DISCLAIMER: I do not own, nor do I have any official association with Warehouse 13 or its characters. No infringement intended.
WARNINGS: Deals with themes of D/s though completely consensual and assumes an established relationship.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Set in the same universe as "With You I am Many Things."
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
FEEDBACK: To Racethewind10[at]gmail.com
Myka hisses as Helena tightens her grip in the taller woman's thick fall of curly hair. Using her leverage to tilt Myka's head to the side the artificer presses her lips to the racing pulse point in Myka's neck and sucks gently. There will be a mark there tomorrow. Myka makes a sound somewhere between a whimper and a sigh in pleasure. Slender, toned arms flex, pulling against the leather cuffs encasing her wrists and making the steel clips clink softly. Helena smiles against heated skin and caresses up Myka's torso, cupping her breasts before taking already peaked nipples between her fingers and pinching. Hard.
Myka jerks against the hold and makes a short, sharp sound that turns into a sigh when Helena's touch gentles once more, thumbs soothing along the curve of Myka's breasts.
Looking over Myka's shoulder and into the mirror, Helena licks her lips. The sight of Myka bound like this never fails to make her own knees go weak. The taller woman stands in an 'X', arms and legs secured with soft, thick padded leather cuffs to the steel bars that come out from the wall of their bedroom just for this purpose.
Usually it is Helena who asks to be bound. Helena who needs to feel the safety of the restraints and the freedom of being able to give up everything to another's will; to Myka's will. Usually it is Myka who needs to control, to bend her will upon Helena and see the smaller woman yield. It is a beautiful and delicate dance they have choreographed over the years, moving back and forth like a willow in the wind; swaying, but never losing ground.
Lately though, something has changed.
In those beginning years after Helena and the Warehouse were returned, there had always been a thread a single discordant note of fear underlying the emotional connection between the two women. No matter how fiercely and deeply they loved, there was always the cold dark whisper of the past, taunting them both with the prospect that it could all happen again: That they could lose each other. More specifically, that they both could lose Helena. For if Myka's deepest fear was Helena being taken from her, Helena's was losing a hold on her own sanity and slipping back into the abyss of grief and pain where she might lash out at those she loved most.
Things are different now.
It began like all things deep in the heart slowly. So slowly that it was years before they truly understood what was happening. They lived, they loved, they created a safe place for their hearts to grow closer. They learned to trust.
So much so that Myka began to let go of her own desperate need for control.
Now rarely, but sometimes Myka allows herself to stumble. Because now she trusts that Helena will be there to catch her.
Yesterday she stumbled.
That there was no way Myka or Pete or Helena or even Artie could have foreseen the involvement of a bunch of Russian mob guys intent on selling the artifact was irrelevant. There had been fighting and Pete was sent to the emergency room with a mild concussion and a cracked rib and Helena was grazed by a bullet.
And as point Agent, Myka blamed herself.
The team had eventually neutralized the artifact and Pete was going to be fine (if in deep shit with Artie) but Myka had been on edge ever since, brittle with fear and anger at what she saw as her own failure.
Helena knew the signs and knew what would happen if that anger turned too far inward.
Distracted and jumpy, Myka hadn't really been paying attention when they'd returned to the B & B. The tall agent didn't notice the look that passed between Helena and Leena or the understanding that dawned on the innkeeper's face. Myka didn't hear Leena pointedly suggest that Artie go visit Vanessa (Steve and Claudia were in Pittsburgh and Pete had traded on his "injured" status to spend the night at Tasha's). She didn't really notice anything until she was shoved roughly into the bedroom she shared with Helena.
"Helena what the hell?" Myka snarled.
The artificer didn't answer, instead she just strode forward and grabbed unerringly at the simple silver necklace around Myka's neck. The jewelry was actually nothing more than a single chain that looped back through a small silver hoop. Its design was such that when Helena pulled the end trailing down Myka's chest, it tightened swiftly, becoming not just a necklace, but a collar and Helena held the leash.
The room became very, very still.
Even their breathing seemed muted as Helena and Myka locked eyes. Myka's lean form was rigid with tension as a battle of wills played out in silence. Not between Helena and Myka, but solely within the taller woman. Helena was as still as a statue. She had made the offer, it was up to Myka to decide whether to accept it: to choose to be expunged of her perceived sins or to continue to struggle against herself.
"You did everything correctly, none of this was your fault," Helena finally whispered into the charged air.
For far too many heartbeats the confusion flickered in hazel eyes, and then Myka spoke, voice almost cracking. "It was my mission. My responsibility."
Helena tightened her hold on the necklace, watching as the glittering metal pressed into the delicate skin of Myka's throat. She didn't reply in words, she didn't need to. Instead she stepped back and ordered Myka to undress, the gentleness in her voice in no way diminishing the command.
