Well, as promised: Andromache/Helen, NC-17
Warnings: I'd say lesbians, but that's sort of anachronistic, so... er, girlsex within hours of one's husband dying? Hurt/comfort. Shameless stealing of Homer's so carefully selected epitetha. I'm not sure about the literary qualities of this piece, but hey, you guys insisted :) Also, quite unbeta-ed, so feel free to point out any errors. Enjoy!
Note: I basically based this on the principle that grief is often activated by a strong physical feeling, be that pain or pleasure. (This is the reason women in for example southern European countries tear their hair and clothes and scratch their skin at funerals).
100moods prompt: 12. Broken (My table)
It was impossible not to want the fairest of all, so gifted by the golden Aphrodite. For Andromache, it was also impossible to like her. Helen the fair-haired from Argos was filled with self-pity and from her shapely lips fell only complaints and wishes to die. While Andromache envied the slim ankles and the tantalising shoulders in the simplest yet most elegant peploi, she also rather wanted to hit her sister-in-law over the divinely beautiful head with an amfora most of the time. Helen had driven Paris to desperate passion and despair and looking around she saw all around Helen fall the same way Paris had, even the most trusty of her own servants leaving her unfinished peplos in its stand to weave for Helen. All the while, Helen cried and clung to Paris like dew does to a blade of grass when Eos rises. Andromache the white-armed disliked people who refused to acknowledge their actions. Helen had come here, the furious sons of Atreus at her heels, and she had to face responsibility as far as Andromache was concerned.
Because of the fact that when the two women met, Andromache experienced a mix of turbulent lust and stormy dislike, she avoided to cross the Greek woman’s path and stayed out of the communal women’s rooms when she knew Helen would be there, seducing everyone silently with her mere presence.
That was before, though. And things had changed. Helen was here now - had interrupted her haze of numb grief that hung over her like a bride’s veil. The bride to a corpse.
Hector was dead and Andromache could not find the strength to greet Helen, let alone send her away.
“O Andromache,” breathed Helen, her beautiful face the most turbulent of seas. She rustled over to the bed on which Andromache lay spent and naked, having torn her clothes from her limbs in the furious rage she had felt upon seeing the swift-footed Achilles kill the last family she had left. He had orphaned her all by himself. What of Skamandrios now? The boy had no father and a ghost as a mother. She wanted Helen to leave but could not form the words.
Helen was speaking, a string of soft soothing words like a river flowing out to sea. “You should not be alone right now, sister,” she murmured and appeared to be untying her peplos, “you should be held and loved.”
Hector was dead and Andromache’s insides turned to ash as she inevitable felt her body react to Helen’s careful lying down of her unclothed body to cover on side of Andromache fully, skin on skin.
“Cry,” Helen said, trailing her white woman’s hand over Andromache’s ribs. Andromache tossed her head from one side of the pillow to the other in a grotesque ‘no’.
“Let me help you then.” Helen’s words were a soft stream of warm air in her hair. She felt the other’s woman’s lips lightly move against her jaw and could not help but arch into Helen’s hand as it softly pressed down on her breast. She had seen this scenario unfurl sometimes, in her dreams or in the highest point of pleasure with Hector inside her, but to have it happen was not right, was wrong was ungodly would kill them - Hector was dead and Achilles’ chariot dragged him over the rough rocks of Ilion. Her beautiful beloved husband torn to shreds, Achilles’ face a mask of anger - “No,” she said to Helen, willing her body to stay still.
Helen placed her long fingers on her jaw, turned her head slowly and kissed her.
“Just let me help you, my sister,” she whispered into Andromache’s mouth, “let me break your dam of grief.”
She sent her hand moving slowly down, following every dip and curve of Andromache’s milk-white body. Andromache let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding and tangled a hand in Helen’s fair hair. She felt her sorrow trample around like a beast in a cage - she was the cage - and Helen’s fingers stirring it to life. “Help me,” she said then like a child.
Helen moved with the swift grace of a cat, swung herself astride the Trojana in one fluid motion. She held still for a moment, touched both her hands to Andromache’s brow and smiled a small smile of reassurement. Then she kissed her, deeply, and slid her hands down Andromache’s face and over the soft mounds of her breast. There she lingered for a moment, cupping the globes of flesh in her hands, lightly touching in a way that made Andromache ache. She trailed her fingers down the pale expanse of belly, then shifted her body down so that her hand had better access to where Andromache was already wet and hurting. Slowly, gently, she eased a finger in, then let it slip back wetly over the sensitive nub that made Andromache’s body shake as if jolted by lightning. Rapid words in her Cilician dialect spilled from Andromache’s lips as her body tensed. Helen repeated her actions relentlessly, went deeper, added a finger and twisted them inside her sister-in-law. Andromache had her eyes shut tight and was talking fast, words the Greek woman didn’t understand save Hector, Hector. Soon Helen’s skilful hands had Andromache trembling, every muscle in her body strung high and taut. Helen circled the other woman’s clit, rubbing hard, and inside Andromache she curled one finger upward to brush a very sensitive spot - and the dams were breaking, Andromache’s body spasmed wildly as she came hard with a soft cry. Her orgasm enveloped her like a sea of coiling pleasure, setting free her stiffly locked grief.
“Yes, like that,” Helen said somewhere close to her face as she began to cry harshly in great shuddering breaths, as she wept like a child. She was unable to do anything as Helen disentangled her long limbs from her own. Through the haze of tears she couldn’t see, but she briefly felt Helen’s lips on her brow before she felt rather than saw the other woman tie her peplos and leave her.
