Insults used against Pyrrha (by Weiss)

Ginger

Artless

Can't fight without thy Semblance?

God should have aborted thee

I'm not the Fourth, and thou'rt certainly not the First

Drunk

Idiot

Dost thou thinkest thou'rt in some fairy tale?

Grow up

For someone who gussies up her girlfriend as a Second—

Which she isn't—

Thou knowest nothing of mutual respect

'Insults' used against Weiss (by Pyrrha)

Shut up

Fourth scum

Don't need a Semblance to beat you

What the hell is wrong with you

Oh, you're Fourth, aright

I'm not drunk

I'm not

My happily ever after is seeing you dead

You're the child here!

I do not—

I know she's not—

Shut up!

By a contest of insult effectiveness, Weiss felt quite confident. By a contest of much else…

She felt amazing.

Pyrrha had not been much of a drinker in her past, by Weiss' estimate, judging by how much of a falterer she'd become. Her footing faltered, her posture faltered, her train got caught on the edge of the table and she faltered, faltered, faltered. Better still, she was an angry falterer. She got angry at Weiss' words. She got angry when Weiss failed to take her hits. She got angry when she made a mistake. It was getting to her, making her sloppier by the second, and Weiss feasted on that weakness. Even if it went against her plan.

'Pyrrha Nikos!'

'Oh. The Fourth. Boldta showyer face to me.'

'I challenge you to—'

'Oh I absolutely accept.'

'A fair duel.'

That stipulation would've made anyone of sound mind think twice, but Pyrrha was not at all of sound or sober mind, so she rushed to accept the challenge of skill without the offset of Semblances. Why?

'For the boon of Ruby Florabel Branwen Rose.'

'No way.'

'Let the Fourth take the Second, as things were meant to be.'

'Never.'

'So thou wilt accept my challenge?'

Of course she would. Pyrrha Nikos was an easy thing to goad.

"I'm going to pluck all her pretty little feathers," Weiss promised, hot and hushed so only Pyrrha could hear it beneath the din of their combat. She parried a low thrust, raising both brows when Pyrrha made no retort. Something told her her suspicions were correct, so with less vicious energy and more of an obvious, disinterested tone, she said: "I'm going to sacrifice the Second like the evil Fourth I am."

Pyrrha, the dumb drunk cunt she was, tipped towards Weiss and made the year's most embarrassing overhead slash, which only would have hit Weiss with the staff if she didn't easily parry it. "You'll do no such thing!" she shouted, booming out as if she were the hero of her own story. "Not while the First lives in me!"

Weiss pursed her lips, feeling oddly disappointed. The mask was off, and the visage below was… stupid. Just a dumb First who thought her fanaticism was better because it wasn't Fourth— as if that would ever excuse how she'd treated Florabel. There was only one person who could mistreat Florabel, and it was Weiss. She would… treat her worse. As her nemesis. Obviously.

Weiss, noticing her opponent's hand position, let Pyrrha's next thrust send her sword rebounding, using that momentum to mull her wrist over as the crux followed through. Weiss ducked under the thrusting polearm, her sword rotating to rap Pyrrha's knuckles and make her Aura glow. The First Martial yanked the crux back in response, hoping to catch her opponent with the lateral tines, but Weiss could read her drunken posture from a mile away and dodged it. Weiss danced back across the narrow table and stood straight, sword down, confident.

She nudged her foot against something— a plate. She smiled.

"Even… if you hit me… a thousand times," Pyrrha gloated, panting despite being Pyrrha Nikos. "I've got more Aura… than everyone here… combined."

Weiss snorted. There was no way that was literally true, but she wouldn't be completely wrong in her intentions with that lie. Hitting Pyrrha would be like trying to flick a concrete wall into dust— someone could probably manage it with a good Semblance, but Weiss had none. "Dependest thou solely on thy god-given attributes?" She tutted. "For shame. I thought a First would care more for skill."

Pyrrha roared, charging across the table, her crux held forward like a lance.

