FIC: "Fiction Imitates Fact," Helen/HG Wells, Helen/Charlotte, HG Wells/Myka Bering
Title: Fiction Imitates Fact
Author: geonncannon
Fandom: Sanctuary/Warehouse 13
Pairing: Helen Magnus/Helena G. Wells, Helen Magnus/Charlotte Benoit, Helena G. Wells/Myka Bering
Word Count: 1,846
Category: Mature
Spoilers: Monsoon
Disclaimer: None of them belong to me!
Rating: Adult
Author's Note: Crossover! Plus fans of Jaime Murray who saw her on Spartacus may notice I stole a visual from that show. Hopefully they won't mind too much. ~g~
Summary: H.G. Wells spies on a private moment that reminds her of what she's running from.
Helen wondered often what historians and the literati would think if they knew the true size of H.G. Wells' bibliography. Half a dozen novellas and thrice as many short stories were collected in the Sanctuary library in cheap leather-bound collections. The works were credited to HGW, written over the course of the past century during H.G.'s imprisonment at the Warehouse. She didn't write the stories in the strictest sense; they were technically collaborations between the writer, a telepathic mermaid, and an empathic Abnormal. The three worked in concert, the story filtered from one to the other, until the story was done.
Writing was easier now, now that H.G. freed from the Warehouse and officially "dead." The Warehouse and its Regents left her alone, and she was forbidden from having a hand in the Sanctuary's day to day activities. Helen loved her, but she was too smart to extend any trust. H.G. understood entirely; the temptation would be much too great and it was better if she was left out of the loop. She had nothing but time to write, although now her works tended toward the maudlin. She eschewed science-fiction for tragic romance, and all of the trampled-heart heroines had the same face. H.G. always cast herself as the heartless rogue who left the poor dear weeping and alone at the end. Fiction imitated fact.
The writer wandered the more vacant areas of the Sanctuary, and she wrote when inspiration struck. Often she joined Helen in bed and they took pleasure in each other, but they both knew it was simple commiseration rather than true love. H.G. still mourned her relationship with Myka, eager for the time when they could reunite and love one another as they were meant to. White picket fence, brunch over the Sunday paper, a large bed with sheets they could spend hours getting tangled in.
On one rare night when both sleep and literature abandoned her, H.G. decided to roam the halls of the Sanctuary. The cloth of her white robe and matching negligee swept around her legs like angel wings, and she ran her fingers over her hips as it swayed back and forth with the motion of her steps. She was aroused and eager, but Helen had seemed distracted since her return from Africa, unresponsive to H.G.'s overtures. H.G. would have been concerned, but Helen's distraction was a cheerful and easily-distracted sort that H.G. recognized only too well from her recent experience with a certain Warehouse agent.
Helen's distraction had grown more acute in the past few days, culminating with a visit from a young doctor. She was described as a teacher, a scientist, and Helen greeted her warmly. Oh, at tha moment it became only too clear what had caused Helen's recent elation. These women of the new century... Magnus and Wells had been aberrations in their time. Women who dared to think and to act, who cared nothing what men might think of them. Now it seemed intelligent adventuresses were everywhere. The title of weaker sex had become a joke.
She walked the hardwood floor in bare feet, padding silently through the large building that itself seemed to be as displaced as the women who called it home. She moved silently like a spirit, pausing at the doorway to the study. She pressed herself to the post and looked inside, pressing a curled index finger to her upper lip. She touched her finger with her tongue and observed the scene within as if she were to transcribe it into a story.
The young woman is bold for her age, and she is the first to rise. She stands before her venerable companion and extends one slender hand. Fingers brush cheek, a head turned into the caress. Lips press against wrist and the slightest sigh is heard, lost in the crackle from the fireplace. The young woman is dressed for bed in a flowing gown the color of burgundy. The sleeves billow loosely around her arms as she touches her lover's face, and her lover kisses from wrist to elbow in an almost drugged daze.
H.G. nipped at her finger and soothed the teeth marks with her tongue, imagining it was Helen's lips. Her other hand smoothed the material of her robe and negligee against her mons. Her knees bent slightly, her thighs parted, and her hand pressed the material against the smooth curves of her sex.
The older woman is pulled to her feet by the younger, and their bodies move together in almost a dance. The elder is dressed for work, but her shawl is soon draped over the back of the chair and her skirt soon follows. Her shoes are kicked aside, dismissed from the proceedings, and in stocking feet the two are the same height. Their kiss is sensual and slow, tongues playing and plying as hands roam. A breast is cupped through clothing, a nipple teased, and moans begin to echo like an overture to the main program.