Hector, HectorHectorHectorHector. Andromache cried.
Note: I basically based this on the principle that grief is often activated by a strong physical feeling, be that pain or pleasure. (This is the reason women in for example southern European countries tear their hair and clothes and scratch their skin at funerals).
100moods prompt: 12. Broken (My table)
It was impossible not to want the fairest of all, so gifted by the golden Aphrodite. For Andromache, it was also impossible to like her. Helen the fair-haired from Argos was filled with self-pity and from her shapely lips fell only complaints and wishes to die. While Andromache envied the slim ankles and the tantalising shoulders in the simplest yet most elegant peploi, she also rather wanted to hit her sister-in-law over the divinely beautiful head with an amfora most of the time. Helen had driven Paris to desperate passion and despair and looking around she saw all around Helen fall the same way Paris had, even the most trusty of her own servants leaving her unfinished peplos in its stand to weave for Helen. All the while, Helen cried and clung to Paris like dew does to a blade of grass when Eos rises. Andromache the white-armed disliked people who refused to acknowledge their actions. Helen had come here, the furious sons of Atreus at her heels, and she had to face responsibility as far as Andromache was concerned.
Because of the fact that when the two women met, Andromache experienced a mix of turbulent lust and stormy dislike, she avoided to cross the Greek woman’s path and stayed out of the communal women’s rooms when she knew Helen would be there, seducing everyone silently with her mere presence.
That was before, though. And things had changed. Helen was here now - had interrupted her haze of numb grief that hung over her like a bride’s veil. The bride to a corpse.
Hector was dead and Andromache could not find the strength to greet Helen, let alone send her away.
“O Andromache,” breathed Helen, her beautiful face the most turbulent of seas. She rustled over to the bed on which Andromache lay spent and naked, having torn her clothes from her limbs in the furious rage she had felt upon seeing the swift-footed Achilles kill the last family she had left. He had orphaned her all by himself. What of Skamandrios now? The boy had no father and a ghost as a mother. She wanted Helen to leave but could not form the words.
Helen was speaking, a string of soft soothing words like a river flowing out to sea. “You should not be alone right now, sister,” she murmured and appeared to be untying her peplos, “you should be held and loved.”
Hector was dead and Andromache’s insides turned to ash as she inevitable felt her body react to Helen’s careful lying down of her unclothed body to cover on side of Andromache fully, skin on skin.
“Cry,” Helen said, trailing her white woman’s hand over Andromache’s ribs. Andromache tossed her head from one side of the pillow to the other in a grotesque ‘no’.
“Let me help you then.” Helen’s words were a soft stream of warm air in her hair. She felt the other’s woman’s lips lightly move against her jaw and could not help but arch into Helen’s hand as it softly pressed down on her breast. She had seen this scenario unfurl sometimes, in her dreams or in the highest point of pleasure with Hector inside her, but to have it happen was not right, was wrong was ungodly would kill them - Hector was dead and Achilles’ chariot dragged him over the rough rocks of Ilion. Her beautiful beloved husband torn to shreds, Achilles’ face a mask of anger - “No,” she said to Helen, willing her body to stay still.
Helen placed her long fingers on her jaw, turned her head slowly and kissed her.
“Just let me help you, my sister,” she whispered into Andromache’s mouth, “let me break your dam of grief.”
She sent her hand moving slowly down, following every dip and curve of Andromache’s milk-white body. Andromache let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding and tangled a hand in Helen’s fair hair. She felt her sorrow trample around like a beast in a cage - she was the cage - and Helen’s fingers stirring it to life. “Help me,” she said then like a child.
Helen moved with the swift grace of a cat, swung herself astride the Trojana in one fluid motion. She held still for a moment, touched both her hands to Andromache’s brow and smiled a small smile of reassurement. Then she kissed her, deeply, and slid her hands down Andromache’s face and over the soft mounds of her breast. There she lingered for a moment, cupping the globes of flesh in her hands, lightly touching in a way that made Andromache ache. She trailed her fingers down the pale expanse of belly, then shifted her body down so that her hand had better access to where Andromache was already wet and hurting. Slowly, gently, she eased a finger in, then let it slip back wetly over the sensitive nub that made Andromache’s body shake as if jolted by lightning. Rapid words in her Cilician dialect spilled from Andromache’s lips as her body tensed. Helen repeated her actions relentlessly, went deeper, added a finger and twisted them inside her sister-in-law. Andromache had her eyes shut tight and was talking fast, words the Greek woman didn’t understand save Hector, Hector. Soon Helen’s skilful hands had Andromache trembling, every muscle in her body strung high and taut. Helen circled the other woman’s clit, rubbing hard, and inside Andromache she curled one finger upward to brush a very sensitive spot - and the dams were breaking, Andromache’s body spasmed wildly as she came hard with a soft cry. Her orgasm enveloped her like a sea of coiling pleasure, setting free her stiffly locked grief.
“Yes, like that,” Helen said somewhere close to her face as she began to cry harshly in great shuddering breaths, as she wept like a child. She was unable to do anything as Helen disentangled her long limbs from her own. Through the haze of tears she couldn’t see, but she briefly felt Helen’s lips on her brow before she felt rather than saw the other woman tie her peplos and leave her.
Hector, HectorHectorHectorHector. Andromache cried.