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"I hope you hang yourselves! I hope I join the Cohort and never have to see your faces again!"
Gideon Nonagesimus slammed the door to her rooms in a rage and turned to the mess of her bedchamber. Her blankets had been soundly ruffled, her drawers lay open, the magazines pulled out from under the mattress and confiscated. Not a single dirty rag left. The Reverend Father and Mother had taken everything.
"Rest in peace, Frontline Titties," she murmured. "You were there for me when no one else was."
There was nothing to be done but fold her clothes (black) and make her bed (also black), comb her hair (still red, thankfully) back, and think of something new to do. She wouldn't be emerging from her rooms for some time, and there was no way in hell she'd be reading some fusty old necromantic text specifically because the Reverend Parents, Who Were Not Really Even Her Real Parents Why Were They Calling Themselves That, would want her to. And normally, the #1 thing she did that the Reverend Parents didn't want her to do was lock herself in her room with a dozen or more dirty magazines and jerk off.
She’d have to improvise. She thought about calling some skeletons to fight them - the Reverend Parents hated it when she did any type of physical training, saying it took away from time she should be studying necromancy - but that would get boring pretty fast, like playing chess against yourself. Even when you won, you sort of lost. Gideon could jerk off, but she'd have to do it the old-fashioned way. She flopped face-down on her bed.
With the images of Sex in the Stacks on the Sixth fading fast from her brain, she worked to commit them to memory. The librarians sweeping their sculpted arms across tables, hair in messy buns held back with pencils, and ravishing one another. This was not how it went in the library of the Ninth, but then again, who was there to ravish Gideon?
She wondered what people did before magazines and thought wistfully of Naughty Nuns of the Ninth. Especially the hemlines, which would cause any Ninth nun to drop dead of pneumonia if not of shame and propriety. She reflected upon their tragically inaccurate depictions of the Ninth necromancer, busty and goth-y and femme - opposite from Gideon's compact breasts, indifferent, utilitarian, rules-bucking style. Whatever – Gideon Nonagesimus was cooler and better anyway. She had fucked with her own skeletal structure to make herself taller than both of them, and God, it had hurt, but it had been worth every moment of agony. Now she stood well above six feet, and the only thing that could improve her body, which she loved, was muscles.
Necromancers were rarely muscular, usually spindly and delicate. Gideon would settle for threatening by sheer size, the frame that could have been truly impressive if it wasn’t necromantic. She loved her body. She had worked hard to learn the theorems that gave her this frame. But she always felt that it was missing something.
Back to Naughty Nuns – Gideon thought of the cavalier, tall, with long, flowing black hair and her own set of truly impressive breasts. Not like Nova - not like Harrow. (Although Harrow would never want her like she wanted Harrow.) Giving in, she rolled onto her back and conjured up some old standby images.
She bit back a moan and slipped her hand down her trousers. Nova's corded shoulders, her furious glare. The way her scars stood out on her skin. When Gideon leaned against a wall and watched her fight, whirling chain in one hand, feet forming a wide base as she sparred with Gideon's Captain of the Guard - it was so fucking hot. "Harrow..."
Yeah, Gideon was a creep, but she figured that everyone else was on the Ninth too, so she had license. And besides - she was hot as shit. Harrow probably fingered herself thinking of Gideon anyway. There was no one else around to think about.
She thought about how there wasn't a spare ounce of fat on Harrow, painfully so. All built muscle and lithe power. Gideon groaned, and shoved a pillow between her teeth just in case. The tight long-sleeved tops Harrow trained in. Or sometimes the sleeveless ones. How she had given herself a fucking tattoo alone in her cell with God-knows-what as ink.
Gideon teased her own clit in circles, letting herself get really warmed up to the thought of Nova reaching, right hand to left bicep, to give herself that skull tat. Fuck. She indulged herself with a little pressure, feeling it shoot up and coil in her belly. She rolled her shoulders. What she wouldn’t give for someone to take out a little frustration on her right now.
