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

[undonewithout]

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."

Comments

[undonewithout]

"Emperor's blood, Griddle," Harrow says as Gideon picks her up, her face burning at the steady pressure of her arm along her ass. It's not the first time Gideon's held her like this, not the first time she's been carried, but there's a different weight to it now, a new charge. Rather than pull away, she relaxes into it, letting herself rest within the confines of Gideon's arms, one ear pressed close enough to her chest to hear the beating of her heart.

The sound of it is still a marvel, after everything.

"Okay," she says, the corner of her mouth twitching upwards even as her stomach flips.

[wedobones]

"Okay," echoes Gideon, turning in the direction of their bedroom. She's carried Harrow a bunch of times but it definitely feels different this time.

In their bedroom she puts one knee on the mattress and carefully lays her girlfriend down.

[undonewithout]

Harrow grits her teeth against the soft and utterly humiliating sound that wants to spill forth when Gideon lays her down on the bed, an action full of more gentleness than she once might have thought the other girl capable of. Shifting up to settle her head more comfortably on the pillow, she looks at Gideon as she looms above her.

[wedobones]

What she wants to do is peel Harrow's underwear down and bury her face between her thighs, but, contrary to popular belief, she was also born with a modicum of sense. She lies down next to Harrow, her nose brushing against her cheek.

"Sure?"

[undonewithout]

"Not even remotely," says Harrow, trying to laugh and only managing a weak, strained sound when Gideon nuzzles at her cheek. She balls one hand into a tight fist, breathing in shakily as she turns to look at her. Her dark eyes are wide, the panic in them slowly giving way to something close to a horrible, shameful anticipation. At the sight of Gideon's strangely colored eyes, so close she can see the flecks of brighter gold within the iris, her heart stutters in her chest.

"Tell me what you...how you..." she attempts and fails, her cheeks flushing a darker red. Her lips press together for a moment in a thin and furious line. "I am too ignorant to direct you in this, Nav. You have the advantage. Try to contain your delight."

[wedobones]

"I'll definitely do my best," says Gideon, as solemnly as she can manage. She props herself up on one elbow, fingers of her other hand pulling Harrow's shirt up a little.

"With my fingers," she says. "Slowly. It'll feel really good, I promise."

[undonewithout]

She'd thought the knowledge would help quell the tight knot at the pit of her stomach, and seen from a certain light, it does; it's not nerves but heat that lances through her when Gideon offers that scrap of explanation. Her breath shivers as her shirt's pulled up those few inches, her eyes still fixed on Gideon's.

"Okay," she says. "I'll stop you if I need to."

[wedobones]

"Okay," echoes Gideon. She bends her head, her red hair a tumbled curtain across her forehead, and takes a kiss. At the same time, her fingers skate down the smooth skin of Harrow's belly, brushing against her waistband.

[undonewithout]

Gideon touches her and Harrow tries to give herself over to it, focusing on Gideon's lips on hers, on her fingertips as points of heat moving slowly downwards. She squirms, ashamed to realize it's not avoidance but avidity, a reflex she's unable--or unwilling--to quell.

[wedobones]

She's still getting used to it, slowly but surely -- how it feels when she makes the Reverend Daughter of Drearburh squirm like that. Gently, so carefully, she eases her fingers under the waistband of Harrow's leggings, sliding her hand between thin, soft layers of fabric to cup Harrow's cunt through her underwear. It's the first time Harrow's ever let her touch her like this, touch anything except her tits. Gideon goes slowly so she doesn't spook her.

[undonewithout]

The slow pace is a blessing and a curse all in one; she has time to get used to this, each of Gideon's moves telegraphed before they happen, but the clarity of each new and careful touch means there's no ignoring it, no pretending it's anything other than what it is. Gideon's fingers curve over the thin stuff of her underwear, the warmth of her skin lost in the heat that's pooled with embarrassing quickness between Harrow's thighs, and Harrow's breath stutters.

"Gideon..."

[wedobones]

"Please don't tell me to stop," breathes Gideon, her voice rough in her throat, her hand still between Harrow's thighs. Gently, carefully, she traces the tip of one finger over the shape of Harrow's cunt through thin fabric. How wet that fabric already is is enough to make Gideon's own cunt throb so hard it almost hurts.

