Communion at the Cabin: Noor and Hel

The crunch of gravel under our boots echoes as we approach the cabin, the late spring sun slanting through the pines like golden fingers teasing the undergrowth. Ten miles from Duluth, in this pocket of what used to be the wild fringes of the old United States—now just rolling hills dotted with fairy-tale ruins after the apocalypse—this place feels like a forgotten whisper. The air's warm, a lazy seventy degrees, carrying the scent of damp earth and budding wildflowers from Lake Superior's edge. The cabin squats there, weathered logs sagging under a mossy roof, its door ajar like it's been waiting for us to stumble in and stir up the ghosts.

You, Hel Lokidottir, pause at the threshold, your hand tightening on the strap of your pack. Your old blue jeans hug your legs, and that white long-sleeve shirt I made for you catches the light—the one embroidered with faded Nordic runes in the colors of the lesbian flag. I stitched them myself, each hue a quiet nod to us: the dark orange for your unapologetic gender non-conformity, the way you carry your strength without apology; the pink for the serenity you've brought into my life. You don't say it, but I see how it fits you, like armor woven from affection.

"Gods, look at this mess," you mutter, pushing the door open with a creak that sounds like a sigh. Dust motes dance in the beams of sunlight piercing the grimy windows, and the air inside is thick with neglect—cobwebs draping the corners, a layer of grit on every surface. It's been five years since anyone touched it, you told me that much on the trail. Last used by a Coalition scout named Chey, short for Cheyenne, who holed up here through a brutal winter. Something happened between you two back then, on the lake's shore. I don't know the details, but the weight in your eyes when you mention her says it's not simple.

I step in behind you, setting my pack down and rolling up the sleeves of my white burka—its fabric a soft blend of orange, pink, and dark rose, four of the six colors from that flag I love, swirling like a promise across the folds. It's loose and flowing, perfect for the work ahead, though the Coalition way-point demands we get it ready for Nev and Chey arriving tomorrow. "It's not so bad," I say, forcing brightness into my voice. "A little elbow grease, and it'll be welcoming again. Where do we start?"

You glance at me, your green eyes shadowed for a moment, then you nod, shaking off whatever's haunting you. "Kitchen first. Let's air it out." We dive in, me sweeping floors crusted with old leaves and mouse droppings, you hauling out rusted pots and wiping down counters that haven't seen a rag since... well, since today. I catch you pausing by the hearth, your fingers tracing a red stain on the floor in front of it. My curiosity bubbles up as we work, the rhythm of brooms and cloths syncing with our breaths.

"Hel," I venture after we've hauled a pile of debris outside, "what really went down with Chey? You tense up every time we talk about this place."

You straighten, wiping sweat from your brow with the back of your hand, the pink rune on your sleeve—a symbol of serenity—staining faintly with dirt. Reluctance flickers across your face, but you meet my gaze. "It was five years ago. I was... different then. Still playing the villain in my own twisted saga. Chey was a scout, tough as nails, and protecting that nearby village. She fought like a storm—lunged at me with her blade, got a good slash in before I overpowered her." Your voice drops, laced with regret. "My strength... it was too much. I impaled her, nearly ended it right there on the pebbles. But I saw the fight drain out of her, and something in me broke. I spared her, patched her just enough so she could crawl here for the winter. I regret it every day—the ease of it, how I could crush her without trying."

I stop sweeping, my heart twisting at the raw edge in your words. "That's not the Hel I know now."

"I'm not that person anymore," you promise, stepping closer, your hand brushing mine. The touch lingers, warm and grounding. "Being with you, with the Coalition, Nev, and Cheyenne... it's changed me. Now, let's make this right. For her, for us."

We keep at it, the guilt in your eyes fading as we scrub the blood stain and mend what is broken. By midday, we've patched a leaky roof with fresh thatch and tar from our supplies, the cabin starting to breathe again. Inside, we drag out four cots from the storage loft—basic frames for Nev, Chey, and us—but as I unroll the bedding, I hesitate, glancing at you. The privacy tonight, our first real chance alone... it stirs something in me, a pull between wanting my own space and craving your nearness.

"Four beds," I say lightly, "but... maybe we share one? Just for cuddling, while we're here. Keep each other warm."

Your lips curve into a soft smile, but there's a nervous flush creeping up your neck. You set down the blankets, coming to stand before me. "Noor, I've been thinking... do you want to take this further? Us, I mean. More than cuddling."

My pulse quickens, a rhetorical question hanging in the air because yes, I do—I want to see you bare, to map your skin with my hands. "Further how?" I ask, though my voice betrays the want.

You swallow, adorable in your hesitation. "Whatever feels right. Touching, exploring. No rush."

We break for a late lunch on the porch, spreading out the camping rations: dried meats, fresh bread from the village, wild berries I'd foraged. The sun warms our faces as we eat, the conversation turning tentative but honest. "I'm comfortable with... a lot," I say, popping a berry into my mouth. "Tonight, I want to wear my silk burka—the new one, without anything underneath. Feel the fabric against my skin, let you touch me through it."

Your cheeks pinken, that dark rose hue on my burka mirroring the flush on your face—femininity in your quiet strength, love and sex woven into the moment. It's endearing, how it makes you nervous. "That sounds... intimate," you reply, voice husky. "I'd like to be completely nude, so you can explore me however we're both comfortable. What I enjoy, you might like too—stroking, touching. No insertion, though. Just... us."

