Work Text:
"I want to bite you," Cytherea says.
Gideon blinks. Her mouth feels suddenly as dry as sand, the half drunk glass of wine almost slipping from her fingers. The only thing she can muster in response is an unintelligent, "Uhhh," noise, heat immediately rising in her cheeks.
"Only if you're alright with it, of course," Cytherea murmurs. She steps closer, pulling the glass of wine from Gideon's shaking fingers and setting it carefully on the little coffee table next to her. Cytherea takes one step closer and—holy shit—her knee slides forward, slotting neatly between Gideon’s own. "Have you been drunk from before?"
"Um," Gideon swallows. "Ha—my friend… she only drinks synthetic. I've offered," she feels a quick stab of shame at the admission, "but she, uh, doesn't want to. So I've never done it." The last bit comes out in a rush, SoI'veneverdoneit. She feels embarrassed, for some reason. Like she's been caught out. Like she should be better, or more experienced, or at least not tripping over all her words. Not in front of someone like Cytherea. In front of someone like Lady Cytherea Lovaday —“Oh, call me Cytherea, no need for such formalities”— a name as old as it is well known.
She’s been alive for—shit. Centuries, probably. Since the beginning, if you believed the rumors. Next to Harrow, who thus far has been Gideon’s only real reference point for weird little blood-drinkers—she’s fucking ancient.
Gideon can’t deny that’s part of the appeal.
And Cytherea is not weird. Not like Harrow, with her bedroom full of bones and her eyes flat and dead as a corpse—Cytherea is like, barely a vampire. She goes out in the daytime with her broad brimmed hat and lacy parasol, her blue eyes are like clear ponds in summertime, and Gideon’s been in her house twice now and she hasn’t even seen one bone.
This is all going through her head at once, but at the same time Cytherea’s knee is like, fully touching her thigh, and even through multiple layers of fabric it’s pretty much enough to erase any and all coherent thought from her brain. Gideon tries to scramble her dignity back, pushing herself up to sit up straighter. Tries to wrestle herself into an affect that might be in the same universe as casual. She suddenly regrets already having drunk one and a half glasses of wine. She coughs. “I’d be open though. To trying.”
"Hmm," Cytherea muses. Her eyes are bright, even in the dim of the room they shine like twin blue flames. She's so close Gideon can smell her perfume—it’s something floral, maybe. Roses. A part of Gideon wants to reach out to her, tangle her hands in Cytherea’s lacy skirts and press her lips to the back of her delicate hand. A deeper part of Gideon wants to press her hips forward, to grind her already aching clit into Cytherea’s thigh which is so close —but another, stronger and nobler, part of her knows that would probably be more than a little rude, and the last thing she wants is to act like some dumb bitch in heat and have Cytherea kick her out. And it's that part of her that keeps her hands pinned to her sides. "Well. That's alright. There isn't much for you to learn. And I'm very good." She smiles, and something in her face is hungry. Gideon can see the edges of her long, sharp fangs flash between her lips.
Cytherea leans forward and Gideon is suddenly very thankful to be sitting down—if she was standing her legs would probably buckle, and also, she's pretty much eye level with Cytherea's tits. Clothed as they are with layers of seafoam lace and shimmering silk, she can’t really see much, but still. It’s about proximity. Cytherea’s knee pushes forward; Gideon can barely breathe as she lets her thighs fall away from each other. She feels away from herself, almost as if in a dream as Cytherea's knee just grazes the fabric right between Gideon’s legs.
Gideon can’t stop her hips from twitching. Her eyes dart up, almost ashamed, almost terrified that this isn’t what Cytherea wants, but there’s a soft smile playing at her lips. And she hasn’t moved her leg.
Gideon is about to open her mouth to apologize, or maybe say something otherwise foolish, when Cytherea reaches out, lifting one slim hand to slide a finger under Gideon's chin. She lifts, and Gideon moves with her, allowing her head to tip up and back. She's sure Cytherea can feel how fast her heart is beating. Is sure Cytherea can hear the shakiness in her breath. Is suddenly self conscious about the heat pooling between her legs, wonders maybe if vampire super-sense extends to being able to feel through fabric. Gideon wishes she could squeeze her thighs together. Wishes she could shift even one inch, but she’s pretty sure any sort of friction at this point would set her off. And fuck. Cytherea had barely touched her.
