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The first time is simple. Augustine says something cruel and clever, and John says something else, and that night – the first of many such nights – Mercymorn stews in the kind of anger that would be righteous if it were not so pathetic. Mercymorn doesn’t teach her much; she’s poor, wretched Harry’s teacher, and not very good at it anyway. Ianthe does not care to soothe wounds, never has, except maybe Coronabeth’s, kind of. But then again, Coronabeth has always been easy to soothe. Call it sisterly devotion. Once in a lifetime kind of deal. Those days, pale and malnutritioned and all-encompassing as it were, are over.
But this is a new life now, and the Emperor has said they, too, are to be sisters and so sisters they shall be.
And anyway, when Mercymorn shows up at her door that night, she is not looking for any kind of soothing.
“Are you up?” she asks, peering into Ianthe’s room. Her brows are in a severe line. Her mouth is a pursed little thing. She radiates irritation.
Oh, well. Ianthe's up.
—
God pisses Mercy off frequently and imperfectly. It always drives her to Ianthe, and it’s the only time Ianthe entertains the thought of praying.
It’s not like they talk about it. Mercymorn is still his right-hand woman. Ianthe is just how she blows off steam.
It’s infuriating to be left out, but in the end she convinces herself it's not the greatest problem. She has other ways in.
—
It builds! The first time is not lovely, barely hot, but it is frantic and stinks of self-destruction and makes Ianthe tremble when Mercymorn traces a finger across the skin on her hip bone. Ianthe wants it, maybe even more than Mercymorn herself. Every time after that, she wants it even more.
Mercymorn makes it easy. She makes it fun as well, although Ianthe is doubtful if that part is on purpose. It’s all voluminous fabric that allow for easy access, blouses that are thrilling to unbutton, but only to a certain point until they become too much work, and then it’s their hot sweaty bodies pushed together as Ianthe tugs the fabric off. Ianthe does most of the fucking. She likes seeing Mercymorn come apart slowly and all dignified. It’s fine, it’s all fine, pleasurable and intriguing and sweet, even, sometimes, in that last second where she lets go with the softest of whimpers and slumps into the pillows or the shelves or whatever surface they’ve chosen that night. Sometimes it’s even that the sex is good.
But really, most of the time it’s because it’s a big ship and a largely boring existence and it’s weird suddenly to be one half of a pair. It gives Ianthe something to do .
—
Ianthe has her nose pressed against Mercy’s breast when she feels it, a strange, simple looking pendant that leaves an imprint on her cheek. It’s not a piece of jewelry she's ever seen her wear before.
The Saint of Joy scowls when she asks about it.
“Mind your own business,” Mercymorn says. She jerks back and unclasps the necklace in one fluid motion, like she's done this a million times. It falls next to her on the pillow and she tucks it furiously inside.
“You're such a frigid bitch,” Ianthe says, pleased.
“You’re an entitled child,” Mercymorn snaps, but it’s half-hearted. Her jaw is clenched.
Ianthe thinks they're done for the night surely, but if anything Mercy is more demanding. She wants more . Ianthe kisses her cool neck, sucks at her teat on her command, which is a first. Ianthe takes the soft pink nipple in her mouth, gentle in a way she doesn’t try to be, and it’s like this, with her face pressed against Mercy’s ample breast, sucking on flesh like she’s gasping for air, that she feels truly giddy for the first time in this whole arrangement. She’s pressed so close to Mercy like this, entwined , if she could be so blasphemous, that she doesn’t know where her shudder ends and where Mercy’s begins; Mercy’s clit grinds against Ianthe’s palm, sighing, eyes closing momentarily. Her hips buck. Ianthe slides down as Mercy’s chest rises up and down, her expression one of uncharacteristic patience.
She falls asleep between her legs.
—
It becomes a habit. Not secret, it’s not so important as for all that, but it happens only by night and is quiet still, all things considered.
