Title: With You I am Many Things

Pairing: HG/Myka Warehouse 13

Disclaimer: Not mine, not making any money.

Rating: NC-17 This fic deals with themes of D/s (Kink ahead, and as my good friend Jayden Scott once said "One slap on the ass does not a D/s fic make"). If that isn't your thing…well this fic will not be to your liking. At all. (It is, however, all consensual and assumes an established relationship)

Summary: This fic doesn't really need a summary, because there is no plot…Yep. Just double checked. No plot. Only sex.

A/N, WARNINGS: There are a lot of safety issues involved with (good) kink that I am not addressing here. Since this fic assumes a long standing (and monogamous, because really, who the fuck would cheat on either of these ladies and I can't write threesomes) relationship, I'm pretending all those things like physical health, safe words and areas of play both parties are (or are not) comfortable with have already been discussed and dealt with.


Seen

There are moments still – even nearly five years after the Warehouse was restored and Helena with it – that Myka looks at her wife and her breath literally catches.

Like now, when the only thing the artificer wears are a matching set of supple, padded black leather cuffs around her wrists and ankles. Her hair spills over her shoulders like a river of shadow and her eyes in the warm light of the room are as deep as the sacred wells the Incans believed led to the Underworld.

They are alone in their bedroom, the only two occupants of the B & B tonight. The only two occupants of the world for all either of them care at the moment.

Myka stands at ease, entranced by the sight of Helena's naked form.

Helena is bound by something more…tangible.

The smaller woman stands with legs and arms spread, the well-worn and lovingly tended cuffs attached by gleaming steel to places clearly intended for just this purpose on two metal bars jutting out from the wall. The bars run parallel to the floor, one a few inches off the ground, one high enough over her head that Helena's shoulders feel a slight pull. She forms an 'X' facing the wall with her back to the room, and Myka. Her sight, however, is not limited to a stretch of sheetrock. Instead, a full length mirror occupies the space between the custom made steel bars. The mirror itself is the only one in the room and other than its placement, unremarkable. Its frame is a simple strip of polished mahogany and it matches the other furniture well. It looks like nothing so much as an old and odd remnant of a dance studio.

Helena and Myka are the only ones who know its true purpose.

Myka takes a moment to appreciate the reflection in the mirror. They make a strikingly beautiful pair: Helena's smaller, paler, whipcord form offered like the willing sacrifice she is before Myka with her riot of curls and burning green eyes. The taller woman wears a simple white button down and tan trousers tucked into knee-high boots – shamelessly stolen from Helena. Her captive wears only the cuffs and the candlelight that plays across her skin; warm shadows kissing the curve of her breasts and outlining the sculpture of lean muscle in her arms and legs.

Hands crave the touch of soft skin but Myka holds herself still for just a few more heartbeats. Instead she lets her eyes feast on the elegant curve of Helena's spine, the way her forearms cord with muscle as she shifts her stance, the way her nipples are hard and peaked and the taller woman hasn't even touched her yet.

Understood

It surprised Myka to find that she was comfortable with desires most would have shied from, but Helena has taught her the delight a touch of … spice… can add to the art of loving someone.

Not all the time of course. They can be just as – Pete's words – 'disgusting mushy' as the next couple. There is little Myka likes better than waking on one of their rare mornings off, feeling the languid soreness in her muscles tell-tale of a night filled with gentle love-making. She loves watching the sun come up with Helena asleep in her arms. The warmth of her wife's skin against her own is more addictive than the purest form of any drug, matched only by the intoxicating sight of the soft morning light dusting Helena's creamy skin with pale gold and illuminating the depths of those extraordinary eyes when they finally open. They used to really enjoy making love in the shower too, until the day they used up too much hot water and Claudia got a cold shower. The redhead had sauntered down to breakfast and announced very loudly to everyone in the room that she had had the most, quote, "refreshing ice-bath because two people I won't name were having really, really enthusiastic sex in the shower. And really H.G., you should keep the moaning down, it carries."

