undonewithout | oh if you knew just what a fool you have made me

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gideon

oh if you knew just what a fool you have made me

They find their way into the new shape of things over the next month. The barriers and boundaries, walking the tension between what Gideon desires and what Harrow can allow, all of it kept secret and safe within the walls of their apartment. It doesn't always work; there are fights and frigid silences, Gideon throwing herself into workouts as an act of aggression and Harrow immersing herself in a book or Sextus' latest draft of theories and theorems with as much pointed intensity. When it's successful, though, when all the fractured pieces of themselves come together into some temporary whole...

Harrow does not find it unpleasant. Not entirely.

She insists that they act no different than usual in public, still necromancer and cavalier, still as Ninth as they can be in a pre-Resurrection backwater. It's the only way it can work, and though Gideon makes no secret of her opinion, grumbling at home and out, trying to catch Harrow's hand or stand a little closer than ordinary, she bears it with an aggrieved stoicism that sets Harrow's teeth on edge and almost amuses her all at once. She harbors no illusion that Gideon's patience will last forever; this new change will soon find itself brayed to the world--or merely to the Sixth (bad enough, and Harrow already suspects the Warden and his Hand know some scrap of it anyway) and Maeve (even worse)--but for now something close enough to privacy reigns between them.

The one topic Gideon can't let go, refuses to let go despite arguments and at least three battles with constructs, is the idea of a date. The term isn't unfamiliar, nor the concept, but both strike Harrow as wholly unnecessary. They know what they are, what they've become to one another; that should suffice, and yet for her cavalier, it's only the beginning. She wheedles and pleads, starts dropping it into conversations at points both ludicrous and logical, and while Harrow will never admit to being worn down, she's intelligent enough to see that getting this out of Gideon's system may be the only way of shutting her up.

The one least liable to result in questions or a disapproving look from Sextus, that is.

Gideon picks the day, and Harrow the place. At the appointed hour, they set off for Petros Park, Harrow casting furtive looks at anyone they pass and keeping her hands tightly folded, her arms rigid to discourage any soft touch or brief tangle of fingers. "I forbid you from enjoying this," she mutters as they walk, when everyone else is out of earshot. "So wipe that smile off your face. You look like a loon."

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Harrow takes her hand and says that and Gideon's cunt throbs.

"Here or in bed?"

"Stay here," Harrow says, though not without imagining the alternative--informed a little better now after a few heady, hazy nights where sleep didn't come for either of them until an hour or two after they'd crawled into bed. Her flushed cheeks turn a deeper red. "For now."

It's a promise she doesn't know if she can keep, vague as it is, but merely making it feels like an acceptable show of effort.

"Okay," says Gideon, loving the flush of Harrow's pale cheeks. She bends her head, taking another kiss. "Tell me what you want?" She says. "Talk me through it?"

It's always best, always easiest, when Harrow's completely in charge

The low ache between her thighs intensifies at the pair of questions and how Gideon looks as she asks them; patient and hopeful, golden eyes alight under the careful disarray of her hair. "Help me into your lap," she says, amazed by the steadiness of her voice. Keeping her hold on Gideon's hand, she shifts until she's perched, bird-light, in Gideon's lap, her knees at either side of her cavalier's hips beneath the cover of the blanket.

Biting her lip, she looks at her. "Good so far?"

"Good so far," says Gideon, fingers of one hand still tangled with Harrow's, the other resting loosely against the couch cushion. She tips her head back against the couch, biting her lip over a grin.

"You could be helpful and turn off the fucking television," Harrow says, smirking when Gideon's head flops back against the couch cushions. She leans, grabbing the remote, and does it herself. "Since we're not watching it anyway."

Dropping the remote again, she takes hold of Gideon's other hand, moving them both to the slender, straight sides of her torso. The spread of Gideon's fingers against her body, the heat from her palms and the tips of her fingers, makes her eyelashes flutter once, and then again. Positioning Gideon like this, limbs and hands and once even the angle of her head arranged just so, holds a charge Harrow hadn't totally anticipated. It's one of the things keeping her chasing this, pushing her comfort inch by hard-fought inch.

Letting go of Gideon's wrists, Harrow reaches out, tracing her finger up the firm line of the other girl's jaw and towards her hairline. Her fingers comb into the red strands of Gideon's hair, pulling slightly to coax her head back up.

Her hands rest on Harrow's sides, fingers spread to reach almost from hips to the slight swell of her tits. Gideon's eyelashes flutter when Harrow's fingers push into her hair, pull slightly, change the position of her head. The sound she makes is embarrassingly close to a moan.

Harrow shivers again when Gideon groans like that, the cool Ninth black of her eyes flashing for a moment with something sharper. "Do that thing you did the other night," she says, and if her voice takes on a hint of her usual command, it's somewhere between an accident and an intentional choice. "Your nails on my back and my sides, over the shirt."

Still keeping one hand firmly in Gideon's hair, she leans in, kissing her hard.

God, that slightly imperious tone of voice goes right to her cunt. She's at a loss to explain it. She nods, shifting her hands to scrape blunt nails against Harrow's back, following the line of her spine.

Something electric sizzles through her when Gideon's nails scrape down her spine--this time, and the last, and possibly for all the times to come. Making an embarrassing noise against the other girl's mouth, Harrow squirms, her back arching into the touch.