One day it starts with a kiss. It's more teeth than tongue, but it's still— unlike Mercy , and as they clash together, Ianthe allows herself to smile into the Saint of Joy’s mouth. What a woman. The wrong name had slipped out the previous night and Mercymorn is trying to make up for it, even though Ianthe suspects it's less for her sake and more for her own.
Whatever. If Ianthe's jealous, it's only because she's been raised to hoard her possessions, not really any authentic flame of envy. She enjoys this unspoken repentance. It makes Mercymorn more frenetic.
Mercymorn has a hand on her face. She jerks her hips forward, moaning as Ianthe lays her cheek against the underside of her thigh for a brief second. Experimentally, Ianthe opens her mouth and pushes herself forward into the Saint of Joy’s wet cunt. Her tongue cherishes the moment of first contact; Mercymorn’s whole body shudders with pleasure, her eyes fluttering open briefly, and then she’s pulling Ianthe hard and fast into her, fingers tangled in her sallow hair. Her fingernails dig deep into her scalp. Her cunt clenches.
“Your turn,” Mercymorn says. Repentance.
Ianthe decides she enjoys the way Mercymorn apologizes. Her barely-there guilt, her brusque self-loathing.
“I like it better the way I do it.” It's true. Mercymorn doesn't fight her on it. Only kisses her again, and this time it's even a little sweet. Ianthe tugs her own pants down, and fucks herself as Mercymorn presses into her with renewed strength.
They pull apart with a gasp.
—
The damned arm prevents her from using her cavalier’s skill to its fullest, which is annoying on the best days and downright infuriating on the worst. The main hit is the fighting of course, curse Saint Augustine, bless Saint Augustine, who at times feels more useless than a sheaf of flimsy. A smaller hit, however, is the matter of the flesh.
The fingers are dextrous and the bones of her borrowed wrist click satisfyingly as she reaches deep inside herself. It works fine, perfectly fine, most of the time. It works for Mercymorn, evidently, who moans every time Ianthe enters her. And yet. And yet .
The hand inspires a putrid rage in her.
Harry, deranged little creature that she is, causes a scene so stupidly unhinged that it has God send them into their room. Ianthe tucks her into bed like an obliging little nursemaid, and then sits on her floor and stabs and prods and disassembles her arm piece by piece.
It’s almost a relief when Little Miss Come Unscrewed drops down next to her. She grows her a bone arm from scratch and it’s a mess of blood and tendon and bone until–
“But I’ve got some feeling in it.” It’s a wonder of nerves. A wonder of sensation . Harrow blabbers something, but all words fade into the background as she tests her sword fighting skills and believes that this can all work.
The Saint of Duty’s murder is a small return gift to promise, in the grand scheme of it all.
Augustine is quippy and irritating about it (“I’ll gild it, it’s hideous”) but he’s clearly happy about the level-up, the very paragon of a tortured master being forced to teach fledglings who just didn’t seem to have it . Demo lasts for twenty-five minutes, but it’ll do, it’ll do.
She’s in her room that night, new fingers exploring her slick folds, sheet wet under her, propped against a mound of pillows when Mercymorn whisks in.
She’s had a bad day. Ianthe doesn’t move her new arm, but she lifts her eyes to meet the Saint of Joy’s.
“I have a new arm,” she says, “I want to test it.”
“ Fuck your new arm.” Ianthe would like nothing more. Mercymorn’s anger is righteous and pathetic as always. Ianthe would like nothing else than to draw the truth out of her of what went down with John, but she already knows it won’t work. They are not and will never be in cahoots with each other when it comes to these matters. The lines are very clear.
Mercymorn is nothing like Coronabeth. But then again, no one was ever like Coronabeth even a little, except maybe Ianthe herself. No one is like Coronabeth, she corrects. On this she does not allow herself to budge.