"Is that a yes?”
"Yes," Gideon breathes. She can’t get the word out fast enough. Her eyes strain a bit, crossing as trying to look at Cytherea with her neck craned back, before Gideon settles for looking at the ceiling instead. Then, because she’s feeling just a touch braver and maybe hoping that Cytherea will take pity on her: "Please." Gideon feels her whole face flush, her heartbeat spiking impossibly higher as Cytherea digs her nail deeper into the soft skin under her chin.
"Good girl," Cytherea says, and Gideon can hear the smile in it. Her finger has left Gideon’s chin, and is now trailing down her neck, the point of her nail no doubt leaving a long, curving scratch. Gideon wishes she had a mirror. Fuck, she wishes she had a camera. She wishes she had a renaissance oil painter who could capture this moment in all its glory.
Then Cytherea lets her go, stepping back and away, and Gideon feels like a puppet that's had all its strings cut as she collapses back onto the couch. She almost immediately squeezes her thighs together, her hips shifting under her. She hopes it isn’t too obvious.
"Now, Gideon," Cytherea says, and Gideon's heart swells to hear her name from Cytherea's lips. "I have a couple rules—just a few. They're for your safety as well as mine. As I said before, I'm very good, and you don't have anything to worry about. But these can just help both of us enjoy each other, is that alright?"
"Please!" Gideon yelps, her voice trailing off into a cough as she realizes how desperate she sounds.
“Good,” Cytherea murmurs. “Rule one: I don't like hearing my dinner talk.” Gideon's mouth snaps shut as she nods so fast her chin hits her chest.
Cytherea laughs. "Oh, you are a smart girl. Such a fast learner." She reaches out to cradle Gideon's jaw in her hand, one thumb brushing over her closed lips. Her other hand comes to tangle in Gideon’s hair, combing back to scratch lightly just behind her year. “I do love your voice, don’t get me wrong—but I can’t be distracted when I’m feeding. It’s important for both of us. I appreciate your understanding.”
Gideon lets her eyes close, biting off an embarrassingly high pitched wine just before it escapes her lips. She nods again, slower this time, feeling the slight tug of Cytherea’s fingers in her hair.
"Aren’t you precious…” Cytherea hums, and Gideon lets herself bask in the praise. “Rule two: don't tell anyone about what we do together. It's about privacy. If your friend is one of us, well. You'll know. Feeding is private. It's sensitive. I'm letting you into a very… vulnerable part of my life, and I need to trust you'll honor that, for both of us. Is that alright?"
Gideon swallows, feeling the way her throat bobs against Cytherea's hand. She nods. Then to affirm it, she opens her eyes and lifts hands into what she hopes looks like a very enthusiastic thumbs up. Cytherea rewards her with another smile, this time with her fangs fully on display. Gideon feels transfixed by them, long and sharp and gleaming white. She wants those in her neck. Fuck, she would take those in her cunt, if only Cytherea was willing—but shit. That’s probably, what. Fouth date? And Gideon is only on her second, if you’re generous and count being invited inside for tea to be a date, and not like, something any kind and normal person would do if their delivery driver forgot to pack any water and passed out in their yard on the hottest day of the year.
"Rule three: once I've bit down, it's very important for you to do exactly what I say. If you don't, either of us could get injured. If something happens and you're unable to follow my directions, I will have to correct you in the moment. I need you to know ahead of time that this might hurt. It might be difficult to bear. If you ever want to stop, just tell me—it’s a hard thing to do, and by agreeing, by offering yourself, you are doing something very noble. But you're strong, Gideon. Right?"
Gideon nods again. Impulsively, she lets her jaw go slack, her lips parting. Cytherea's eyes brighten as her thumb slides between Gideon's lips, and then her teeth. Gideon feels as if she’s died and gone to heaven. Feeling brave, and more than a little bolstered by Cytherea’s affections thus far, Gideon sucks, hollowing her cheeks and taking as much of Cytherea’s thumb as she can.
"Good girl." Cytherea smiles, letting her suck for a few more seconds before gently pulling her thumb out of Gideon’s mouth and giving her another pat on the head. She pauses for a bit, as if considering, before she presses the half empty glass of wine into Gideon’s hands. “Finish this. It’s very important for you to be hydrated. I’ll go get you something more.”
