and i'll be with you, honeychild (wellenore, nc-17)
and I'll be with you, honeychild
h.g. wells/lenore, nc-17
A/N: Guess I have left the fandom after all? Idk it's just so nice to feel fresh and inspired without having writing be a chore. Idk I'm still working on that 5k BDSM fic (GOD HELP ME IT'S BEEN OVER A YEAR) but who knows when that will be posted...
She's literally and figuratively breathless, waiting for the rush. It's something that happens whenever she and H.G. are together, but it feels wonderful and new each time. Her body starts to warm up under his touch and her heartbeat ticks back on, making her lightheaded and giddy in the best possible way. And now she's breathing again, warm gasps that edge up into moans.
They kiss slow and lazy, his tongue sliding smooth and clean with hers. She holds him. One hand supports the back of his head, nestled into his hair. The other is curved over his arm, squeezing him a bit closer and tighter every time. She can feel his pulse start to jump under his skin. He gets that new rush to life now, too. That was a fun discovery.
The two of them have gotten really good at making out without being caught. There was that one time when he got back from 1940s Britain, though. She'd felt like some kind of housewife on the Homefront, just waiting for her lover to return from the war. There are only so many ways to do your nails or try new haunting techniques with Annabelle Lee before you almost die again from the sheer monotony. Plus there's the thing where she gets really restless (read: horny) when he's gone.
So anyway, he had finally come back, in the usual cloud of smoke since he's surprisingly into the theatrics of it all for someone so introverted. And Lenore just couldn't help herself: she swept H.G. into her arms and welcomed him back with a kiss so deep that he let out a tiny squeak. It was then that they heard a loud throat-clearing and broke apart to turn around and discover Annabelle and Edgar watching them with disapproving and uncomfortable expressions.
And that's why they do it now in secret, which, in Lenore's opinion, is the best way. Of course, kissing is always amazing, but now there's an extra little thrill involved. The idea that this is something special and private so she can do whatever she wants. Hidden together up in the attic: her home, her jam. The place has kind of gotten taken over by H.G.'s stuff, but she doesn't mind that much at all, really. (Ok, she had to take down her boy band posters. That part she did mind.) Besides, he has this long couch loveseat thing which is just the perfect place for kissing. She's sitting in his lap, straddling him. His hands wander: into her hair, then down to rub her shoulders, then down farther still to hug her waist.
There's just something about kissing H.G. that she loves. Most of it is just how much she loves him and how nice it is to be this close to him. But there's also the way that he gets overwhelmed by it. These helpless little whimpers, especially when she can tell that the kissing has gotten deep and intense enough that he's getting turned on, too. Panting, gasping, with his neat little shirt and vest becoming more and more mussed as they move together. To say nothing of his hair: it sticks up a little, tangled tracks left over from where her hands played with it. Lenore is pretty sure that her own hair has long since left its updo behind. She'll fix it later - she's a bit distracted at the moment.
Lenore kisses him kind of desperate and feverish, hoping he can tell that this is really working for her. She's got that swollen, slick feeling that's so hot he can probably feel it (wants him to feel it) pulsing as she presses up against him, squirming. Evidently he can because all of a sudden he makes a tiny unnnnhhhh noise and stops kissing her.
"I want to - please," he says, looking at her with eyes that are big and sincere.
This part is especially great. Like, they tell you about it in Cosmo or whatever. But unfortunately there's no Ghost Cosmo so Lenore was always left to daydream about what it must feel like for humans, envious of the girls who were getting it. (Although she has a pretty active imagination so it wasn't always that bad.)
But it's H.G. and his diligent enthusiasm that makes the real difference. Those Cosmo girls never had it like this. How he brings her so completely and literally to life that it feels like every nerve is twice as raw and alive.
He's completely committed to her. H.G. brings his hands back up from her waist so he can run his hands over the series of prominent white buttons that hold her dress closed. A pause, a breath. Her heartbeat: suspended, anticipatory. He slides the buttons free from their hooks with slow and worshipful hands. Lenore's dress falls down from her shoulders, then, leaving her naked from the waist up. He brushes over her exposed skin with caressing gestures that make her shiver.
