warehouse 13 fic; some lines are meant to be crossed
some lines are meant to be crossed | Warehouse 13; Myka/H.G | 1061 words | r | based on the prompt: (708): Would you like to blur the lines between friendship and lesbianism tonight? at the Texts from Last Night ficathon
Myka's drunk.
It's not often she gets drunk. (She likes control you see. Plans with colour coded names and such. She's sure under normal circumstances she could think of more examples but well, she's drunk. So. Colour coded plans.)
But there are times, every now and again, where being drunk is just necessary. Times like today when an artefact (fucking artefacts she thinks to herself) had shown them all their greatest fears.
And Myka's had not been what she was expecting. It wasn't about her family, or the Warehouse, or even herself. It was all H.G Wells. She envisioned H.G dead, H.G leaving, H.G breathing the words 'I don't love you,' with cold eyes and it left her head spinning and her chest aching.
(I mean really now, how could she have seen that coming? She barely knows H.G. She's only been officially reinstated at the Warehouse for a couple of weeks. And okay, it's true, they've spent a lot of time together in that period. And maybe they've even fallen asleep on her bed once or twice. But so has Pete. So. It's not really that obvious. Except it really, really is and even if sober her doesn't want to admit it, drunk her kind of has a filtering problem so there's really no denying it, not even in her own head.)
Anyway, the point is, after the day they'd had, Leena had been waiting for them (and Myka would really like to know how she does that) with pitchers of beer on the front porch and they'd all proceeded to get merrily plastered. Except Helena who seems to handle her alcohol extremely well and got merely tipsy at best.
She had stood up and declared, in that terribly British tone she gets, that it was time for Myka to go to bed and had proceeded to help her up the stairs and into her room, where Myka had toppled them into a tangled mess of limbs on top the bedspread.
So now Myka's lying half on top of her and her fingers are gripping the bottom of H.G's tank top (and she can't quite keep it straight in her head whether she should think of her as H.G or Helena. Helena always sounds like it should be said in a breathy whisper. So that's probably her answer, she muses) and the words are in her head one second and leaving her mouth the next. (See, no filter.)
“Would you like to blur the lines between friendship and lesbianism tonight?” she says, all wide eyes and biting her lip as one hand slides a little higher under Helena's top, brushing the skin of her hip lightly. There's not quite enough alcohol in her system to make this completely nerve free, but it's the closest she's going to get and she thinks if she doesn't take this chance now, she probably never will.
She's too drunk to actually have any expectations as to how this is going to turn out but even so Helena's answer floors her.
“I didn't realise we had a line darling,” she says, practically purring.
“But we haven't...I mean I know we've slept together but that was literal,” Myka stutters with a confused look on her face that Helena finds completely and utterly adorable.
“I just assumed it was a matter of time. Didn't you?” Helena asks her softly, running a hand across Myka's cheek.
“I have no idea what I thought,” Myka answers honestly but then she looks at Helena's face beneath hers and she's smiling like she knew they were headed for this all along and suddenly Myka feels all the trepidation (and butterflies, god they'd been swarming her stomach earlier) disappear and she find herself saying, “But I like you from this angle,” as she wriggles her hips a little and grins at the way Helena gasps beneath her and closes her eyes.
Despite how drunk she is, she feels incredibly powerful in this moment.
(And really, getting drunk tonight was the best idea ever, she thinks.)
Helena smirks as she quickly flips them over, settling herself between Myka's thighs with the kind of pressue that can only be described as payback and then she leans down, brushes Myka's lips so softly it's barely even a kiss and whispers, “How about this angle?”
“Yeah,” Myka breaths stiltedly - because Helena lips are on her neck now and there's a hand under her shirt pulling at the front of her bra - “This is good too.”
“Good doesn't even begin to cover it darling,” Helena mumbles into her mouth hotly.
And it doesn't.
Good feels like the least adequate word in the world to describe how it feels when Helena traces her tongue up the inside of Myka's thigh, so tortuously slow that Myka actually grabs Helena's head, tangling her fingers the dark hair as she pulls her to exactly where she wants her.
Or when Myka feels Helena literally shudder beneath her as she grazes her teeth over Helena's breasts.
(But it might actually be the moment in which Myka settles herself behind Helena, with an arm slung over her waist to hold her tight, and the feeling of smooth skin under her lips as she drifts off to sleep, when she really thinks that good is seriously the most useless word in the dictionary.)
Truthfully she can't even find the words to encompass what she's feeling - and no, it's not just because she's drunk. Well, not so much on alcohol anymore as that's pretty much been replaced by a different kind of drunkenness.
She's drunk on Helena's sighs and moans, on the deliberate way she presses her fingers into Myka's thighs, and the soft way she brushes her lips against Myka's temple after working her way up Myka's entire body.
And drunk or not, there just aren't words.
“So darling,” Helena murmurs into the crook of Myka's neck. “Did we blur that line to your satisfaction?”
Myka just laughs. “Blur? I'm pretty sure we obliterated it,” she says with a smile that's only half sexual satiation. (The other half is most definitely more sentimental than that.)
“And yes, it was entirely to my satisfaction.”