Gideon nods, tipping the glass back and swallowing the rest in one gulp. It tastes rancid—Gideon has always been of the opinion that all wine has the same taste, and that taste is ass, but it’s not like she’s going to tell Cytherea that.
“Do you have uh. Water?” Gideon calls out. She looks around, setting the glass back on the coffee table. Cytherea had given her water before, some kind of fruit flavor mix that tasted like springtime. Real fancy lady water. She bets Cytherea has like, a whole fridge of just fancy lady water, the kind that comes in a box. “That’s probably better for hydration… so…”
Cytherea hurries back, the rest of the wine bottle held between her slim fingers. She smiles, the flash of fangs catching Gideon’s eye again. “Sorry. I didn’t hear you—what did you say?”
“No worries,” Gideon replies. Wine is technically a liquid, so probably isn’t like, that dehydrating? So it’s probably fine, even though she’d rather be getting drunk on literally anything else. The only thing she actually cares about at this moment is that Cytherea has undone a button on her shirt, and Gideon can see the soft swell of her breasts peeking out from behind the lace.
Cytherea pours the rest of the wine bottle into the glass, then presses it into Gideon’s hand. Gideon’s fingers fumble as she grips it tightly—it’s full to the brim, and it wouldn’t do at all to end up spilling this shit over a couch that undoubtedly cost more than like, three months of rent.
"Oh! Oh dear. Let me help you.” Cytherea’s voice cuts though, and there is just enough of an edge to make Gideon’s cheeks flush hot with shame as she allows the glass to be taken from her.
"Head back, dear,"
Gideon tips her head back obediently as Cytherea presses the rim to Gideon's lips.
She drinks in big, greedy gulps, the bitter taste rancid on her tongue. She drinks without thought, and when Cytherea finally pulls back and lets Gideon fall back against the couch, she's dizzy. Her throat and cheeks feel hot, the heat spreading all the way across and down her chest. By the time she’s wrangled her mind enough to come back to her surroundings, Cytherea and the bottle are gone.
She blinks again, and Cytherea is back. She's in front of Gideon, so close that Gideon can see the detail on each and every flourish of her lacy dress. "Legs on the couch, dear."
Gideon shifts, obediently folding her socked feet up onto the couch and rotating so her back is braced against the armrest. She almost falls off of it, pitching forward in her haste, and it's only Cytherea's arms that prevent her from falling. She's strong, stronger than Gideon would ever guess just from looking at her, and her skin feels ice cold against Gideon's own.
"Sorry," Gideon mumbles as Cytherea eases her back up, lying a thick white towel underneath her before pressing her back down.
Gideon can barely breathe. Her chest feels heavy. The room is spinning, but more than the alcohol Gideon is unbalanced by the sheer closeness of Cytherea. She’s practically sitting on Gideon's lap, her weight pressing down onto Gideon like an anchor. Her nails trail up and down Gideon's neck, her scalp, scratching lightly. Gideon whines, her hips canting upwards, moving before she can stop them.
“Sorry,” Gideon gasps, again, the word slurring slightly on her lips. “I—if you don’t—I know this is just for drinking, and I don’t—if you’re uncomfortable—” her words trip over each other as Cytherea presses a gentle kiss into her forehead.
“It’s fine, Gideon,” She murmurs. She tucks a lock of hair behind Gideon’s ear. “You’re beautiful. Handsome. Has anyone ever told you that before?”
Gideon squeezes her eyes shut before shaking her head. It’s stupid—it really is, because she's hot shit, but she’s never actually gotten closer than first base with anyone, and even that was just one time, and both of them regretted it afterwards. Being raised as the only normal person in a cult of weirdos, even before the main weirdo awakened as a vampire—well. It stunts your emotional development. Gideon is doing her best, and she usually doesn’t even feel bad about her lack of game. Cytherea makes her feel vulnerable though. Open and exposed.
“That’s quite alright, don't feel bad, I’m just glad I was able to be the first person to tell you that.” Cytherea’s voice is soft, and Gideon wants to be consumed by it. "Are you ready?"