With some shuffling, then, she shifts and adjusts so that now she's lying underneath him. They go back to kissing and she brings her legs up to hook her heels behind his knees. Lenore starts squirming again when he reaches down between them to feel how wet she is, soaking through her underwear. "You're so..." he starts, then stops. Tries again. "You get so wet," he says, groaning softly before deciding to slide off her body and down to the floor so he's kneeling between her legs.
She would make a sarcastic comment about how long it takes for him to take off her underwear, but then he starts kissing her where she's already slick and a bit tacky on the inside of her thighs. That kind of makes her sarcasm die in her throat. And eventually he does, the fabric tickling her skin as he works her underwear down her legs to toss them haphazardly on the messy pile of her dress.
This is the thing about having sex with a writer, Lenore has learned: they're really good at describing stuff. It's H.G.'s version of dirty talk because he makes the filthiest things sound sweet and true. (She knows they are, but still.)
So he describes her, in between kissing her thighs (seriously, sometimes he could hurry up a little...at least the anticipation is part of the fun). First H.G. tells her how she looks to him: all flushed pink-red, glistening like fruit. Then he tells her how she's going to taste, in words that are just so incredibly erotic that Lenore whimpers a little, her eyes going glassy. She's lost in the dark tangle of his voice. When they do this, his voice starts to pitch really low and sexy, which makes everything he says feel that much more serious, intimate. It touches some deep part of herself before he's even touched her there himself.
And finally he kisses her, gets her squirming wetly against his mouth. Licks his way up to where her skin is more prominent and oversensitive. It makes her gasp, the way he slides his tongue slowly against it. Exploratory, curious. When he finally closes his mouth around it, she full-on moans.
He teases her: sucking sharp and deliberate, bringing her just to the edge of desire before scaling it back to lick more slowly, rhythmically. She guides him through that ebb and flow. Hands back to a tight grip in his hair to direct him. Squeezing whenever he reaches a place that's especially good. She can feel his head, his shoulders as they rise and fall between her legs.
Lenore isn't a writer. She's lived with one for way too long to be into the whole "sit at the typewriter and bleed" thing, or whatever it was that Edgar's friend Ernest Hemingway used to say. But even without that kind of writerly skill she thinks she's pretty good at describing things, too. Like how much she loves him, how his mouth feels all warm and tender as he uses it to massage her skin with sweet little kisses.
The descriptions devolve pretty quickly into just some incoherent combination of "ohmygodohmygodohmyGOD" and his initials. Especially when he lifts her legs up over his shoulders so he can lick inside her. (It's something that he's unfairly good at.)
She must have whited out from the pleasure because the next thing she knows there's this suspended, building nervy-hot feeling that carries her along a new kind of rush. It brings her home, back to herself and H.G.'s sticky, soothing kisses that help extend it out until the quivering echoes slowly subside.
When they finally do, he starts to pitch her over into another one. He looks up at her every so often and Lenore shudders because she can see that his stubble of a beard is absolutely soaked.
Lenore is already so wet and raw that it's amazing and wonderful how long it takes for her to get there. She looks up at the well-worn wooden eaves of the attic - her attic. Their attic. Seeking out patterns in the notches and whorls in an effort to hold onto this and not spiral off into infinity once more.
The rush comes back and intensifies, now. She's never felt like this: so deeply contained in her own skin, bound to H.G. and what he's doing to her, with her, for her. That he gets this much pleasure in giving her pleasure.
This one is much longer, drawn out and intense. It builds and builds until she's just writhing, whimpering, no brainspace left for words. She squeezes her thighs tight against him, chest heaving, until it finally stops and she drops back onto the couch. He lifts her thighs back off his shoulders and stands back up. Another pause, a breath, a heartbeat that extends the moment that much longer. Just existing in this place in time together.
H.G. produces a handkerchief from his pocket and uses it to wipe off his face. Then he sits down next to her on the couch and cuddles her close. They smile shyly at each other for a minute, existing in their own little space, far from prying eyes. There's a blanket nearby and he drapes it over her. Lenore settles in, all loose-limbed and relaxed. They go back to kissing lazily, just cuddling and talking and laughing. Every so often she can taste herself which feels weirdly safe, like she's given some part of herself to him.