It was with a sigh of almost relief that Myka obeyed.
For them, this has never been about fantasies or role playing. Indeed, in these moments, it was the reverse of such things. They didn't inhabit roles, they stripped them away. As much as the badge, and her gun and Tesla, the purple gloves and static bags meant to Myka, as much as they were her safety and her anchor and a part of her, they were also not the whole of her.
Loving Helena showed her that.
The slow burn of fingernails raking down her shoulder blades snaps Myka back to the present where she is bound and at Helena's tender mercy. A silk blindfold covers her eyes. She cannot see, only anticipate. Only feel. Over her own shaky breathing she can hear the soft rustle of Helena's clothing as she moves behind Myka, the clinking of her own restraints and the occasional ragged breath from her captor. In some remaining part of her, Myka knows Helena is just as affected by this as she, but that understanding matters little when a familiar caress moves up the inside of her thighs, nails teasing, to part need-slickened flesh.
Helena presses herself against Myka's back and the bound woman nearly keens at the sensation. It's both intoxicating and frustrating, for Helena is still dressed and the feeling of cloth against Myka's overheated skin is wonderful, and not enough. That devious mouth returns to Myka's shoulder, kissing softly this time as Helena's other arm comes around Myka's waist. Now the taller woman is well and truly trapped. She struggles in wonderful futility as Helena touches her with her other hand, a single finger dipping inside her only to be withdrawn far too soon.
Myka makes a sound of frustration and hears the throaty chuckle from just behind her shoulder. Her impatience is punished further when Helena steps back, leaving Myka bereft of even that anchor. She is just considering begging when another touch stills her.
It is not Helena's hand that caresses her shoulder.
Even blind Myka would know that touch anywhere. Butter soft, the folded leather tie of her own jacket is being trailed down her spine and over her ass.
Myka shivers in anticipation.
She doesn't have to wait long.
The first slap of the belt is just teasing, a warning, and the only one she knows she will get. The leather is soft enough that it is nearly impossible to cause true 'pain' with it. Its not even stiff enough to raise welts. Its value lies in the way each lash will build on the last, creating a slowly rising tide, stinging and burning, seeping into her blood and washing the darkness behind her eyes in red.
Helena is skilled at this. She strikes at random first, keeping Myka off balance. First across her should blades, then the curve of her hip, then down her back. At first she moves slowly, but soon each lash falls closer together, the soft swish-crack drowning out Myka's increasingly ragged breathing.
Slowly the world begins to fall away. The case, the fight, the fear and adrenaline, the aftermath And then Helena strikes her harder and Myka's world narrows to the rising fire spreading across her back and shoulders.
There is a clarity in this kind of pain, like the fight for survival, but cleaner. Safer. The past, the future, all of it becomes distant as Myka exists only on the knife-edge of now.
She doesn't realize she's crying until Helena stops.
Body sagging in her bonds, Myka is dizzy with endorphins and relief, but Helena isn't done. Once more the smaller woman closes the distance between them, arms wrapping around skin that stings anew with the gentle touch. Myka gasps, arching, but Helena does not yield. Slowly, gently, she holds Myka fast while elegant fingers slip inside her.
Now a different tone rises inside Myka, the music of pleasure mixed with the remnants of pain. It is gentle and healing, the blessing after the penance. This too, serves to keep her completely focused. Raw and on edge, she has no control over her own reactions and Helena plays her like a master musician.
It is only when the artificer whispers the command in her ear, however, that Myka finally lets go the last frayed tether and with Helena inside her, she lets her release wash over her, a warm rain to douse the flames.
She must have blanked out for a moment because Myka doesn't remember Helena releasing her from her restraints. She blinks as the smaller woman eases her onto the cool silk sheets of their bed and efficiently strips off her own clothes until she is clad only in a camisole and her underwear. If Myka had any strength left in her body, she would give in to the urge to touch the ivory skin revealed to her.
She has no such strength, however. Instead she is limp, wrung out like a wet rag, and can only make a tiny noise of pleasure and gratitude as Helena slips into bed and gently pulls Myka against her. Mindful of the already fading red marks on her back, Helena trails gentle fingers through Myka's hair, providing the anchor the exhausted woman needs to come back to herself.
Later they will talk. Myka will go over every detail of the case (mostly for her own benefit) and Helena will wisely remain silent until Myka comes to the conclusion that it truly wasn't her fault, and that Pete is going to be fine, and Helena has had worse paper cuts.
Now, though, Myka just drifts, somewhere between slumber and waking, held safely in Helena's arms and lulled by the beat of the smaller woman's heart beneath her ear.
Helena whispers one last command and though she is bound by nothing but the most gentle of touches, Myka obeys, closing her eyes and surrendering one final time, to sleep.
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