The younger kisses a trail down the other woman's throat, forcing her chin up as her fingers stroke up and down the girl's back. Eyes open ever so briefly, ever so small, but enough to see the voyeur at the doorway. Does she fume and rage? No, not this dear, not this beauty. She merely curls her lips into a smile, kisses her lover's ear, and whispers the knowledge she's just gained. The younger turns to see, and their guest shamefully recedes into the shadows.
H.G. pressed her back against the wall, breathing hard as she stilled her hand against her sex. She trembled, close to orgasm, sweat beading on her chest just above the low neck of her gown.
"Helena?"
It was the voice of the younger woman, Charlotte. There was no anger in the voice and not a drop of admonishment.
"Please don't go."
"You'll miss the best part if you leave now." Helen's voice. And then Charlotte again, moaning and whispering Helen's name in desperation. H.G. dropped her head forward, heart thudding against her chest as her hair dropped into her face like a veil. She swept it out of the way and twisted, rolling her shoulder against the wood of the wall as she looked again.
Helen's fingers hook under the thin straps of her lover's nightgown. She lifts, moves her hands apart, and straightens her fingers. The material pools around Charlotte's feet like spilled wine, and she lifts her feet to step out of it and kick it out of the way. Helen curls all fingers but the middle, which she drags down the center of Charlotte's spine. Down to the dimples in the small of her back, where she flattens her hand to cup one buttock and pull Charlotte closer.
Charlotte bends one knee and hooks it on Helen's thigh. Helen's arm supports Charlotte as the girl leans backward. Her head rolls, her hair cascading like an onyx waterfall, and she opens her eye to look at their visitor with wide and unashamed eyes. Helen's hand is between Charlotte's legs, on her sex, and the intruder mimics Helen's touch on her own labia. Stroking, teasing, spreading, circling. Helen bows her head and kisses Charlotte's chest. She guides her tongue along the curves of her small breasts to the dark nipples she takes into her mouth and sucks wantonly. Charlotte's eyes close and she makes sounds of pleasure low in her throat.
H.G. shrugged the robe off her shoulders, the sleeves still hooked on her arms. She wasn't willing to stop touching herself long enough to get it off. She flicked the strap of her gown off her shoulder and the material fell to reveal one bare breast. She cupped it with her free hand, the lower hem of her gown now pulled up so she could feel flesh on flesh.
The girl is lain on the rug in front of the fireplace and her body is covered by Helen's. Charlotte's hands are on Helen's neck, and Helen eases herself out of her clothing. The skirt is pushed down and kicked away. Charlotte helps her take off her blouse. She's left in a slip the color of champagne with black lace on the breast and at the leg.
Charlotte parts her legs, feet flat on either side of Helen's body. Helen settles between her lover's legs, hands on the floor above Charlotte's shoulders. Their bodies move together like they were designed for this purpose, for each other. Charlotte pulls up Helen's slip just enough to reveal the hair between her legs.
This is not a performance. Neither of them is aware of anything beyond the woman they're with. Charlotte climaxes first, and Helen cups the girl's face and kisses her lips, her cheek, her neck and sucks on the lobe of one ear. Their guest can hear a susurrant whisper but not the words. She doesn't have to strain her imagination very hard to guess what is being said.
"It's all right, my love. Don't worry, darling. I'm close as well."
A hand moves between their bodies, and Helen moans as she is first touched and then teased with two fingers. She lifts her head in orgasm, lips parted and swollen from passionate kissing. She opens her eyes and locks a sultry gaze on their guest. She licks her lips and then hunches her shoulders to kiss her lover in what is undeniably a performance.
H.G. turned away, resting her forehead against the wood of the doorjamb as she came. Her breath was rough and disjointed and she shuddered uncontrollably. Her thighs closed around her hand, and she hunched her shoulders as her knees turned inward. She licked her lips and turned dazed, half-lidded eyes toward the scene playing out in front of the fireplace.
Helen and Charlotte held each other, bodies silhouetted by the flickering light of the flames. It looked primal, like something out of an ancient rite. Charlotte kissed Helen's shoulder and neck, her face veiled by Helen's fallen hair as her lips slowly explored. H.G. withdrew her hand, her negligee falling back into place, and she painted her bottom lip with her juices. Helen lifted her head, and H.G. waved two fingers at her in farewell and gratitude.
Helen blew her a kiss. Charlotte bashfully buried her face in Helen's hair.
H.G. gathered the robe around herself, spun on the ball of her foot, and hurried down the hallway to write the story before the images faded from her mind. A woman who survived one hundred years only to discover her heart was still young, fragile, vulnerable. A woman who courted without love only to find a love that wouldn't be turned away. It was no wonder she found herself enraptured by Helen's relationship; it was her own.
She would write the tale of the woman old as time and her unexpected modern lover, but this tale wouldn't be relegated to the Sanctuary shelves.