Gideon opens her mouth to respond, then remembers the rules, and nods instead. Ready means they’re starting, means she wants to be good. She wants to show how much she remembers. Gideon feels a dopey smile crawl across her face; she doesn't have quite enough brainspace to stop it so she just hopes it looks cute instead of desperate. Cytherea grin widens. Her fangs are sharper than anything Gideon has ever seen, and her eyes are beautiful. Gideon feels her heartbeat grow impossibly faster.
"First, I want to kiss you."
Gideon nods, eager, shifting a little as Cytherea leans in. This close, the floral scent of her perfume gives way to something deeper. Her breath smells like old blood, metal and musk and dirt. At first, the kiss is almost chaste. Just Cytherea’s lips pressing into Gideon’s own. Gideon opens her mouth, hopeful, and Cytherea rewards her with her tongue. Gideon feels half-gone already—it takes all her willpower not to shove her own hand down her trousers. She settles for shifting her weight back and forth, trying to find friction, feeling the last dregs of her shame be consumed by Cytherea’s mouth.
"Oh, baby," Cytherea soothes, as soon as she comes up for air. Her hand travels lightly down to play with the hem of Gideon's shirt, her fingers just brushing the waistband of Gideon’s trousers. "You're so needy. I wasn't going to do this—this is your first time, and I—but you seem to want it so badly."
Her fingers dip under Gideon's waistband for just a second, before emerging.
"Tell me this is fine."
Gideon nods, and in a surge of bravery she reaches forward to guide Cytherea's hand into her boxers. It's wet in there, slick and hot, and Cytherea's skin feels icy cold.
"Oh," Cytherea says, her mouth forming the perfect O. "You are excited, aren't you? Hand at your sides. Don't touch me." Her last words come out sharp and sting worse than a slap. Gideon pulls her hand away so fast she could get whiplash, squeezing both hands into fists. She isn’t sure if she should apologize. The words are on her lips, but the rules said not to talk, and she doesn’t know what Cytherea wants. The unknown is terrifying. Gideon just wants to be good.
Cytherea's hand is still in her boxers.
Gideon opens her mouth maybe a quick apology is alright? And what was she supposed to do with her hands?—When Cytherea's finger finds her clit and Gideon quickly forgets about anything at all. She tastes blood as her teeth come down hard on the inside of her cheek, barely cutting off a guttural whine.
Something flashes in Cytherea's eyes as the taste of copper fills Gideon's mouth. Before she knows what is happening Cytherea leans in again, her lips pressed to Gideon's own, her tongue working Gideon's lips open. Gideon really does whine then, a plaintive, begging sound. There's so much she wants to say. Needs to say. Things like Please, and More, and Sorry, and What am I supposed to do with my hands?
Thankfully, Cytherea understands. Her eyes soften, and with the hand that's not currently caressing the slick surface of Gideon's labia she pins one of Gideon's arms at her side.
"Leave that there," she says, low and hungry. "Be good for me." Then the hand in Gideon's boxers moves, Cytherea twisting her wrist to pinch the soft flesh of Gideon's inner thigh, hard enough to make her jump. "And be quiet."
Gideon only knows what happens next in flashes. Cytherea's fingers work on her, tracing over her mound and scratching at her labia. It's not enough, but Gideon knows better than to ask for more. Cytherea is giving her what she deserves. She can't stop her hips from bucking, though, and every time they jerk upward Cytherea giggles, her mouth curving into a smile against Gideon's own as her hand lifts, taking the pressure away.
By the time Cytherea does bite her, Gideon barely feels it. Her mind is foggy, her body far away. Her arms and legs feel heavy, like they had tired to stones and thrown into a deep, dark pond. If Gideon had any sense left, she would feel fear. She would feel terror, maybe, at her total inability to move and the cold seeping into her limbs as the heat of her drains from the side of her neck.
But she doesn’t have any mind left to feel fear. Not with Cytherea’s lips on her neck, Cytherea's teeth on her, in her; Cytherea's long, delicate fingers finally (finally) dipping in and out of Gideon's cunt.