Helena hadn't been particularly repentant, but Myka's face had felt like it was on fire. After that they only indulged when they were staying in hotels.

So while it has taken some time to be comfortable with the idea, Myka has come to see the exquisite beauty in the surrendering or taking of power…of control.

She was surprised, however, (silly to think, in hindsight) that such a dynamic was rarely just about pain.

Often for them it is full of teasing, laughter and simple lust.

It can begin with something as small as Helena walking into their bedroom immediately after Myka has finished straightening up, slipping off her silk robe and dropping it deliberately in the middle of the floor with an "oh dear, I've made a bit of a mess," and a wicked sparkle in her eyes. Those times Myka grins fiercely as she shoves the smaller woman back down onto the bed, or fists her hand into those silky ink-black tresses, or orders Helena to bend over the chair and spread her legs while Myka retrieves the padded riding crop.

Sometimes it can be as deliciously torturous as Myka lying in bed watching Helena dress in the morning with that look; the one the artificer says reminds her of a jungle cat - like the smaller woman is prey - that leaves Helena ridiculously aroused. It might be a gentle good morning kiss on the cheek that turns into a throaty whisper of, "I think I might fuck you until you beg me to let you come tonight, but I haven't decided," while one walks away smiling as if nothing happened and the other tries to calm their pounding heart. Or it might be a dozen small touches throughout the day until they're both so turned on that when they are finally alone at night, clothes get ripped, teeth bite and nails carve red lines of ecstasy and ownership upon each other's backs, or thighs, or breasts.

Other times, it is more complicated.

Things are better now than they were just after the Warehouse was restored, but the life of a Warehouse agent is rarely dull and never safe. To say that the occupants of Leena's B & B bear scars would be an understatement. Helena died,and Myka's been nearly lost half a dozen times.

There are still nights when one or both of them will wake with screams and pleas to silent Gods choking their throats.

Some nights they need to hold each other close and whisper over and over again that they are safe, and alive, and here.

Some nights they need something else.

Few people could possibly understand what they seek when Helena asks to be bound or Myka whispers with shaking voice to bind her, but it doesn't matter. They know and it has brought them here. Here where Helena doesn't have to be in control. Here where she doesn't have to be brave or strong or even whole. Here where she only has to feel. Here she is trapped, grounded, secured, secure…safe. Here where Myka can have all the answers. Here where she can control the future. Here where everything answers to her will and she can give Helena everything.

Teased

As much as Myka enjoys the vision of Helena standing tied in front of the mirror, the taller agent knows if she waits too much longer the tension will stretch too tight and snap.

And that would be no fun at all.

Holding Helena's gaze in the mirror, Myka steps forward until she is mere inches away from the captive woman. Just enough for Helena to almost feel her. If there is one thing Myka Bering has learned about the woman she loves, it is how incredibly sensitive and responsive she is. And Myka has learned to play her body like the master-work that it is.

She doesn't touch Helena. Not at first. Instead she leans forward; placing her lips close to a shoulder blade and blowing the tiniest breath of air across creamy skin. The room is warm, but goose-bumps rise across Helena's flesh and leather creaks as she strains against her bonds.

Myka grins and places a feather light kiss to the skin below her lips, then moves on. A glance in the mirror shows her Helena with eyes closed, head tipped forward. Myka's smile widens and she blows that soft breath across the other shoulder blade, again following it with a kiss. She knows the captive woman can feel her body heat, knows exactly what she longs for, but this is not just about a quick fuck or simple gratification. This is so much more.

Only when Myka can see the strain in Helena's shoulders from trying to hold still does she cease her tender teasing. Gently she presses one last kiss to the base of the smaller woman's spine and then straightens.

Touched

The soft sigh of metal scraping metal whispers through the air and Helena's head snaps up.

Now Myka steps forward. Not enough to press her body against Helena's, but enough that her clothes brush the smaller woman's skin. It's another tease and Helena's eyes narrow. They widen again when Myka brings her hands around the captive woman's body; sliding them carefully along her waist and tracing the curve of her hips. As she does, the source of the sound of metal is revealed.