This tale would be written for a specific reader, an audience of one.
She hoped Myka appreciated the moral of the story.
Author: geonncannon
Fandom: Sanctuary/Warehouse 13
Pairing: Helen Magnus/Helena G. Wells, Helen Magnus/Charlotte Benoit, Helena G. Wells/Myka Bering
Word Count: 1,846
Category: Mature
Spoilers: Monsoon
Disclaimer: None of them belong to me!
Rating: Adult
Author's Note: Crossover! Plus fans of Jaime Murray who saw her on Spartacus may notice I stole a visual from that show. Hopefully they won't mind too much. ~g~
Summary: H.G. Wells spies on a private moment that reminds her of what she's running from.
Helen wondered often what historians and the literati would think if they knew the true size of H.G. Wells' bibliography. Half a dozen novellas and thrice as many short stories were collected in the Sanctuary library in cheap leather-bound collections. The works were credited to HGW, written over the course of the past century during H.G.'s imprisonment at the Warehouse. She didn't write the stories in the strictest sense; they were technically collaborations between the writer, a telepathic mermaid, and an empathic Abnormal. The three worked in concert, the story filtered from one to the other, until the story was done.
Writing was easier now, now that H.G. freed from the Warehouse and officially "dead." The Warehouse and its Regents left her alone, and she was forbidden from having a hand in the Sanctuary's day to day activities. Helen loved her, but she was too smart to extend any trust. H.G. understood entirely; the temptation would be much too great and it was better if she was left out of the loop. She had nothing but time to write, although now her works tended toward the maudlin. She eschewed science-fiction for tragic romance, and all of the trampled-heart heroines had the same face. H.G. always cast herself as the heartless rogue who left the poor dear weeping and alone at the end. Fiction imitated fact.
The writer wandered the more vacant areas of the Sanctuary, and she wrote when inspiration struck. Often she joined Helen in bed and they took pleasure in each other, but they both knew it was simple commiseration rather than true love. H.G. still mourned her relationship with Myka, eager for the time when they could reunite and love one another as they were meant to. White picket fence, brunch over the Sunday paper, a large bed with sheets they could spend hours getting tangled in.
On one rare night when both sleep and literature abandoned her, H.G. decided to roam the halls of the Sanctuary. The cloth of her white robe and matching negligee swept around her legs like angel wings, and she ran her fingers over her hips as it swayed back and forth with the motion of her steps. She was aroused and eager, but Helen had seemed distracted since her return from Africa, unresponsive to H.G.'s overtures. H.G. would have been concerned, but Helen's distraction was a cheerful and easily-distracted sort that H.G. recognized only too well from her recent experience with a certain Warehouse agent.
Helen's distraction had grown more acute in the past few days, culminating with a visit from a young doctor. She was described as a teacher, a scientist, and Helen greeted her warmly. Oh, at tha moment it became only too clear what had caused Helen's recent elation. These women of the new century... Magnus and Wells had been aberrations in their time. Women who dared to think and to act, who cared nothing what men might think of them. Now it seemed intelligent adventuresses were everywhere. The title of weaker sex had become a joke.
She walked the hardwood floor in bare feet, padding silently through the large building that itself seemed to be as displaced as the women who called it home. She moved silently like a spirit, pausing at the doorway to the study. She pressed herself to the post and looked inside, pressing a curled index finger to her upper lip. She touched her finger with her tongue and observed the scene within as if she were to transcribe it into a story.
The young woman is bold for her age, and she is the first to rise. She stands before her venerable companion and extends one slender hand. Fingers brush cheek, a head turned into the caress. Lips press against wrist and the slightest sigh is heard, lost in the crackle from the fireplace. The young woman is dressed for bed in a flowing gown the color of burgundy. The sleeves billow loosely around her arms as she touches her lover's face, and her lover kisses from wrist to elbow in an almost drugged daze.
H.G. nipped at her finger and soothed the teeth marks with her tongue, imagining it was Helen's lips. Her other hand smoothed the material of her robe and negligee against her mons. Her knees bent slightly, her thighs parted, and her hand pressed the material against the smooth curves of her sex.
The older woman is pulled to her feet by the younger, and their bodies move together in almost a dance. The elder is dressed for work, but her shawl is soon draped over the back of the chair and her skirt soon follows. Her shoes are kicked aside, dismissed from the proceedings, and in stocking feet the two are the same height. Their kiss is sensual and slow, tongues playing and plying as hands roam. A breast is cupped through clothing, a nipple teased, and moans begin to echo like an overture to the main program.
The younger kisses a trail down the other woman's throat, forcing her chin up as her fingers stroke up and down the girl's back. Eyes open ever so briefly, ever so small, but enough to see the voyeur at the doorway. Does she fume and rage? No, not this dear, not this beauty. She merely curls her lips into a smile, kisses her lover's ear, and whispers the knowledge she's just gained. The younger turns to see, and their guest shamefully recedes into the shadows.