Her hand moves slowly, too slowly for Gideon to get any friction, and she hears herself whimper as Cytherea leans back, her tongue flicking lazily along the column of Gideon's throat. Her breath hitches as Cytherea bites her again, her skin splitting neatly around those sharp fangs. This time, Gideon cannot hold back the soft cry of pain that escapes her lips. At the sound, Cytherea’s hand comes down hard against Gideon’s clit, flicking the bundle of nerves with one sharp fingernail.
Gideon clamps her mouth shut obediently, her own teeth pinning her bottom lip between them. She tastes blood.
"Good girl," Cytherea murmurs into the meat of her neck, before coming up to lick the blood out of her mouth. She pulls Gideon’s bottom lip between her teeth and sucks, the pain sharp and hot and blinding. "So good for me. So strong. So sweet." Her thumb is circling Gideon's clit, coming so close before darting away. It's maddening. Gideon shoves her hips upward, chasing Cytherea's hand, but she pulls it away. Gideon's clit pulses, her cunt feeling so empty. She jerks, tries to communicate without moving her arms, without letting a sound pass her lips, how close she is. Tries to push into Cytherea, beg with everything she has left.
"Eager, aren't you?" Cytherea soothes, in between licks. Gideon feels her blood flowing freely now. Her head is spinning, and not just from the wine. "Not yet, poor baby."
And then Cytherea is kissing down her neck again, alternating between little nips and sucking bruising marks down the line of Gideon;’s throat, all while her hand keep moving, working, unceasing in its teasing ministrations. Gideon's chest heaves—it's such a mix of pleasure-pain, the heat between her legs combined with the coldness she is starting to feel in her fingers and toes.
Gideon hears Cytherea ask her—something—but her voice somehow seems far away. Like she's speaking to her from above water. Gideon almost moans aloud as Cytherea slides three fingers in and finally rests her thumb on Gideon's clit. It feels so good—beyond good. It feels like consumption, like being consumed. Like being held over a roaring flame before being kicked bodily into the inferno.
"Such a marvel," Cytherea says, almost growls, as Gideon comes undone underneath her hand, her warm blood still leaking out of her neck. She comes apart silently, shaking, trembling, the taste of her own bitten lip filling her mouth. "Incredible. So good—your friend doesn't know what she was missing. Imagine, turning down this feast for synthetic —well. You're mine now, oh, oh Gideon," Cytherea's hand is still working at her, thumbing her clit, working her through her orgasm and not giving her a rest until she's already cresting again.
Gideon comes again with an exhalation, her mouth open and working, no more sound than a sigh passing her lips.
Everything feels light. Distant, as Cytherea gentle slides her hand out of Gideon's boxers. She's leaning back, looking at Gideon with an expression she can't describe. The softness in her is gone, and what’s left is a cold void clustered around two searing blue chips of ice. Something twists in Gideon’s stomach, the tiny worm of doubt working it’s way to the surface.
"Good girl," Cytherea is saying, hands stroking down Gideon’s face. "Now, don’t scream." Gideon has just one moment to think hey, what? Before Cytherea leans in, and bites again.
Gideon feels confused, at first. She almost thought it would be over, after she came—it sure felt like some kind of ending, and she can’t have that much blood left. And she realizes Cytherea never told her what to do, exactly, if she wanted Cytherea to stop. And she doesn’t want to break any rules, but it hurts, and she’s starting to feel kind of nauseated. The teeth in her neck don’t feel good anymore.
Cytherea twists, her teeth still stuck in Gideon’s neck, and then Gideon does feel fear. She feels it in a swirling, terrified mix, she feels it in the emptiness of her body, the fluttering of her arteries, the darkness closing in on her vision. Gideon realizes that it's not that she's choosing not to move, anymore—it’s that she can't move. Her arms are pinned to her sides by fatigue or blood loss or drinking a whole fucking bottle of wine, and everything feels so cold.
Gideon does the only thing she knows how to do: she panics. She forgets the rules, she forgets the sweet touch of Cytherea’s praise and she opens her mouth and lets loose a ragged gasp of pain. It doesn’t sound like anything in particular, but Gideon thinks she might have been trying to say Stop. Her body twitches, spasming as much as she can, trying to pull the terrifying deadweight of her limbs back under her control.
Then Cytherea's hand is pressing over her mouth, her nose. Gideon can't breathe her throat works, lungs spasming without air.
