"Here, in This Dark" for shyath
Title: Here, in This Dark
Gift for: shyath
Author: a_shadow_there
Pairing: Helga/Rowena
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: angst, femmeslash, fluff, sex.
Genres: romance
Author's Notes: I tried something a little different in writing this - I hope it works. shyath, I hope you enjoy this fic - it was my first time writing this pairing so ... *crosses fingers* Thanks to C for the beta.
Summary: It is here, in this dark, that Rowena's mind races; it is Helga who quiets her soul.
Rowena breathes deeply. As she exhales, her eyes fall closed. The dark lashes flutter against her skin. In the vast silence of the early morning, she lies still, and she listens -
To nothing; to the quiet: to the gentle rasping of air as it passes, imperceptibly, across the threshold of her lips.
It is here, in this dark - lying, as she does, in bed with the coarse fabric of the bedclothes twisted around her legs - Rowena struggles.
It is here, in this dark, that Rowena's mind races: it clicks and whirrs with a rapidity she cannot comprehend, the pieces of its own understanding shifting into place before she truly knows what it means. She grasps for the words, and cannot find them. They bubble at the back of her throat, searching for a way forward, determined to roll off of her tongue regardless of their only partially comprehensible state.
It is here, in this dark, that Rowena worries. She sees the widening chasm between Godric and Salazar, she watches its trenches run deeper and deeper, each man determined to defend the ideological battlements he has constructed, and she worries. She is, in a way, scared. She is scared that all they have fought for, and all that they have worked for will have been for nought; that it will burn, swallowed whole by the flames of conflict and that, if she opens her eyes, all that will be left will be the searing ash of failure and regret and it will all disappear in a curling wisp of smoke on the wind.
It is here, in this dark, that Rowena almost - almost, almost, almost - knows that it will not be the new ways that destroy what they four have built - no, it will not be the new ways - it is they who will destroy themselves.
And so Rowena worries; and she is scared.
It is here, in this dark, that Helga raps at Rowena's chamber door. Her prostrate form lying, consumed by the deep black of night, Rowena keeps her eyes closed, and she listens. Like the darkness, like the night itself, the sound of Helga's approach - the shuffle of her gait as she crosses the room, the rustle of her gown as she moves; the sweet rhythm of each breath as it flows through her body - is known to Rowena.
It is familiar.
As she listens, Rowena opens her mouth slightly: her lips parted, she swallows. Beside her, she can feel the bed sink beneath Helga's weight. Silently, Rowena focuses on the movements of the woman next to her, and in the dark, she can feel the heat emanating from Helga's body; the perfect comfort of its radiating warmth. It is as though Helga - Helga, Helga, always Helga - her body and her breath, her very being, is shielding Rowena, protecting her - from the fears and doubts which all too often plague her mind; from the anxiety that winds its way through her body and settles, a coiled knot writhing in the pit of her stomach; from the very shadows of the night itself. Rowena does not know, she is not sure - she cannot be sure, she cannot - but she thinks that maybe, maybe, it is all of these things.
Or perhaps it is none of them.
Whatever it may be, it is Helga who holds her still in the night.
Eventually, Rowena opens her eyes. She does not know how much time has passed - it is not long, she knows it cannot have been long or, at the very least, not long enough. Not long enough for the warm presence of Helga's body and being to clothe and keep her in the night. In the dark, she can see only shadows, or what she assumes to be shadows. She knows - she knows, she knows, she knows - that it is merely the play of the absence of light before her eyes that she sees and so she does, in fact, see very little, if anything, at all.
It is Helga who inches close to her; whose limbs gently graze against Rowena's as they lie - silent, always silent but for the rhythm of their breathing - together. It is Helga who traces shapes across the pliable terrain of Rowena's flesh; across the skin and muscles and bones.
It is Helga whose fingers run up over Rowena's spine - as though she is lacing string through the notches of Rowena's vertebrae as they embrace, wordlessly; as though she is holding the pieces of Rowena together.
It is Helga who presses her lips - soft and moist - to Rowena's; their tongues entwine as they undulate, slowly - always, always, always so slowly - against one another. It is Helga who presses Rowena's shoulders to the bed; it is Helga who lies above her; it is Helga who runs her tongue along the fluid lines of Rowena's form; along her neck and collarbone; over her breasts and belly.
It is Helga who slips a gentle hand between Rowena's thighs; who parts the lips of her cunt: cold fingertips contrast sharply with heat between Rowena's legs and causes her to shiver as her skin meets the sudden cold: it rolls over her, through her, in waves and as Helga stimulates her Rowena thinks that she can almost - almost, almost, almost - feel the tension mounting in each and every bone and muscle. It thrums, hot and insistent, below the surface of her skin: it buzzes.
And, for the first time on this night, the frantic, worried thoughts that cavort in the cloying darkness begin to subside. As Rowena writhes beneath Helga, they fade and flicker and the tension that defines them passes into her, through her and all she can feel is Helga's touch - always Helga's touch, always, always, always - and as her body reaches its crescendo - all beating heart and panting breath and a perfect momentary bliss - Rowena cries out.
It is here, in this dark, that Rowena cries out; that the only word on her lips is Helga, Helga, Helga.