H.G. pressed her back against the wall, breathing hard as she stilled her hand against her sex. She trembled, close to orgasm, sweat beading on her chest just above the low neck of her gown.
"Helena?"
It was the voice of the younger woman, Charlotte. There was no anger in the voice and not a drop of admonishment.
"Please don't go."
"You'll miss the best part if you leave now." Helen's voice. And then Charlotte again, moaning and whispering Helen's name in desperation. H.G. dropped her head forward, heart thudding against her chest as her hair dropped into her face like a veil. She swept it out of the way and twisted, rolling her shoulder against the wood of the wall as she looked again.
Helen's fingers hook under the thin straps of her lover's nightgown. She lifts, moves her hands apart, and straightens her fingers. The material pools around Charlotte's feet like spilled wine, and she lifts her feet to step out of it and kick it out of the way. Helen curls all fingers but the middle, which she drags down the center of Charlotte's spine. Down to the dimples in the small of her back, where she flattens her hand to cup one buttock and pull Charlotte closer.
Charlotte bends one knee and hooks it on Helen's thigh. Helen's arm supports Charlotte as the girl leans backward. Her head rolls, her hair cascading like an onyx waterfall, and she opens her eye to look at their visitor with wide and unashamed eyes. Helen's hand is between Charlotte's legs, on her sex, and the intruder mimics Helen's touch on her own labia. Stroking, teasing, spreading, circling. Helen bows her head and kisses Charlotte's chest. She guides her tongue along the curves of her small breasts to the dark nipples she takes into her mouth and sucks wantonly. Charlotte's eyes close and she makes sounds of pleasure low in her throat.
H.G. shrugged the robe off her shoulders, the sleeves still hooked on her arms. She wasn't willing to stop touching herself long enough to get it off. She flicked the strap of her gown off her shoulder and the material fell to reveal one bare breast. She cupped it with her free hand, the lower hem of her gown now pulled up so she could feel flesh on flesh.
The girl is lain on the rug in front of the fireplace and her body is covered by Helen's. Charlotte's hands are on Helen's neck, and Helen eases herself out of her clothing. The skirt is pushed down and kicked away. Charlotte helps her take off her blouse. She's left in a slip the color of champagne with black lace on the breast and at the leg.
Charlotte parts her legs, feet flat on either side of Helen's body. Helen settles between her lover's legs, hands on the floor above Charlotte's shoulders. Their bodies move together like they were designed for this purpose, for each other. Charlotte pulls up Helen's slip just enough to reveal the hair between her legs.
This is not a performance. Neither of them is aware of anything beyond the woman they're with. Charlotte climaxes first, and Helen cups the girl's face and kisses her lips, her cheek, her neck and sucks on the lobe of one ear. Their guest can hear a susurrant whisper but not the words. She doesn't have to strain her imagination very hard to guess what is being said.
"It's all right, my love. Don't worry, darling. I'm close as well."
A hand moves between their bodies, and Helen moans as she is first touched and then teased with two fingers. She lifts her head in orgasm, lips parted and swollen from passionate kissing. She opens her eyes and locks a sultry gaze on their guest. She licks her lips and then hunches her shoulders to kiss her lover in what is undeniably a performance.
H.G. turned away, resting her forehead against the wood of the doorjamb as she came. Her breath was rough and disjointed and she shuddered uncontrollably. Her thighs closed around her hand, and she hunched her shoulders as her knees turned inward. She licked her lips and turned dazed, half-lidded eyes toward the scene playing out in front of the fireplace.
Helen and Charlotte held each other, bodies silhouetted by the flickering light of the flames. It looked primal, like something out of an ancient rite. Charlotte kissed Helen's shoulder and neck, her face veiled by Helen's fallen hair as her lips slowly explored. H.G. withdrew her hand, her negligee falling back into place, and she painted her bottom lip with her juices. Helen lifted her head, and H.G. waved two fingers at her in farewell and gratitude.
Helen blew her a kiss. Charlotte bashfully buried her face in Helen's hair.
H.G. gathered the robe around herself, spun on the ball of her foot, and hurried down the hallway to write the story before the images faded from her mind. A woman who survived one hundred years only to discover her heart was still young, fragile, vulnerable. A woman who courted without love only to find a love that wouldn't be turned away. It was no wonder she found herself enraptured by Helen's relationship; it was her own.
She would write the tale of the woman old as time and her unexpected modern lover, but this tale wouldn't be relegated to the Sanctuary shelves.
This tale would be written for a specific reader, an audience of one.
She hoped Myka appreciated the moral of the story.