[undonewithout]

"I'm not going to tell you to stop," says Harrow--before she can talk herself into doing exactly that. Gideon's fingertip against her there, pressing just firmly enough to trace the shape of her through damp cotton, has her making a low, helpless sound. Her hips lift like they have a mind of their own, a will she can't wrest control of right now, pressing just slightly more into the touch.

[wedobones]

Gideon doesn't know for certain that that's the truth, but she's going to keep going while she can. It occurs to her that nobody else has ever touched Harrow like that. She wonders whether Harrow touches herself, and knows better than to ask. Harrow lifts her hips and Gideon groans. "Tell me I can."

[undonewithout]

Gideon neither asks nor demands, when she says it, and something about the ambiguity makes Harrow burn from head to foot. "By the Tomb," she breathes, the blasphemy an offense and utterly perfect. It takes a moment, but she nods. "You can."

[wedobones]

It takes a moment to organise herself, to move her hand in such a way, but then she's slipping her hand under the thin fabric of Harrow's underwear and actually cupping her cunt in the palm of her hand and the curl of her fingers.

"Oh, fuck me," she breathes, burrowing her first into the crook of Harrow's neck.

[undonewithout]

Harrow makes a thin, wavering little sound as it happens; all of it, from the hot gust of Gideon's breath against her skin to the heavy press of her body to the fingers sliding without barrier over her cunt. Beneath her, Harrow goes still, half with panic--it's too much, too little, exactly right--and half in a sick kind of curiosity, waiting to see what happens next. Her black eyes squeeze shut, her breath trembling.

[wedobones]

Gideon is immediately struck by how smooth Harrow's skin is, how soft, how hot. For a moment, she can't do anything, but then she pulls herself together. She moves her middle finger, tracing it along the slick furrow between Harrow's thighs.

[undonewithout]

For a moment, it's just the firm weight of Gideon's hand, Gideon's fingers between her thighs--and then she moves. It doesn't matter that it's more exploratory than anything else, a careful bit of contact; the shift of Gideon's finger is electric and strange, and Harrow squirms to meet it.

"Fuck," she says, and her voice only barely sounds like her own.

[wedobones]

It takes a moment to get the position of her fingers right, shifting her hand until the callused pads of her fingers slide over Harrow's clit.

God. She'd never in a million years imagined the other girl would be so wet.

[undonewithout]

Gideon touches her more purposefully, her fingers sliding through the slickness of her cunt and over her clit; Harrow's only glad, thankful to everything she's ever believed in, that the surprise only shows itself in her cavalier's face. To have it mentioned, given voice and purpose, would be a humiliation too great to bear. Instead, there's only the touch and the sound of their breathing, the soft shift of Harrow's body against the sheets as her hips twist.

It's too much, and everything, and Harrow's humiliated by how badly she wants more.

[wedobones]

Harrow moves, rocking her hips up into the touch between her thighs and, most importantly, she doesn't pull away, doesn't tell Gideon to stop. Gideon groans softly, pressing soft kisses against the side of Harrow's throat as she starts to touch her with more purpose.

[undonewithout]

There is a desperation to this, Harrow's clothes pushed only just far enough aside for Gideon to touch her, Gideon's mouth hot on her neck, Gideon's fingers starting to abandon their slow and exploratory pace for something faster. It should be unnecessary, but there's no guarantee this will ever happen again--and Harrow knows that as well as Gideon does. She shivers at the sound of Gideon's groan, her throat working as she tries to keep back an answering sound.

[wedobones]

More than anything, more than anything she's ever wanted, she wants to make Harrow come - to see what her face does, to hear that sounds she makes, to feel it around her fingers. She sucks lightly at Harrow's skin, nipping at her skin with the very edges of her teeth. Her fingers rub rhythmically over Harrow's clit.

[undonewithout]

Harrow twists and squirms under Gideon's attention, aware of the building tension low between her thighs, the sensation she could tell herself she's never felt before, but still knows for what it is. She clings to Gideon with one hand, her fingers digging hard into the firm muscle of her shoulder, the fabric of her shirt a thin layer between her fingertips and the heat of Gideon's skin.

As Gideon's teeth scrape over her skin, Harrow comes, her breath stuttering out of her in quiet, strained pants that sound more obscene than if she'd let herself give in to the degradation of moaning. It goes on forever. It ends far too soon.