She leans against his chest and listens to the steady tick of his own ghostly heartbeat. Caught between one thought and the next, surrounded by his voice and his heart. So cozy and taken care of. No matter where or when in time they are, they'll always come back to this.
h.g. wells/lenore, nc-17
A/N: Guess I have left the fandom after all? Idk it's just so nice to feel fresh and inspired without having writing be a chore. Idk I'm still working on that 5k BDSM fic (GOD HELP ME IT'S BEEN OVER A YEAR) but who knows when that will be posted...
She's literally and figuratively breathless, waiting for the rush. It's something that happens whenever she and H.G. are together, but it feels wonderful and new each time. Her body starts to warm up under his touch and her heartbeat ticks back on, making her lightheaded and giddy in the best possible way. And now she's breathing again, warm gasps that edge up into moans.
They kiss slow and lazy, his tongue sliding smooth and clean with hers. She holds him. One hand supports the back of his head, nestled into his hair. The other is curved over his arm, squeezing him a bit closer and tighter every time. She can feel his pulse start to jump under his skin. He gets that new rush to life now, too. That was a fun discovery.
The two of them have gotten really good at making out without being caught. There was that one time when he got back from 1940s Britain, though. She'd felt like some kind of housewife on the Homefront, just waiting for her lover to return from the war. There are only so many ways to do your nails or try new haunting techniques with Annabelle Lee before you almost die again from the sheer monotony. Plus there's the thing where she gets really restless (read: horny) when he's gone.
So anyway, he had finally come back, in the usual cloud of smoke since he's surprisingly into the theatrics of it all for someone so introverted. And Lenore just couldn't help herself: she swept H.G. into her arms and welcomed him back with a kiss so deep that he let out a tiny squeak. It was then that they heard a loud throat-clearing and broke apart to turn around and discover Annabelle and Edgar watching them with disapproving and uncomfortable expressions.
And that's why they do it now in secret, which, in Lenore's opinion, is the best way. Of course, kissing is always amazing, but now there's an extra little thrill involved. The idea that this is something special and private so she can do whatever she wants. Hidden together up in the attic: her home, her jam. The place has kind of gotten taken over by H.G.'s stuff, but she doesn't mind that much at all, really. (Ok, she had to take down her boy band posters. That part she did mind.) Besides, he has this long couch loveseat thing which is just the perfect place for kissing. She's sitting in his lap, straddling him. His hands wander: into her hair, then down to rub her shoulders, then down farther still to hug her waist.
There's just something about kissing H.G. that she loves. Most of it is just how much she loves him and how nice it is to be this close to him. But there's also the way that he gets overwhelmed by it. These helpless little whimpers, especially when she can tell that the kissing has gotten deep and intense enough that he's getting turned on, too. Panting, gasping, with his neat little shirt and vest becoming more and more mussed as they move together. To say nothing of his hair: it sticks up a little, tangled tracks left over from where her hands played with it. Lenore is pretty sure that her own hair has long since left its updo behind. She'll fix it later - she's a bit distracted at the moment.
Lenore kisses him kind of desperate and feverish, hoping he can tell that this is really working for her. She's got that swollen, slick feeling that's so hot he can probably feel it (wants him to feel it) pulsing as she presses up against him, squirming. Evidently he can because all of a sudden he makes a tiny unnnnhhhh noise and stops kissing her.
"I want to - please," he says, looking at her with eyes that are big and sincere.
This part is especially great. Like, they tell you about it in Cosmo or whatever. But unfortunately there's no Ghost Cosmo so Lenore was always left to daydream about what it must feel like for humans, envious of the girls who were getting it. (Although she has a pretty active imagination so it wasn't always that bad.)
But it's H.G. and his diligent enthusiasm that makes the real difference. Those Cosmo girls never had it like this. How he brings her so completely and literally to life that it feels like every nerve is twice as raw and alive.
He's completely committed to her. H.G. brings his hands back up from her waist so he can run his hands over the series of prominent white buttons that hold her dress closed. A pause, a breath. Her heartbeat: suspended, anticipatory. He slides the buttons free from their hooks with slow and worshipful hands. Lenore's dress falls down from her shoulders, then, leaving her naked from the waist up. He brushes over her exposed skin with caressing gestures that make her shiver.
