Weightless

“One flesh—one end,” Harrowhark stammered.

Gideon tilted Harrow’s face up and kissed her quivering mouth. Harrow let out a short, choked whine.

A tiny sliver of Gideon’s brain noted that kissing was not at all how she’d imagined it; it felt like mouthing wet sandpaper, or wrestling a worm with her tongue, or something equally gross and badass. Mostly, she reveled in Harrowhark. Harrow tasted like salt; Harrow returned the kiss with an awkward and unpracticed lust to rival Gideon’s own; Harrow kept letting out these weird breathless moans, absurd as they were arousing; Gideon was making out with Harrowhark Nonagesimus, and one percent of her brain screamed in abject horror while the rest just laughed.

The whole time (a minute? a year?), Gideon kept Harrow’s chin tucked in her hand. When she finally pulled back, the unmasked face of the Reverend Daughter leaned forward: eyes closed, mouth ajar. That sent a shiver down Gideon’s core.

Gideon grabbed either side of Harrow’s head and pulled her, somewhat roughly, into the next kiss. Harrow melted, limp in Gideon’s grasp. Likewise as Gideon slid one hand downward. Neck, shoulder, waist, thigh: wherever she touched, the tension bled from Harrow’s body. Water mediated everything: Harrow’s clothes billowed beneath the waterline and, above, clung to her spindly form. Eventually Gideon started necking her. This proved a lot more fun, as she got to put her mouth on Harrow—messily—without the awkward need to coordinate tongues. Harrow seemed to like it, too; the moaning renewed in earnest.

Even as Gideon longed to explore every inch of Harrowhark, she held back—there would be a next, an after this, but she’d prefer not to shed her virginity sopping wet and encircled by skeletons—although she did touch Harrow’s butt for like ten seconds.

Slowly, piece by piece, Harrow went limp, until she was nothing more than dead weight in Gideon’s arms. Gideon withdrew her lips from Harrow’s collarbone. Gently, she lowered her into the pool. Nonagesimus floated, face-up, eyes closed, arms outstretched and legs open, uncharacteristically relaxed.

“You’re beautiful,” Gideon said, because it was true.

Harrow’s eyes flitted open a few seconds later. “How,” she breathed dreamily, staring at Gideon.

“Yes,” was Gideon’s very intelligent reply.

They regarded each other a while longer; then, on a whim, Gideon brushed some of Harrow’s sopping wet hair out of her eyes. Harrow’s face twisted in pain and joy. Gideon kissed her.