Harrow biting down hard on her lip in Gideon’s fantasy, dipping the needle tied to a stick – or maybe a fingerbone, fuck yeah, getting freaky with it, Gideon, she thought. How many passes had it took with needle and ink? How many times had Harrow recommitted herself to the Ninth?
She thought about what it would be like if Harrow pinned her down, held her jaw steady, kept her chin in one hand, gave her a tattoo. Sure, Gideon would thrash, but Harrow had always made up for in determination what she lacked in stature. Harrow’s weight on her hips would hold her down. Maybe she’d use that chain to restrain Gideon.
“You’re sick,” Nova would say. “Such a fucking degenerate. You’re a masochist.”
Or something like that, anyway. Yeah, Gideon was disgusting. She knew it – she reveled in it.
With her other hand, she slipped two fingers inside herself. Normally this was easier, but without magazines, she made do. The warmth built and stayed stubbornly steady.
Gideon had jerking off down to a science. It was her one true art. She could usually grab any of her old standbys and get herself off in about a hundred and twenty seconds. Not that anyone was counting. But something just wasn't working.
Harrow. She thought more of Harrow and the way she fought. She thought of undressing Harrow with more than just her eyes, slipping her cargo pants off, spreading her legs, dipping her tongue into the fierce wetness between Harrow's legs. Going to fucking town on her cunt. Harrow using that chain on her, around her throat.
Well, Gideon was a dirtbag, and she was past the point of no return, so with a quick flick of the hand that had been on her clit, she called up two skeletons. No, taller. No, the other one should be shorter. Perfect. This was weird as hell. Magazines were better.
She sat the shorter skeleton on the side of her bed - sorry to whoever this used to belong to, but it belonged to the Ninth now, and Gideon was the Reverend Daughter of the Ninth or some bullshit - and spread its legs. Ugh, fuck yeah. Skeletons getting it on. She shouldn't be into this, except that when she squinted, she could totally picture Nova opening for her like a pomegranate, her juices shining between her legs, grabbing the chain and yanking Gideon's face deeper into her cunt - Damn.
She lined up the taller skeleton and knelt it beside the false Harrow. The false Gideon moved its jaw in an approximation of cunnilingus. This was totally fine and normal and did not give her any feelings of guilt over how badly she wanted to kiss Harrow. Gideon was perfectly well-adjusted. It was Harrow that was the knotted ball of stress and hatred.
She moved the false Gideon's arm in tandem with her own, two fingers inside herself and a thumb on her clit, which wasn't her preferred angle, but she had to run the show and be the audience, and frankly that called for a little compromise.
It wasn't quite right.
Casting a glance around her room, she toyed with and then discarded several options before settling on her final contraband stash that, hopefully, no one would ever discover that she had. It had been stolen from the laundry over the course of several months, demonstrating a dedication to her crush that she hadn't known she was even capable of. This was before it had resolved from a boiling hatred into a boiling attraction, of course - and Harrow knew none of this.
With the advantage of necromancy, Gideon had the false Gideon and the false Harrow dress themselves in each other's clothes. Harrow's probably (definitely, and Gideon knew this for a fact) still smelled like her, post-practice. She left their pants half-undone. Like they had been fighting and it turned to fucking abruptly.
There. Perfect.
Now Gideon could get into it. She had the false Harrow run her hands through the ghost of the false Gideon's hair, then dragged her again to the pelvis and held her by the vertebrae and with the thighs. And she used her imagination to feel the heavy weight of the chain there, false Harrow throwing her head back in created pleasure. Fuck yeah. This was the stuff.
Gideon worked a third finger into herself and froze the skeletons in place in the throes of ecstasy and returned her left hand to her clit. God, this was good. Thinking about Harrow pressing her head into her cunt, Harrow telling her that she could breathe once Harrow came, Harrow choking her with the Chain of Samael, dragging her up to her feet with it, wrenching her hand through her hair and calling her something hot and dirty, like a disgrace, or a heretic.
Dutiful Harrow Nova would never, but fuck, Gideon wanted her to. Gideon wanted Harrow to wreck her cunt. Fuck her into the bed until she couldn't move, face down, ass up, whatever. She took another long look at the skeleton in its sleeveless turtleneck pulled up above its ribcage, the two of them locked in a passionate scene.