Gleaming, razor sharp claws with needle points tip the fingers of Myka's hands. Gently curved, the backs are polished smooth and safe, but there is no mistaking the malice of their edges and tips. They gleam in the candlelight, nearly the color of hematite. For an instant Myka holds them away from Helena's skin, then one by one, she deliberately places the claws against her. The bound woman shivers with each tiny contact, despite the fact there is nowhere near the pressure needed to break skin. The threat is there and that is enough.

What follows is, in its own way, art.

Cold uncaring metal and warm living flesh slowly explore Helena's body. Myka traces curves and hollows and where her hands move, the claws leave evidence of her passing. In some places the scratch is so light it almost tickles, the briefest mark quickly fading to nothing. In others the lines are bold; brazen crimson marking out a sigil only Myka can read.

Beneath the contrasting touch – warm and cool, hard and soft, human and other - Helena trembles and gasps, at times hissing, at times letting loose a tiny cry. Myka has learned to speak this language of broken sounds and knows that her wife is beginning to let go of the world, of everything beyond the next breath and Myka's touch.

By the time Myka tenderly pierces the skin of her shoulder blades one at time with all ten claws, just deep enough to draw a single drop of crimson, Helena is panting. The taller woman isn't nearly done with her yet, though.

The five claws tipping the left hand are dropped carelessly, leaving elegant fingers bare. The claws on the right hand stay. For a moment, Myka soothes the tiny wounds she has created with her mouth, blowing across heated skin to cool it. She watches the mirror over Helena's shoulder, waiting for the moment the captive woman catches her breath and meets her eyes. When Helena finally does, the sight of her steals Myka's breath all over again. Her heart feels like it might beat its way out of her chest and she wants Helena, in every way possible, so badly. It's not even just about sex; it is about possession, protection, love. It's about their past and all the pain and darkness…but also the laughter and excitement and learning and desire. There are moments – mere heartbeats – when Myka looks into Helena's eyes and wonders if the ancient Greek myths about soul-mates are really true. How else can she explain this visceral need that goes so far beyond mere physical lust.

She never wonders for long, however. Usually because she has more pressing concerns. Like now when Helena slowly licks parted, passion-reddened lips and it does things that should be illegal to Myka's insides. There aren't words to adequately encompass those feelings, and the taller agent has long since given up trying. She and Helena don't need words, they have their own language written in darkened eyes and flushed skin. It's spoken in panting breaths and keening cries and the creak of leather and steel. Its letters are hot, slick flesh and desperate mouths and it tells of joy and regret, sorrow and wonder, desire and guilt and all those things poets have spoken of for centuries and still failed to perfectly capture.

The only physical sound in the room is Helena's ragged breathing as Myka bends to touch the captive woman's ankles. Slowly, reverently, she traces her hands up Helena's legs, admiring the texture of her skin and jump of muscle beneath it. Myka moves until she is standing straight once more and her hands rest on the artificer's hips, the clawed fingers tapping dangerously.

Only now does Myka press the length of her body against Helena's, wrapping the arm with it's clawed hand tightly around the smaller woman's body. As secure as her bonds are, Helena will still struggle and Myka wants to feel it; feel that smaller form writhing futilely in her arms, every shift and twist and strain of muscle and sinew.

Myka drags her naked hand slowly up the inside of Helena's thigh and listens as the ragged breathing becomes deeper. The taller woman could drag this out of course, teasing Helena with a single finger, but the first touch of finger tips to achingly wet flesh sends that intention flying right out of Myka's head. Helena is so wet and so ready and Myka doesn't even hesitate, just presses her fingers deeply inside that incredible heat. Helena responds by bucking in her hold, crying out softly – quite possibly to God, though it's rather incoherent – and whimpering. The smaller woman's head is tipped back, her eyes closed tightly in pleasure, but this isn't what Myka wants.

Stilling her fingers Myka presses a soft kiss to her wife's ear and whisper's lowly, "Open your eyes Helena."