With some shuffling, then, she shifts and adjusts so that now she's lying underneath him. They go back to kissing and she brings her legs up to hook her heels behind his knees. Lenore starts squirming again when he reaches down between them to feel how wet she is, soaking through her underwear. "You're so..." he starts, then stops. Tries again. "You get so wet," he says, groaning softly before deciding to slide off her body and down to the floor so he's kneeling between her legs.
She would make a sarcastic comment about how long it takes for him to take off her underwear, but then he starts kissing her where she's already slick and a bit tacky on the inside of her thighs. That kind of makes her sarcasm die in her throat. And eventually he does, the fabric tickling her skin as he works her underwear down her legs to toss them haphazardly on the messy pile of her dress.
This is the thing about having sex with a writer, Lenore has learned: they're really good at describing stuff. It's H.G.'s version of dirty talk because he makes the filthiest things sound sweet and true. (She knows they are, but still.)
So he describes her, in between kissing her thighs (seriously, sometimes he could hurry up a little...at least the anticipation is part of the fun). First H.G. tells her how she looks to him: all flushed pink-red, glistening like fruit. Then he tells her how she's going to taste, in words that are just so incredibly erotic that Lenore whimpers a little, her eyes going glassy. She's lost in the dark tangle of his voice. When they do this, his voice starts to pitch really low and sexy, which makes everything he says feel that much more serious, intimate. It touches some deep part of herself before he's even touched her there himself.
And finally he kisses her, gets her squirming wetly against his mouth. Licks his way up to where her skin is more prominent and oversensitive. It makes her gasp, the way he slides his tongue slowly against it. Exploratory, curious. When he finally closes his mouth around it, she full-on moans.
He teases her: sucking sharp and deliberate, bringing her just to the edge of desire before scaling it back to lick more slowly, rhythmically. She guides him through that ebb and flow. Hands back to a tight grip in his hair to direct him. Squeezing whenever he reaches a place that's especially good. She can feel his head, his shoulders as they rise and fall between her legs.
Lenore isn't a writer. She's lived with one for way too long to be into the whole "sit at the typewriter and bleed" thing, or whatever it was that Edgar's friend Ernest Hemingway used to say. But even without that kind of writerly skill she thinks she's pretty good at describing things, too. Like how much she loves him, how his mouth feels all warm and tender as he uses it to massage her skin with sweet little kisses.
The descriptions devolve pretty quickly into just some incoherent combination of "ohmygodohmygodohmyGOD" and his initials. Especially when he lifts her legs up over his shoulders so he can lick inside her. (It's something that he's unfairly good at.)
She must have whited out from the pleasure because the next thing she knows there's this suspended, building nervy-hot feeling that carries her along a new kind of rush. It brings her home, back to herself and H.G.'s sticky, soothing kisses that help extend it out until the quivering echoes slowly subside.
When they finally do, he starts to pitch her over into another one. He looks up at her every so often and Lenore shudders because she can see that his stubble of a beard is absolutely soaked.
Lenore is already so wet and raw that it's amazing and wonderful how long it takes for her to get there. She looks up at the well-worn wooden eaves of the attic - her attic. Their attic. Seeking out patterns in the notches and whorls in an effort to hold onto this and not spiral off into infinity once more.
The rush comes back and intensifies, now. She's never felt like this: so deeply contained in her own skin, bound to H.G. and what he's doing to her, with her, for her. That he gets this much pleasure in giving her pleasure.
This one is much longer, drawn out and intense. It builds and builds until she's just writhing, whimpering, no brainspace left for words. She squeezes her thighs tight against him, chest heaving, until it finally stops and she drops back onto the couch. He lifts her thighs back off his shoulders and stands back up. Another pause, a breath, a heartbeat that extends the moment that much longer. Just existing in this place in time together.
H.G. produces a handkerchief from his pocket and uses it to wipe off his face. Then he sits down next to her on the couch and cuddles her close. They smile shyly at each other for a minute, existing in their own little space, far from prying eyes. There's a blanket nearby and he drapes it over her. Lenore settles in, all loose-limbed and relaxed. They go back to kissing lazily, just cuddling and talking and laughing. Every so often she can taste herself which feels weirdly safe, like she's given some part of herself to him.
She leans against his chest and listens to the steady tick of his own ghostly heartbeat. Caught between one thought and the next, surrounded by his voice and his heart. So cozy and taken care of. No matter where or when in time they are, they'll always come back to this.