Weiss lifted her right heel, dropping it on the plate it'd nudged earlier. She kicked the thing forward. It slid over the smooth surface. It landed under Pyrrha's foot.

Pyrrha Nikos, drunk, stupid, and severely lacking in grace, slipped as soon as the plate caught under one of her high heels. She tumbled forward, sent sprawling, her limbs splaying out like roadkill, her crux flying out of her hands. Weiss caught the polearm with her left foot and kicked it into her free right hand. God, she wished Florabel had seen that.

Weiss bowed deeply, holding her sword and stolen crux out to the sides as the crowd came to life— not with cheers, but with hushed whispers, mumbling, a few boos, and a lot of baffled noises.

"Thou wilt yield," Weiss told her, crux out wide as she leveled her sword with the drunken First Martial again.

Pyrrha stood slowly, not yielding. She wiped her mouth despite there being no blood. Mayhaps she simply desired the appearance of hardness. "Never," she growled, stomping towards Weiss. "Never to a Fourth."

Weiss widened her eyes. She drew her mouth tight. "Thou wilt. Art thou brainless as all ye Firsts? Hast thou no respect for honor? The contest is won; Florabel shall be mine. There is no victory for thee, thou'rt disarmed."

"Then I'll kill you with my bare hands."

Pyrrha looked mostly fine— a little frazzled, but otherwise undamaged— so the bloody murder Weiss could see in her eyes was purely metaphorical.

Doctor Oobleck (blessings upon his stupid, useless heart) raised his voice: "Miss Nikos, this is grounds to end—"

Port elbowed him into silence. In the back, Professor Zaiden leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands beneath chin.

Pyrrha kicked off her heels (finally), loping towards Weiss like an animal. Weiss made a swipe with the crux. The venerated First ripped the symbol of her martial faith away and threw it to the ground, stomping forward. Oobleck spoke up again, only to be unheeded and promptly re-silenced. Professor Zaiden kept one hand balled under their chin, though the other started drifting down to their pocket.

Weiss made a quick swipe for Pyrrha with her sword, only to find her blade tugged along on the backswing and flung right out of her hand. Her eyes darted to Oobleck and Port, whose brows shot high as the former's hand rose in tandem. He declared the match in Weiss' favor by default. Pyrrha didn't even hear him.

She lunged at Weiss like the feral dog she was, hands going straight for her throat, thumbs instantly pressing into the trachea and collapsing it in barely a moment. As the dull-sharp pain of her windpipe collapsing shot up her spine, Weiss took in her surroundings.

Most students simply stared, hesitating to save her, and that was fair. She could see Yang and Blake bursting her way, however, which put a genuine spark of camaraderie in Weiss' soul. The teachers were all lunging to their feet, shouting, drawing weapons or summoning Semblances. Her throat was already crushed in the Honored Martial's honorable grip, and they probably couldn't stop her if they tried. Not quickly enough to save Weiss, at least. It was, as Florabel had accidentally ingrained into her, 'whatever.'

Florabel, Florabel, Florabel…

Sure, she was a featherbrained twat. Sure, she had the giant beaky nose of her namesake. Sure, she had odd legs and inconvenient feathers. Sure, she was a godless heretic and had once been a foul Second.

But at least she wasn't some self-obsessed, text-worshiping, proselytizing loon like Pyrrha. Her feathers were useful— warm and insulating— and Weiss knew firsthand that she used her legs to their fullest degree. And maybe Weiss thought her unreasonably large nose was….no, not dashing… not handsome, either… it was… stupid? Stupid in a good way. Weiss liked seeing it on her face. It paired well with her huge, full-moon and liquid mercury eyes. It made her so expressive.

What was she trying to think about again? The lack of oxygen flowing to her brain was making it hard to process things…

Brain…

Oh, Florabel's stupid, feather-filled, dolt-brain. The useless pink lump between her little ears. She could remember that forest, with Florabel above her, her pose much the same as Pyrrha had now— only with actual opportunities for mercy, not this instant murder. Such an idiot girl… useless, bestial thing… she was so good at killing her, so much better, because even with that smooth, unwrinkled meat-tangle of bird-thoughts in her head…

"I am glad to be scorned by you, Fourth."

