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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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.

Gideon's nail is less intrusive than her fingertip would be, a sharper and more manageable contact all at once. She teases her nipple, and Harrow's eyelashes flutter, her mouth falling open. Even with the thin stuff of her bra in the way, it's enough to make her head spin.

She keeps up the light, exploratory touch, circling Harrow's nipple with her thumb. Her other hand tightens on Harrow's hip, squeezing, tugging her in a little closer. She knows then that she'd do anything Harrow told her to, anything the other girl ever wanted.

Her response to the gentle pull of Gideon's hand is embarrassing and immediate; shivering, she moves forward, pressing closer, pushing into the light rub of Gideon's thumb with a needy arch of her spine. "Emperor's blood, Gideon, kiss me while you do that," she says--almost pleads, and her stomach flips to hear the unguarded way it all spills from her mouth.

Eager and obediant in a way that she's never been before in her life, Gideon leans up and kisses Harrow, hot and hungry. She shifts her hand, palming Harrow's tit gently, not squeezing but groaning when she feels Harrow's nipple against her palm.

Harrow moans into the kiss, squirming in Gideon's lap when the other girl's hand shifts, when her touch goes from lightly teasing to something firmer. Her fingers comb back into Gideon's hair, the copper bright against her pale skin. It's too much; it's just enough.

"Pull my hair?" asks Gideon, her mouth smudging against Harrow's as she rolls her wrist, squeezing her tit gently. "Something. Please Harrow." She's so turned on that she can barely lace the words together.

She was steps away from doing something anyway, but Gideon says Please, Harrow like that and Harrow has to ride out a sudden, shameful wave of arousal before she can make her fingers move at all. Gideon fondles her and Harrow's fingers twist, pulling hard at her hair, pulling her head back a little so she can look more fully into Gideon's blazing eyes.

"Oh, fuck,"mumbles Gideon as Harrow pulls her hair hard, tipping her head back. It arches the line of her body slightly, exposing her throat and chest. She pinches Harrow's nipple between two fingers, rolling the slight curve of her against her palm. Fuck. She's been dreaming of doing shit like this for months.

Harrow swallows back a groan as she takes in the arc of Gideon's body, the flutter of her pulse in her neck. She remembers another night, Gideon's mouth working over her throat as she panted and shivered, repulsed and unthinkably turned on all at the same time. And then, the next day, seeing the marks left behind. While she'd used what little flesh magic she knew to fade them into nothing, part of her had wanted them to stay--and damn the humiliation of the consequences.

She can't bring herself to taste the salt of Gideon's skin, to lay her claim on that tanned and lightly freckled throat, but God if she doesn't want to.

Gideon pinches her nipple and Harrow's hips jerk, a half-startled sound coming from her mouth. "That was good," she says, each word an effort. "A little too...it's on the edge of acceptable. But do it again."

Gideon does it again, carefully judging how hard she pinches, rolling Harrow's nipple between forefinger and thumb.

"I'd do anything you want right now," she says, breathless, and knows that she means it.

This time, the noise Harrow makes has a little more form, coming closer to a moan than it had before. "You give me a shameful amount of license," she murmurs in response to that breathless promise, though already she's thinking through the possibilities, considering all that she wants--and the list is longer than she might have assumed--and everything she feels capable of allowing. She leans in, pressing into the warmth of Gideon's hand on her tit, kissing her long and slow.

"Take your hand away and close your eyes," she says, the words a rush so she doesn't lose her nerve. "Just for a minute."

Gideon does take her hand away, letting the backs of both rest against the sofa cushions. After a moment, she closes her eyes, too.

"What are you going to do?" she asks, and she can't help the note of mistrust that creeps in there. She's known Harrow too long for that.

"Nothing you'll find objectionable," says Harrow, mixed regret and gratification settling over her hearing that note of wary mistrust in Gideon's voice. "You have my word, Nav, for whatever that's worth to you."

