
It was a reminder of just how much power the submissive partner had in a truly consensual encounter like this and if possible, Helena felt an even greater thrill.
But tonight was not about turning the tables or forcing Myka to acknowledge Helena's hold over her. After all, wasn't that part of what vampires symbolized? The sexualized other, taking control, able to make weak anyone they chose? Braced above her, however, her hair a curling riot around her pale face, Myka was not an 'other;' no stranger to fuel a mindless fantasy. She was the woman whom Helena felt so many things for; most of which she had not yet defined.
She was also the woman Helena wanted, more than anything in this world, to look at her like Myka was doing at this exact moment.
So instead of challenging, Helena surrendered. When Myka shifted, rolling her hips teasingly into Helena's, the author sighed in frustration and want. When those elegant hands began to map her body with surety and possession, Helena let her eyes close and lost herself to their silent promise.
Despite being bound there was freedom in such surrender. Time pulled back from the space between them and there was only Myka's touch, knowing fingers and lips across her collar bones, between her breasts, along her ribs, teasing at her hips. Myka's hair tickled across Helena's flushed skin like another caress and when the younger woman's tongue traced a path from her hip to her navel, the author arched shamelessly, pulling against her restraints, her nipples hardened peaks.
Myka made a noise of approval deep in her throat and then she was gripping Helena's thighs, pushing them open almost roughly. The author knew the evidence of her desire was obvious. She didn't care. There was no thought or regret or shame in this. Only want, only need and trust and perhaps (though she didn't dare think it, even now,) love.
And then Myka was leaning over her, kissing her again and pressing a leather clad leg to her center. And this time, when the agent began to move her mouth across Helena's body, it was not merely lips that caressed sensitized skin.
Lights bloomed in the darkness behind her eyes as Myka sank her fangs into Helena's breast. Like ink dropped into water the pain spread, staining her awareness. Helena cried out and the leather around her wrists creaked. Her eyes flew open and she saw Myka above her, mouth now closing over one taut nipple. Two tiny specks of blood welled on the slope of Helena's breast, crimson vivid against the creamy flesh. In truth she'd had worse papercuts. But damage was not the point.
And Helena embraced it like a long lost lover.
Myka's mouth on her nipple was gentle, the fangs only teasing, but the author writhed nonetheless. Her breath came in broken gasps as anticipation knotted her belly.
"Close your eyes Helena," Myka growled, but there was too much tenderness in it to be an order.
The older woman obeyed anyway.
And so it was in the fire-tinged darkness of her mind that she let her body take over.
There was only the alien warmth of Myka's leather clad form against her own. Only the maddening contrast between the softness of her lips and tongue and the sudden bright blossoms of pain as Myka slowly marked Helena as her own.
Her other breast.
Her inner thigh.
Then Myka was between her legs and Helena was nearly panting with need.
"Please, Myka," she found herself begging. She, Helena Wells, who had made men and women kneel at her feet and plead for many things, not just release, was begging Myka Bering to take her.
Instead of replying with words, though, Myka simply relented and suddenly gentle fingers were penetrating her. The sensation tore a sharp cry from the author's lips and she strained, body tightening as she sought more.
Myka obliged, and Helena's body eagerly welcoming her until the younger woman was buried to the knuckle in hot, slick flesh. She moved tenderly, almost too gently for Helena's need at first as Myka curled her fingers inside her. Soft lips pressed kisses upward across the captive woman's hips and stomach as Myka let Helena's body gradually dictate the pace of her movements.
Helena herself was lost. Nothing existed but the pressure building like a river behind a dam inside her. With each thrust of Myka's hand and pulse of her heart it grew until the older woman felt she might die of it. And just when she thought she could rise no higher, Myka stroked her thumb over Helena's clit and those exquisite fangs broke the skin of her inner thigh. Such a tiny wound to do so much damage but it shattered the dam like an explosion and Helena's release crashed over her like the resulting wave.
With a guttural noise she came off the bed, body clamping around Myka's hand as her body sang like a struck piano wire and the lights of nerves firing danced behind her eyes.
When she finally relaxed, Myka was above her again, undoing the belt and gently rubbing the red marks on Helena's wrists. The look in the younger woman's eyes was incredibly tender and not a little bit awed and it tugged at Helena's heart in a most unexpected way. At that moment, for the first time all night, H.G. felt vulnerable and her breath hitched with emotion.
"Helena," her name was whispered and then Myka was next to her, gathering the older agent into her arms and holding her close as Helena trembled.
Neither woman spoke, Myka's hands merely stroked the damp skin of Helena's back, fingers tracing invisible images over the contours of muscle and bone until gradually Helena's body began to calm, adrenaline and the aftermath of her release finally fading.
"Helena are you alright?"
The author smiled weakly and nodded, pulling back to look at her newfound lover.
"Yes darling. Forgive me, I simply wasn't prepared " she trailed off. Now was probably not the time to dive into the deep waters of emotion with all their hidden dangers and potential riptides.
And yet again that night, Myka seemed to understand exactly what Helena was thinking because she merely smiled, and in that curve of full lips there was so much tenderness and delight and hope that it made the author tremble all over again. The expression, however, lasted only long enough for both of them to acknowledge what clearly lay between them, even if nothing need be said for now. Then Myka smiled wickedly, smugness making her eyes dance.
"No need to apologize. I just made the great H. G. Wells speechless. I. Am. A rockstar. Rock. Star."
Myka grinned and Helena couldn't help but laugh as well, the younger woman's pure delight was so deliciously contagious. Nor could she deny the agent her victory.
But that didn't mean H.G. Wells was finished.
Eyes darkening and heart quickening once again, Helena licked her lips and gently, but firmly pushed Myka onto her back.
"And now it's my turn," the author whispered as she began to pull down the zipper holding Myka's corset.
Helena would never admit it to Pete, but after that night, she completely understood the appeal of Halloween.
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