I nod, heat building low in my belly. "Touching and stroking, yes. I want to keep the burka on, feel your hands through the silk. Wonder what it'll be like."

You're quieter about your body, but I press gently, describing mine in ways that make you shift in your seat—my curves, the sensitivity I imagine under the fabric. It eases us both, setting boundaries like stones in a riverbed.

Early evening finds us heading to the nearby stream, a ribbon of clear water winding through the trees. We agree on privacy— you upstream, me down—respecting the space even as anticipation hums between us. I strip by the bank, the cool air kissing my skin as I rinse away the day's grime, my burka and supplies waiting in a bundle. The water's chill sharpens my senses, but thoughts of you warm me from within. Autonomy versus intimacy—I've always guarded my space, but with you, surrender feels like freedom.

When I return, the cabin glows with a fire crackling in the hearth, candles flickering on the mantel—a nice touch, romantic without trying too hard. You're there, hair cascading down your back in loose waves, wearing nothing but the silk shirt I made, similar to the day's but softer, unbuttoned just enough to hint at the strength beneath. Your underwear clings simply, but it's your thighs that draw my eye—powerful, muscular, like carved oak, speaking to the orange in your runes: independence, community in your form.

"You look... incredible," I breathe, stepping closer in my burka as flows against my bare skin underneath. No underwear, as promised—the fabric whispers with every move, a secret between us.

You smile, eyes tracing me. "Ready?"

We settle on the bed you've ingeniously linked to another with leather belts, the frames steady now, a makeshift haven. I admire the cleverness, running my fingers over the straps. "Smart work. Feels secure."

Foreplay begins slow, your voice gentle as you take my hands. "Is this okay? I want to start here." Consent weaves through your words, and I affirm, "Yes—my boundaries are touch, no deeper tonight."

Your fingers trace my palms, stroking the creases of my life lines with a sensuality that sends shivers up my arms. It's intimate, like reading my story in skin. Then your lips brush my palms, kissing each knuckle softly, your breath warm. "Your hands are beautiful," you murmur.

"Now you," you say, turning so your back faces me. "Explore. Start with my back."

I lift the silk shirt from your shoulders, letting it slide away. Your skin glows in the firelight—broad shoulders, the elegant curve of your spine, muscles honed from years of survival. My fingers trace them, light as feathers, feeling you relax under my touch. Emboldened, I ask, "Can I touch your breasts?"

"Please," you whisper, and I reach around from behind, leaning into your back, the silk brushing your skin. My hands cup them gently, fondling the soft weight, your nipples harden under my palms. You arch slightly, a soft moan escaping.

"Thighs next?" I venture, and you nod. My hands slide down, tracing the powerful lines of your legs—those muscular thighs I admired earlier. You gasp as I knead them, the strength there yielding to my touch, correlating to the light orange that was on your shirt: community, shared in this vulnerability.

"Lower," you breathe, guiding me. You swallow, your boldness tempered by patience, "My pussy."

I trace down, fingers gliding over the warmth between your thighs. You're wet already, and I slide gently over your folds, exploring the slick heat. You moan, hips shifting, and I follow your instructions—circling your clit with steady pressure, no insertion, just rhythmic strokes that build your breaths to gasps. "Like that—" "Oh!" "Yesss!" "Please Noor." Your body tenses, then shudders as you come, a low cry filling the cabin. I'm grateful for the towel I'd laid under you earlier; it catches the wetness, no mess on the sheets.

I wipe my hand on a nearby washcloth, heart pounding—I'm the most aroused I've ever been, core throbbing. "Your turn," I say, submitting, lying back as you turn to me.

It builds slow, your advances one sensual step at a time. You start with my sides, fingers dancing lightly, discovering where I'm ticklish—under my arms, along my ribs. I giggle, squirming, and you laugh softly. "I love that sound," you say, but you shift to sensuality, hands gliding over the silk burka, tracing my breasts through the fabric. The barrier heightens everything, nipples peaking against the colors—white for unique relationships to womanhood, like ours.

You work lower, stroking my thighs, the silk sliding with your touch. "Tell me if it's too much," you murmur, and I nod, lost in the tease. Your hand cups me through the burka, fingers pressing gently over my pussy, the friction electric. I gasp, heat coiling tight.

"Wait," I say, breathless, grabbing a clean towel. "Under my butt—just in case." Practical even now, my first time, and you grin, delighted. "You're amazing."

You resume, stroking with purpose, the silk dampening under your fingers. I edge closer to climax, body arching, but it hovers just out of reach. "Hel... I can't quite... go further. Please."

Your eyes meet mine, seeking permission. "My mouth? Under the burka?"

"Yes," I whisper, courage and amour swelling despite the fear—autonomy bending to desire, arousal winning.

You lift the hem, sliding beneath the colorful silk like diving into a secret world. Your breath fans my skin first, then your mouth—gentle, slow laps of your tongue over my pussy, worshipping every fold. No rush, just reverence, building rhythm slightly as I moan, hands fisting the sheets. "Hel... that's..." my words become lost as waves crash, and I come undone, the towel saving us again as I tremble, your name a chant on my lips.

We emerge later, tangled in sheets, your head on my chest. "Think Nev and Chey will notice the extra glow in this place?" you tease, voice sated.

I laugh, tracing your runes. "If they do, we'll blame the fire—and the cleaning."