A memory rushes back to her. Gideon, nineteen and lovedrunk, stupid with the thrill of it, her lips pressed against the meat of Harrow’s neck. What had she said? Back then? “Hey. If you wanted, I’d let you drink. Just sayin’”. And then Harrow had shoved her away, yelling—something—before running off. What had Harrow said? Something about danger. Something about how Gideon was stupid to even ask. Something about how synthetic was a fucking godsend, and anyone saying otherwise was a traditionalist who didn’t give a damn about things like safety and responsibility. Gideon hadn’t listened. Gideon hadn’t wanted to listen. Gideon had waited by her phone for weeks after that, like some kind of pathetic and abandoned puppy dog, and Harrow had only texted her once, one month later, because she had finally been evicted from her apartment and needed a place to stay.
Gideon’s hands scramble against the body above her, but Cytherea is strong—too strong. Just as strong as she should be, a little voice says in Gideon’s head. She’s a fucking vampire, idiot. What were you expecting? Her neck hurts so bad. The hand over her mouth lifts, but it feels like her lungs don’t want to work anymore.
Her vision swims one last time, and everything goes dark.
Gideon wakes to a pounding headache. It feels like her whole body is being pinned down with great force, and she jerks instinctively, fear rocketing her immediately to full consciousness. She sits up, only to immediately pitch to the side as the world spins. She dry heaves, hacking up nothing as her stomach ties itself into knots. Her head hurts. Her mouth hurts. Her neck hurts. Her neck. Her hand flies up, her fingers coming into contact with a soft, gauzy material. She remembers the blood, but when she pulls her hand away it comes back clean. Cytherea. Cold fear shoots through her body as her eyes dart around the room. She sees a gilded dresser, cream colored wood interwoven with shards of abalone. She sees bright, seafoam curtains, the last trace of sunset still leaking through the fabric. And then—
The rustling of cloth next to her causes Gideon to realize she isn't alone. She feels frozen from fear but slowly, she manages to rotate her head towards the sound, only to see… Cytherea. The Lady Loveday stares at her with a face that speaks only of concern. Her blue eyes are clear and soft, the edge of her mouth pulled into an expression of concern. She’s wearing a different blouse. White, this time, with delicate little buttons.
"Gideon! Oh, so good you're awake." Cytherea’s voice is like ringing bells, her face breaking out into a smile that hides her fangs.
Gideon hears herself mumble something, falling back against the pillows as Cytherea holds out glass. It's filled with bright, orange liquid that Gideons stares at for a few confused moments before she realizes that it’s juice. There’s a short, bright paper straw sitting in the cup. Mechanically, Gideon leans forward, folding her lips around the straw. She takes a tentative sip—but it’s just juice. Before she knows it she's shaking. Her body still feels so far away from her.
"Gideon?" Cytherea's voice cuts through Gideon's fog. Her hand comes up to card through Gideon’s still sweat-damp hair. She tries to drink, the sweet flavor spreading over her tongue, almost enough to wash out the lingering taste of her own blood. It’s—it’s fine. She’s fine, but for some reason, she can’t stop shaking. Shame burns in her cheeks as she realizes that, even worse—she’s crying. Big, fat teardrops are collecting at the corners of her eyes and dripping down her cheeks, and there’s nothing Gideon can do to stop it.
The cup is pulled away and set down on the bedside table with a clink. Cytherea’s hands are on her face, gentle, light, wiping her tears away. "Gideon, are you alright? Oh, I'm sorry. I know waking up after can hurt—didn't quite warn you, oh I'm sorry."
"S'fine," Gideon grits out. Her eyes twitch, she longs to bring her hands up to scrub at her face—she wants—she doesn’t know what she wants—she wants to stop being so fucking weak in front of a pretty lady she wanted to impress, she wants to be at home, she wants Harrow —"I d—don't know. I don't know why—" Gideon gasps, clapping her hand over her mouth as her words dissolve into a sob.
"It was a lot, Gideon, oh, I know."
"I think I was s—sca—scared," Gideon forces out, humiliation settling in her stomach like hot coals.
“Oh. Oh Gideon,” Cytherea murmurs “I didn’t know you were that scared. You were taking it so good, being so strong. I couldn’t tell, I’m so sorry. If you get scared you have to tell me, oh baby.”
