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Cytherea likes letting her fingers dance on Gideon’s throat as the girl breathes again, near living again, the little thing from the Ninth naked and watched them after braving the trial Mercymorn had made so long ago. There's something to be said about its nastiness, but all Cytherea could think about was Gideon.
The skin there needs an adornment, she decides, and Cytherea daydreams of a collar. This girl - this poor thing, this ticking time bomb with John’s blood somehow mixed in it; she thinks of Mercymorn and Augustine slinking through the corners of the Mithraeum, thinks of their whispers and an interestingly worded invite Cytherea had no interest in - deserves something soft. Velvet, perhaps, in a deep green. Nice, subtle against Gideon’s skin tone, which would really pop off once she got more sunlight. Perhaps one of the colonies, the ones with lots of sunlight, should be their home, once she escapes and John is dead under her heel.
Her mouth says words, but Cytherea doesn’t hear it, thinking of Gideon’s skin, the way her muscles are so strong despite the obvious scarcity of the Ninth - she can tell; it reminds her, in a way, of Pyrrha. She’d look so lovely in something formfitting, something to make her feel naked, even while clothed. Something delicious; Cytherea hates roses, but their thorny vines would accessorize perfectly against Gideon’s biceps, a crown for her head biting into the skin and crying rivulets of blood. Oh, how lovely she’ll look, her decorative cavalier, more pet than actual function.
Gideon leans into the touch of her, and Cytherea preens. Poor thing, kept starved of love and affection. That’s okay, really; it just means the skin there is softer for Cytherea to dig her claws in and claim her.
Harrowhark squints at her, as if she can somehow read her mind (it wouldn’t surprise her if Anastasia made such modifications to her lineage, really), and Cytherea offers a smile she hopes is peaceful - but she knows that it is anything but it.