Gideon wanted Harrow to make her pay for every year that she had shirked studying, that she hadn’t been the model Reverend Daughter. She had seen the burning jealousy in Harrow’s eyes and knew how Harrow would change places with her in a second.
Harrow was made to be the Reverend Daughter. Gideon was totally a poser, an interloper, taking the place made for Harrow. She buried her fingers inside herself and twisted, closing her eyes, throwing her head back. A vicious twist of her own nipples with the hand that had previously been controlling the skeletons, who slumped inanimate. Then working down to find her clit and give it three punishing strokes, imagining Harrow’s hand around her throat.
She came on her own fingers, letting out a cry of "Harrow!" through the muffled pillow. Her orgasm ripped fiercely through her; a thing more violent than she had anticipated from a quick wank.
Fuck.
She hoped nobody had heard that.
With a sigh, she pulled her pants over her still-sensitive body and dissolved the skeletons by waving her hand. The clothes fell to the floor in a heap, covered in bone dust. She'd have to take them into the sonic with her.
Someday she'd be brave enough to tell Harrow, for real, how she felt, and what she wanted to do to her. And maybe even Harrow would want her back, if she was lucky. She lay back down on her bed.
Outside, Harrow Nova leaned her head against the Reverend Daughter's door. She had heard shouting and had come thinking the Daughter had need of her. (That if she was attentive enough, Gideon would make her cavalier primary).
Or at the very least, that she'd get to watch Gideon get her ass kicked by the Reverend Mother and Father. But by the time she got there, Gideon's door was slammed closed, and she was about to turn to leave when she heard a "Harrow..." through the door.
Harrow felt wetness well unbidden between her legs. And frustration, equally, in her chest. She had wanted to see Gideon get her ass kicked. She wanted to be the one to kick Gideon’s ass.
Against her best judgment, she shifted her legs apart and slipped one hand into her pants. Harrow thought of tilting Gideon’s head back by that ridiculous red hair and putting a mark high up on her neck that she couldn’t possibly hide. To tell the whole of the Ninth that Reverend Daughter Gideon Nonagesimus was Harrow Nova’s bitch. Lowly Harrow Nova, covered in scars, scorn of the House, owned her completely.
That would show all of them, but especially Gideon. Harrow began to lose herself in her fantasy.
She’d climb on top of Gideon and pin her stupid wrists with her impossibly long arms to the bed and force Gideon to use necromancy to pin herself there. Then Harrow would get to work.
She’d thoroughly shame Gideon – what a heretic and a thorough disappointment she was, how Harrow would have made a hundred times the Reverend Daughter Gideon was. Make Gideon cry with her savagery. Usurper. Faker. Harrow would make her penitent for the first time in her entire arrogant life.
Then she’d sit on her face.
Harrow had realized Gideon was thinking of her and jerking off fifteen minutes ago, and she didn't know why she had stayed. Two minutes and a series of wet noises after that, Harrow was fairly sure (incredibly sure, actually) that Gideon was close to coming.
She wondered if it was on her own fingers or something else. What did Gideon look like – flush on those broad cheeks, sweat beading on her torso? Could Harrow count her ribs? Could she watch as the bright red of her cunt flexed around her own fingers? Was she biting down on something, was she normally noisy – could Harrow make her scream?
Harrow was determined enough to make Gideon scream no matter what.
But she had her head against the Reverend Daughter's door, and her hand down her own pants for anyone to see her in the corridor, and when she heard Gideon exclaim a muted "Harrow!" it was all she needed to push herself over the edge into orgasm.
Immediately she was ashamed. What kind of cavalier wanted their necromancer like this? She sprang to her feet and wiped her hands on her pants - fuck, but she would smell like pussy until she got a chance to use the sonic. It could have been avoided had she not been so careless and brazen.
She wouldn't make this mistake again until she was safely in her cell. And if she thought of burying her hands in that red hair, wrenching Gideon's head back to expose that lovely throat more fiercely now that she knew the Reverend Daughter came calling her name?
Well, it would make for interesting prayers at the very least.