N–no,” Gideon blubbers. She thinks she remembers telling Cytherea to stop. She thinks she remembers trying, but everything hurt so bad and she doesn’t really remember, and she wants to go home. “No it. It’s fine. Sorry. I wasn’t that scared. I was just. It was my first time. I got—I got overwhelmed.”
“Gideon. If you want to stop, all you have to do is tell me. I think you may have gotten a little confused this time. It’s alright. It happens. It’s okay.” Cytherea looks at her, and in her face Gideon sees none of the sharp, hungry predator she had glimpsed last night, none of the terror of teeth and fangs that haunted her nightmare. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe she did get confused—it’s not Cytherea’s fault she’s a weak little bitch. Gideon hiccups, the feeling sharp and blooming in her chest.
Cytherea opens her arms and Gideon crawls into them, and lets herself be held.
Three more glasses of juice and half a box of cookies later, Gideon stumbles out of Cytherea's house. She checks her phone. It’s too late for a bus, and Cytherea didn't offer to drive—Gideon isn’t sure she can, despite the sleek silver car sitting in the driveway. She’s never seen Cytherea drive, but then again, she’s never seen her do anything outside her house. It probably doesn’t mean anything, though—ladies of that status always have drivers, and Cytherea’s probably isn’t free this time of night.
Gideon wanders a block, and then sits down on a curb, the streetlight above her flickering. Then she pulls out her phone and pulls up the only number she can think to call. It picks up on the fifth ring.
Silence.
Gideon clears her throat. "Night boss! Hey! Thought you'd be awake. I uh. I need a… ride?"
A pause. Still silence.
“I know it’s late but I—I’ll owe you, okay? Like seriously. I’ll do your dishes for a whole month, I swear.”
"Griddle…" the voice on the other end of the phone sounds tired. "Like I told you. I'm not going to be your post-hookup carriage home. If you're going to be irresponsible you have to deal with the consequences." A shuffle.
"Wait!" Gideon feels breathless. Despite the juice boxes, she still feels kind of dizzy. "Two months! I’ll do your dishes for two months please, I was…” here Gideon pauses. She chews her lip, feeling the newly formed scab break open under her teeth. She considers not saying it. Consider hanging up and walking the five miles home, or maybe curling up on the sidewalk and falling asleep, or maybe just disintegrating into dust on the side of the road. “I was with one of you. I, uh, you know. I got sucked." Gideon laughs a little, wincing at the pain still burning in her neck.
Silence on the line. Then: "Give me your location. Now. Don't move, don't hang up."
Gideon fumbles with her phone to tap through the settings and send Harrow her location pin. Her fingers don’t really want to work, but it really is fucking cold outside, and she just got drained to probably the brink of death so she deserves a little slack. Afterwards, she just holds the phone in her hands. Harrow keeps throwing questions at her, like "How much?" and "Are you okay?" and “Don’t hang up, I’ll be there soon,” but Gideon just mumbles responses. She’ll tell Harrow in the morning, or even better, never.
She doesn’t really wanna get reamed for being irresponsible. No thanks. And besides… Cytherea was nice. She even said she was sorry for going a little bit too far, so it’s fine. And Gideon is fine, she just needs a ride, and a fucking nap, and a few of those energy drinks Harrow keeps in her back closet, and maybe even the hottest, longest shower known to man.
“Getting off the highway. I’ll be there in two minutes.” Harrow’s voice sounds thin and far away through the speakers.
Gideon only grunts in response. Her phone buzzes.
Unknown number:
Thanks for dinner tonight. You were lovely, and I’d love to see you again. Let me know xo
Gideon pauses, her thumb hovering over the delete button. She knows if she was smart, if she was smart and not a horrible fool, she would delete the number and never see Cytherea again. But Cytherea was nice. Mostly nice. And—and maybe Gideon wasn’t remembering it right. Maybe she had just imagined asking Cytherea to stop. And everything before then had felt so good. She signs. She’ll deal with this shit in the morning.
Harrow is saying something, but Gideon is suddenly too tired to care. In the distance, she can see the glow of headlights, dim and cracked and held together with all the duct tape the defunct Nonagesimus estate could scrounge together. She turns off her phone, and waits.