Gideon doesn't often want a dick, not really, but, God, she wants one when Harrow squirms on top of her like that. She answers with a stifled moan, her hands moving, pressing as hard as she can to make sure that Harrow can feel her nails, wishing that they were sharper.

Revulsion and desire swirl within her when Gideon moans like that, the wet and too-hot feeling of her cav's mouth on hers, the vibration of the sound. She responds by twisting her fingers in Gideon's hair again, her free hand skimming over the thin stuff of Gideon's shirt, mapping the firm curve of her bicep, the lean muscle of her side, the hard plane of her belly.

It's both fumbling and unthinkingly calculated, avoiding--as she always does--the swell of Gideon's tits. She's learned how to touch, if slowly, and how to manage it, but some places are still beyond her.

Harrow's fingers twist in Gideon's hair and her breath leaves her in a hiss. The pain isn't at all unpleasant - in fact, it provokes an answering throb lower down her body and her fingers tighten on Harrow, just a little.

"You can do that again," she says. "Harder."

The sound she lets out when Gideon holds her tighter is pathetic, a reedy warble of unconstrained want--even as her pulse speeds up and her stomach lurches, a momentary sense of entrapment encroaching before she can push it away. She focuses on the rasp of Gideon's voice instead, and when she pulls her hair again, it's harder and more purposeful.

"Thought you liked that, Griddle."

"I did," says Gideon, her mouth suddenly gone dry, other parts of her suddenly gone decidedly not dry. "Did. Really." Her hand dips lower, her nails scraping the small of Harrow's back through the thin stuff of her shirt.

"Good," is all she can get out before Gideon's nails scrape down again, lower and harder. Harrow makes another shuddering noise, humiliating in its desperation. Humiliating, too, in the way it strikes her right between the thighs. Her face flushes dark, and when she kisses Gideon again, her teeth nip sharply at her lower lip.

The kiss is sharp, Harrow's fingers still tight in her hair, and Gideon moans, her hips squirming slightly between Harrow's slight weight and the couch cushions. Both hands slide up over Harrow's sides, over her ribs, almost but not quite cupping her tits.

Gideon moves under her, and Harrow's head spins, her legs tightening, her knees digging into the curve of Gideon's hips--as if she could keep her there, pin her in place and feel her struggle. She's aware enough of the slide of Gideon's hands, the careful track up her ribcage and over. They've been here before; Gideon waiting, Gideon hoping, the intimacy something Harrow's struggled with allowing. She breaks the kiss, her breath coming hard and shaky as she looks into the other girl's eyes.

"Tell me what you want."

She feels pinned in that moment - by Harrow's dark eyes, by the sharp jut of her knees, her hands. She stares into her girlfriend's eyes for a moment, and swallows.

"I want to touch you under your clothes," she says, swallowing hard. "I want to make you come."

All Harrow can do at first is stare, the sharp angles of her face frozen somewhere between an unsteady lack of certainty and a deeper and more slow-burning arousal. Gideon's hands don't move, though she can feel the fine tremor of her fingertips, the potential energy waiting to be released. All would take is a nod, a movement more simple than some of the choices either of them have made; it's easier than a tumble onto a broken fence, cleaner than the sharp thrust of an awl into a temporal lobe. It's impossible, and frighteningly possible, and the decision keeps her frozen a beat longer than she'd like.

Her face flames hot, her throat working against--and with--all the words clawing their way out of her chest. "Start with the first," she says hoarsely. "I can't promise the second. Tonight."

"Oh, shit, Harrow," says Gideon, almost moans it and then she moves her hands, one coming to rest on Harrow's hip to steady her, the other pausing, for a moment, before slipping under the hem of her t-shirt, touching the feverishly hot skin of her side.

"Tell me how," she says, her voice hoarse.

Gideon's hand curves around her hip, solid and steadying, and Harrow trembles like some willowy, helpless thing of the Seventh--not that she entertains that thought for more than a moment, not that she remembers the blinding shame of her reaction to Gideon's infatuation back on the First. It doesn't matter now. When she feels the warm, close contact of Gideon's fingertips on her belly, unfiltered through layers of clothing or the warm water of the bath, she bites her lip hard. The skin splits and heals over before she even tastes the copper sharpness of her blood.

"Trace my ribs," she says. "Work your way up to...where you want to be." She swallows hard. "And when you get there, stay over the bra. I'll tell you if I can...when you can do more."

She goes as slowly as she can stand, tracing the ridges of Harrow's ribs with the tips of her fingers, carefully, one at a time. Once her hand is high enough, she traces the curve of Harrow's tit over the soft thin fabric of her bra with the edge of her thumbnail. Her head is tipped back so that she can keep her eyes fixed on Harrow's face.

Harrow keeps count; it keeps her present, keeps her focused, marking off each rib as Gideon's calloused fingertips slide over them. When her hand is high enough, when she feels the testing scrape of Gideon's nail along the small, high curve of her tit, Harrow's breath hitches.

"Oh, fuck," she murmurs, her hips shifting, her shoulders tensing for a moment before she settles again.

Slowly, so slowly, almost holding her breath, Gideon traces the under-curve of Harrow's tit and then upwards, finding the sharp nub of her nipple and teasing it gently, still using her nail, not her fingertip. She thinks about how she's fantasised about touching Harrow when she's dozed off beside her...when she's got herself off in the shower the next morning.

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