The strangled sound that emerges from passion-stained lips reaches deep inside Myka and yanks. Now they are both trembling, and both watching as Helena holds Myka's gaze in the mirror while the taller woman slowly draws her fingers out, then pushes them back in, deeper. Again. And again. And again. Each time a little harder, but no faster.

"Christ, Myka please," Helena manages when the taller woman growls softly at her for closing her eyes.

"Please what?" comes the deceptively mild question. It is all Myka can do to keep her knees from giving out.

"Must you make me…Oh!"

"Yes."

"Please let me come, please…"

Now Myka softens, gentling her hand inside Helena. She's not quite done yet though. "Tell me love, how do you want me to take you?"

For the first time all night Helena looks away from the mirror, turning her head to catch Myka's eyes. "I want to see you," she says fiercely. A gentle kiss to the corner of her mouth is all the answer either of them need.

Claimed

Myka crawls up the bed, stalking on all fours almost like a cat. Below her, Helena is pale cream and inky shadow on midnight silk, once again bound, this time on her back. Her hands are behind her head now and it makes her back arch slightly, as if offering herself to Myka's sight and touch. Which really, she is. Leather protests and the bedcovers rustle as she shifts in restless desire. Helena's gaze is fearless and filled only with want. The same want that Myka knows is darkening her own eyes and staining her cheeks, making her clothes too constricting and her heart pound like it might burst. Still, there will be time later to shed her clothing and let Helena appease the ache inside her.

Now she eases between slender legs tied open and settles her weight, placing the toy just against need soaked flesh. Helena moans, straining to gain contact. Myka takes it away, but instead of teasing further, she slips her fingers into Helena once more, watching as the captive woman arches further, her body bowing from the bed. The sight is indescribably beautiful. Removing her hand, Myka leans forward, pressing now-slick fingers against Helena's lips. She can't help the soft groan as the smaller woman takes them into her mouth, suckling gently, eagerly.

Myka is holding Helena's gaze as she lowers her hips and pushes the toy inside her. Watching the smaller woman's face as Myka penetrates her is as close to prayer as Myka thinks she can get. The emotion and feeling that play out across those delicate features; the words that are spoken in their own private language of need… Myka could lose herself in that beauty. She never moves her gaze as she rolls her hips and pushes deeper into Helena, taking her slow and hard. The woman she loves is falling apart beneath her, held by bonds of steel and leather and Myka's own body and the feeling, the sight, the sound of Helena coming is the most beautiful thing Myka has ever experienced.

It's just as wonderful the second time when Myka manages to tear her eyes away from Helena's face and lowers her head to a pale breast, taking one pebbled nipple into her mouth and biting slowly even as she keeps moving her hips. This time the movements are jerkier: The keening the captive woman makes higher and more broken.

It's enough to tell Myka that the smaller woman's body can still take more, but it's not until Helena herself pleads breathlessly with Myka to stop that the younger agent does. She eases the toy from inside Helena and rests her weight on her elbows, marveling at how utterly wrecked her wife is.

Loved

The sun is just climbing toward the horizon by the time Myka's heart finally begins to slow toward something approaching normal. Helena is nestled in her arms, head resting on Myka's shoulder. The bed is a tangled mess but it doesn't matter. They have the warmth of each other's bodies and that is enough. Around the room the candles finish burning down, guttering and dying, eclipsed by the delicate rays trying to peek through the curtains. It is plenty of light to see the sleepy, contented look on Helena's face. An expression Myka knows is mirrored on her own features. There is a bite mark on her left shoulder that pulls when she shifts and claw marks on her hips. She savors the sensations. Just as she savors the feel of the silk sheets around her legs and the satin warmth of Helena's skin against her own. Helena's hand rests over Myka's heart and she's fighting sleep. Its impossibly adorable, making Myka's heart – if possible – even fuller.

"Rest, love," she whispers.

"Not yet," is the low reply, accent nearly obscured by exhaustion. "I don't want to miss it."

"What?" Myka smiles gently.

"The way your eyes look in the morning's light."

Myka swallows, heart so full she almost forgets how to breathe for an instant. "I love you too."

Fin.