It is always -
Always -
Always -
Always -
Helga.
Gift for: shyath
Author: a_shadow_there
Pairing: Helga/Rowena
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: angst, femmeslash, fluff, sex.
Genres: romance
Author's Notes: I tried something a little different in writing this - I hope it works. shyath, I hope you enjoy this fic - it was my first time writing this pairing so ... *crosses fingers* Thanks to C for the beta.
Summary: It is here, in this dark, that Rowena's mind races; it is Helga who quiets her soul.
Rowena breathes deeply. As she exhales, her eyes fall closed. The dark lashes flutter against her skin. In the vast silence of the early morning, she lies still, and she listens -
To nothing; to the quiet: to the gentle rasping of air as it passes, imperceptibly, across the threshold of her lips.
It is here, in this dark - lying, as she does, in bed with the coarse fabric of the bedclothes twisted around her legs - Rowena struggles.
It is here, in this dark, that Rowena's mind races: it clicks and whirrs with a rapidity she cannot comprehend, the pieces of its own understanding shifting into place before she truly knows what it means. She grasps for the words, and cannot find them. They bubble at the back of her throat, searching for a way forward, determined to roll off of her tongue regardless of their only partially comprehensible state.
It is here, in this dark, that Rowena worries. She sees the widening chasm between Godric and Salazar, she watches its trenches run deeper and deeper, each man determined to defend the ideological battlements he has constructed, and she worries. She is, in a way, scared. She is scared that all they have fought for, and all that they have worked for will have been for nought; that it will burn, swallowed whole by the flames of conflict and that, if she opens her eyes, all that will be left will be the searing ash of failure and regret and it will all disappear in a curling wisp of smoke on the wind.
It is here, in this dark, that Rowena almost - almost, almost, almost - knows that it will not be the new ways that destroy what they four have built - no, it will not be the new ways - it is they who will destroy themselves.
And so Rowena worries; and she is scared.
It is here, in this dark, that Helga raps at Rowena's chamber door. Her prostrate form lying, consumed by the deep black of night, Rowena keeps her eyes closed, and she listens. Like the darkness, like the night itself, the sound of Helga's approach - the shuffle of her gait as she crosses the room, the rustle of her gown as she moves; the sweet rhythm of each breath as it flows through her body - is known to Rowena.
It is familiar.
As she listens, Rowena opens her mouth slightly: her lips parted, she swallows. Beside her, she can feel the bed sink beneath Helga's weight. Silently, Rowena focuses on the movements of the woman next to her, and in the dark, she can feel the heat emanating from Helga's body; the perfect comfort of its radiating warmth. It is as though Helga - Helga, Helga, always Helga - her body and her breath, her very being, is shielding Rowena, protecting her - from the fears and doubts which all too often plague her mind; from the anxiety that winds its way through her body and settles, a coiled knot writhing in the pit of her stomach; from the very shadows of the night itself. Rowena does not know, she is not sure - she cannot be sure, she cannot - but she thinks that maybe, maybe, it is all of these things.
Or perhaps it is none of them.
Whatever it may be, it is Helga who holds her still in the night.
Eventually, Rowena opens her eyes. She does not know how much time has passed - it is not long, she knows it cannot have been long or, at the very least, not long enough. Not long enough for the warm presence of Helga's body and being to clothe and keep her in the night. In the dark, she can see only shadows, or what she assumes to be shadows. She knows - she knows, she knows, she knows - that it is merely the play of the absence of light before her eyes that she sees and so she does, in fact, see very little, if anything, at all.
It is Helga who inches close to her; whose limbs gently graze against Rowena's as they lie - silent, always silent but for the rhythm of their breathing - together. It is Helga who traces shapes across the pliable terrain of Rowena's flesh; across the skin and muscles and bones.
It is Helga whose fingers run up over Rowena's spine - as though she is lacing string through the notches of Rowena's vertebrae as they embrace, wordlessly; as though she is holding the pieces of Rowena together.
It is Helga who presses her lips - soft and moist - to Rowena's; their tongues entwine as they undulate, slowly - always, always, always so slowly - against one another. It is Helga who presses Rowena's shoulders to the bed; it is Helga who lies above her; it is Helga who runs her tongue along the fluid lines of Rowena's form; along her neck and collarbone; over her breasts and belly.
It is Helga who slips a gentle hand between Rowena's thighs; who parts the lips of her cunt: cold fingertips contrast sharply with heat between Rowena's legs and causes her to shiver as her skin meets the sudden cold: it rolls over her, through her, in waves and as Helga stimulates her Rowena thinks that she can almost - almost, almost, almost - feel the tension mounting in each and every bone and muscle. It thrums, hot and insistent, below the surface of her skin: it buzzes.
And, for the first time on this night, the frantic, worried thoughts that cavort in the cloying darkness begin to subside. As Rowena writhes beneath Helga, they fade and flicker and the tension that defines them passes into her, through her and all she can feel is Helga's touch - always Helga's touch, always, always, always - and as her body reaches its crescendo - all beating heart and panting breath and a perfect momentary bliss - Rowena cries out.
It is here, in this dark, that Rowena cries out; that the only word on her lips is Helga, Helga, Helga.
It is always -
Always -
Always -
Always -
Helga.