She inspires the same heady feeling in Ianthe though. Not rage exactly, but something close to that totality of emotion. Something that ruffles Ianthe’s feathers and allows a smirk to grow on her face in the same second. It’s a tussle . It’s like play-fighting with a kitten – you only did it for its own stupid sake. The way Mercymorn looks at the Emperor, hate and reverence and fear and anger all twisted together, inspires a rush of it in Ianthe.
For the first time since they've started doing this, Ianthe feels generous. She can allow her this.
“Come here,” Ianthe says. There are no voluminous fabrics tonight, no blouses to rip. Mercymorn is resplendent in rage and pants.
“It’s hideous,” she says of her arm.
“It’s perfect.” Ianthe sits up. She spreads her legs. Clear invitation. “Come here,” she says again.
“I’m going to pull up my pants,” Ianthe says, “so you can start right from the top. I expect you to do a good job.”
Mercymorn doesn’t move.
“I can’t wait forever now.” Ianthe closes her eyes and lays back down. Mercymorn’s hands are cool as she unbuttons the top of her leather pants ( so impractical! ) but they are steady. Cool too as she eases Ianthe back into the pillows. Her own pants are dropped to the floor. She climbs onto the bed and kneels between her legs. Ianthe knows immediately that it’s going to be the best fuck she’s ever had.
“I never had a big sister, you know,” Ianthe says. “First time.”
She enjoys the way Mercymorn’s razor focus is set askew by potent frustration. She actually growls , darling thing. “You should shut up and let me work.”
She alights a hand on Ianthe’s collarbone, just for a moment, and then bends down almost reverently to place her forehead to Ianthe’s cunt. It’s a strangely intimate gesture, brief as it is, her soft hair tickling Ianthe before tipping backward slightly so her nose is against her clit.
“I feel like I’m getting ripped off here,” Ianthe says, just to be a dick.
Mercymorn’s gaze is quelling. “Patience.”
Her tongue enters Ianthe with a surprising gentleness. It’s good, it’s so good, it feels so good —Ianthe feels remade, her whole body, not just her glorious new arm, whose fingers creep to her own chest. Ianthe presses harder into her. Mercymorn eats Ianthe out with the kind of concentration more befitting memorization of battle strategy. She goes at it like it’s a job, which is not a flattering thought, but fills Ianthe with a sort of fondness anyway. Ianthe is half-lost to it when Mercymorn extricates herself. She holds Ianthe’s gaze for a moment and then takes hold of her new osseous fingers. She traces the palm of flesh.
Despite herself, she’s impressed, Ianthe can tell.
“Let me do it for you,” she says simply. One bone finger is inserted inside her, then another, and when Ianthe is in the peak of her pleasure she slips one of her own fleshy fingers inside. The sensation is strange but not unwanted. Her other hand trails down Ianthe’s chest.
Ianthe knows what fearsome and wonderful things those hands are capable of. Her adeptness at pulling apart bone and flesh, at methodical destruction. John had said there was no part of the human body worth knowing that Mercymorn did not have intimate knowledge of, and Ianthe wants quite suddenly to put that claim to the test. Teach me , she wants to beg. She wants Mercymorn to know her guts, her clit, the inside of her chest. She wants to come apart in her hands. Proof of the wound.
Mercymorn grips the back of her neck. When she bends down to kiss Ianthe, it is hard and rough and desperate, but quick. She draws back. Her eyes are gentler than her actions.
“I missed this,” Mercymorn says, all of a sudden. She’s not panting, she’s not broken a sweat, her voice is still marble. The only evidence of her disarray is her apricot colored hair, strands of it falling out of her tight bun. She already knows they are never going to talk about this again. Doesn’t matter. That’s perfect with Ianthe.
She pulls on her discarded pants and zips up. Her hand is slick. Ianthe yearns to cup them in her mouth, to suck on those nimble fingers, which have opened her up so magnificently. Ianthe feels heat in her throat, in her pussy, in her cheeks.
Mercy raises her thumb to her lip. Leaves a tiny crescent-shaped imprint on the delicate flesh. Her eyes are alight with a thin sort of joy.