She doesn't move at first, taking a minute just to look at Gideon: her flushed face, her tousled hair, the faint flutter of her eyelids as she keeps them closed. The expression on her face, uncertain and trusting and daring to hope, all at once. It's enough to make Harrow's chest grow tight, her breath shivering softly on her next inhale. She moves and twists, knowing Gideon will be able to feel the slight shifts in her weight; will hear the quiet rustle of clothes displaced and rearranged as she undoes her bra and takes it off, then tugs her shirt back into place.

As she takes hold of Gideon's wrists again, her cheeks burn--and as she guides her hands under her shirt and up towards the small curves of her tits, that heat gets deeper and hotter, more dizzying. "Okay," she says, a shuddering little gasp backing the word as her nipple brushes against the tip of Gideon's finger. "You can open your eyes."

Honestly, it's not worth much and they both know it. Still, Gideon is still and calm, her hands resting against the sofa. Her cheeks flush when she starts to realise what's going on. Harrow wraps her hands around her wrists and then guides her hands up under her shirt, lets her palm bare tits, and this is the first time not in water. She keeps her eyes shut, for a moment, and then she opens them, her eyelashes fluttering.

"Fuck me, Harrow. God."

The look on Gideon's face when she realizes is amazing, beaten only by the heat that flashes in her eyes when she finally opens them and as her fingers curve with more assurance over Harrow's tits. Harrow shivers, squirming, a wavering half-smirk on her face.

"Told you. Nothing objectionable."

"So far so good," says Gideon, squeezing Harrow's tits gently and then brushing the callused pads of both thumbs across her nipples. Harrow's tits are much smaller than Octavia's, smaller than Gideon's own even, which doesn't mean that touching them doesn't feel amazing.

Harrow makes another low, embarrassing sound when Gideon teases her like that, the brush of her thumbs against her nipples different now than it's been in the bath, the contact more immediate. "Try kissing me again while you do that," she says, relieved when it comes out less like an uncertain, hesitant question. "I want to see if I can stand it."

"For science," says Gideon, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She leans in to press a kiss to Harrow's mouth as she squeezes her tits again, her thumbs teasing across her nipples. She takes care not to go too quickly, not to push too hard.

Her retort is muffled in the press of Gideon's mouth on hers, her hips squirming as Gideon's thumbs rub over her nipples again and again, slow and careful circles that make her shiver more from desire than disgust. It's a lot all at once, her thoughts grown staticky and fractured with the input, but she's managing.

Gideon has literally never been this turned on in her life. She's so turned on that it's actually painful. She keeps touching Harrow, keeps kissing her, waiting to be told to stop, or further instruction, or anything that Harrow wants next.

She can't think of anything other than this for a long time, her world narrowing to the touch of Gideon's hands and the taste of her mouth, the sound of their breathing and the firm solidity of her body underneath her. Eventually, Harrow finds her voice, resting her forehead against Gideon's and letting out a shaky breath. "I love you, Gideon."

Gideon lets out a shaky breath of her own, her forehead resting against Harrow's, her hands still for a moment. "I love you too," she says, her tone almost disbelieving. "I love you so fucking much."

There's always that cold voice at the back of Harrow's mind at times like these, the one that reminds her of her unworthiness, of the inexcusable things she's done--to Gideon, to the other sons and daughters of the Ninth, the crimes and violations she's wrought from even before the moment of her first breath. Gideon says I love you, and that voice says You shouldn't, and Harrow has to work at listening to only one of them. Tonight, she manages it, her fingers gliding over Gideon's jaw, tracing the bone just under the skin.

"Keep going," she says, then stops again, her cheeks flushing red. Harrow at a loss for words is a rare thing, humiliating and helpless, but the vastness of the possibility in front of her--everything they could do, everything she might find herself able to allow--leaves her floundering.

Keep going could mean any number of things, and Gideon finds herself staring, her hands still on Harrow's tits, her skin unbelievably warm against Gideon's palms. "Oh, shit. You're...really going to have to tell me what keep going means."

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