“Good. Mine too,” Helena says, sliding her tongue into Myka's mouth and kissing her deeply.
(For the first time in Myka Bering's life, she thinks words might just be overrated.)
Myka's drunk.
It's not often she gets drunk. (She likes control you see. Plans with colour coded names and such. She's sure under normal circumstances she could think of more examples but well, she's drunk. So. Colour coded plans.)
But there are times, every now and again, where being drunk is just necessary. Times like today when an artefact (fucking artefacts she thinks to herself) had shown them all their greatest fears.
And Myka's had not been what she was expecting. It wasn't about her family, or the Warehouse, or even herself. It was all H.G Wells. She envisioned H.G dead, H.G leaving, H.G breathing the words 'I don't love you,' with cold eyes and it left her head spinning and her chest aching.
(I mean really now, how could she have seen that coming? She barely knows H.G. She's only been officially reinstated at the Warehouse for a couple of weeks. And okay, it's true, they've spent a lot of time together in that period. And maybe they've even fallen asleep on her bed once or twice. But so has Pete. So. It's not really that obvious. Except it really, really is and even if sober her doesn't want to admit it, drunk her kind of has a filtering problem so there's really no denying it, not even in her own head.)
Anyway, the point is, after the day they'd had, Leena had been waiting for them (and Myka would really like to know how she does that) with pitchers of beer on the front porch and they'd all proceeded to get merrily plastered. Except Helena who seems to handle her alcohol extremely well and got merely tipsy at best.
She had stood up and declared, in that terribly British tone she gets, that it was time for Myka to go to bed and had proceeded to help her up the stairs and into her room, where Myka had toppled them into a tangled mess of limbs on top the bedspread.
So now Myka's lying half on top of her and her fingers are gripping the bottom of H.G's tank top (and she can't quite keep it straight in her head whether she should think of her as H.G or Helena. Helena always sounds like it should be said in a breathy whisper. So that's probably her answer, she muses) and the words are in her head one second and leaving her mouth the next. (See, no filter.)
“Would you like to blur the lines between friendship and lesbianism tonight?” she says, all wide eyes and biting her lip as one hand slides a little higher under Helena's top, brushing the skin of her hip lightly. There's not quite enough alcohol in her system to make this completely nerve free, but it's the closest she's going to get and she thinks if she doesn't take this chance now, she probably never will.
She's too drunk to actually have any expectations as to how this is going to turn out but even so Helena's answer floors her.
“I didn't realise we had a line darling,” she says, practically purring.
“But we haven't...I mean I know we've slept together but that was literal,” Myka stutters with a confused look on her face that Helena finds completely and utterly adorable.
“I just assumed it was a matter of time. Didn't you?” Helena asks her softly, running a hand across Myka's cheek.
“I have no idea what I thought,” Myka answers honestly but then she looks at Helena's face beneath hers and she's smiling like she knew they were headed for this all along and suddenly Myka feels all the trepidation (and butterflies, god they'd been swarming her stomach earlier) disappear and she find herself saying, “But I like you from this angle,” as she wriggles her hips a little and grins at the way Helena gasps beneath her and closes her eyes.
Despite how drunk she is, she feels incredibly powerful in this moment.
(And really, getting drunk tonight was the best idea ever, she thinks.)
Helena smirks as she quickly flips them over, settling herself between Myka's thighs with the kind of pressue that can only be described as payback and then she leans down, brushes Myka's lips so softly it's barely even a kiss and whispers, “How about this angle?”
“Yeah,” Myka breaths stiltedly - because Helena lips are on her neck now and there's a hand under her shirt pulling at the front of her bra - “This is good too.”
“Good doesn't even begin to cover it darling,” Helena mumbles into her mouth hotly.
And it doesn't.
Good feels like the least adequate word in the world to describe how it feels when Helena traces her tongue up the inside of Myka's thigh, so tortuously slow that Myka actually grabs Helena's head, tangling her fingers the dark hair as she pulls her to exactly where she wants her.
Or when Myka feels Helena literally shudder beneath her as she grazes her teeth over Helena's breasts.
(But it might actually be the moment in which Myka settles herself behind Helena, with an arm slung over her waist to hold her tight, and the feeling of smooth skin under her lips as she drifts off to sleep, when she really thinks that good is seriously the most useless word in the dictionary.)
Truthfully she can't even find the words to encompass what she's feeling - and no, it's not just because she's drunk. Well, not so much on alcohol anymore as that's pretty much been replaced by a different kind of drunkenness.
She's drunk on Helena's sighs and moans, on the deliberate way she presses her fingers into Myka's thighs, and the soft way she brushes her lips against Myka's temple after working her way up Myka's entire body.
And drunk or not, there just aren't words.
“So darling,” Helena murmurs into the crook of Myka's neck. “Did we blur that line to your satisfaction?”
Myka just laughs. “Blur? I'm pretty sure we obliterated it,” she says with a smile that's only half sexual satiation. (The other half is most definitely more sentimental than that.)
“And yes, it was entirely to my satisfaction.”
“Good. Mine too,” Helena says, sliding her tongue into Myka's mouth and kissing her deeply.
(For the first time in Myka Bering's life, she thinks words might just be overrated.)