She still had the sense to pin Weiss' arms.

Weiss' hands shot up, her smirk finally breaking free as the heel of one palm struck Pyrrha straight in the face, thumb hooking into her bright red lips and pulling them aside, her Aura parting to the animaphage's devouring touch. Pyrrha made a scandalized look like the stupid harlot she was, gasping, which allowed Weiss to shove her whole other hand in the idiot's mouth.

She supped of Pyrrha Nikos like her soul was wine, drinking wet gulps of her Aura through every part that touched the porous interior. Pyrrha tried to bite down— she certainly broke Weiss' wrist beneath her teeth— but the colossal surge of energy had her bones reforming as soon as they were broken, and her crushed trachea popped back out beneath Pyrrha's thumbs with a solid, meaty thock.

Pyrrha's was a red-tasting soul. It went down hard and hot like a whitewater rush of spiced tea, ebbing over all Weiss' senses until she smelled cinnamon and burning metal. It washed across Weiss from her fingertips to her toes, then raced up her spine until it seeped warm over every follicle of her scalp. It was like a transfusion of magma. It was like eating the sun. It was like swallowing the golden heart of the First himself, and Weiss drank of her until someone came over to pull the stunned (possibly unconscious) Honored Martial off.

Someone declared the match for Weiss. Probably. She was busy marching back out the door, taking her sword on the way, and leaving the gawping peons behind. She sawed the blade along her own palm, but there was so much excess in her that her flesh threatened to reform around the blade. She chopped a deep gash into her arm instead, down to the bone— god it hurt— but it healed just as fast and left more to spare. She kept marching, her fingertips twitching, but she had nothing to do with it. Nothing to do with all this rotten, stinking, fetid soul inside her.

She wanted it out. She willed it to be out. She grit her teeth and bit down until the molars cracked and mended under the pressure. She tried remembering her family, their stupid Semblance— the annoying summons they'd lord over the cult as if they were summoning the Fourth himself— but her soul felt nothing. It wasn't there. She only had someone else's.

She wanted the taste of it gone. Even if she couldn't get it out, she needed the all-encompassing sense of it gone.

Slam.

Chrk.

"H-holy shit, princess, you scared—"

"Florabel."

"Why'd you lock the door? I'm good now— sober enough to kick someone's ass if—"

Weiss pushed her, forcing her back down onto the bottom bunk. She pinned her nemesis' head between her arms, holding herself up to glare down at the beast. She sneered. "I despise thee, Florabel."

Ruby's eyes widened, but she still smirked. Weiss hated that smirk. "There you go with that euphemism again."

Weiss scowled. "I will kill you."

Ruby purred, the harlot. "Promise?"

Weiss felt her own face redden, her lips pursing tight and making it hard to seethe, "Cease thine acting as if thou'st done this before."

"You first."

"I fought thy mate for the right to have thee," Weiss growled. "Art thou not incensed? I would treat thee as mine own thing to have and discard."

Annoyingly— incessantly— enragingly, Ruby's grin remained. She shrugged. "I figured you'd be at least a little weird, and it's not like you could ever really beat me. Did you kill her?"

"Of course not."

"Lame," Ruby commented.

"Thou wouldst condone murder?" Weiss challenged. "And on Academy grounds?"

"When you put it like that… not on Academy grounds, I guess."

Weiss stared at her. Ruby stared back.

"You, uh… you gonna kiss me or what?"

Weiss' intense frown remained. "I claim thee, Florabel. Beast. Heathen."

Ruby's grin softened. She smiled at Weiss like Weiss wasn't about to suck her soul out. "Heast," she joked. "Beathen."

"Die."

"Kill me then, pussy."

Weiss put their noses together. Through the contact, she could feel Ruby's soul sparking to her like a static charge meeting a metal surface. She felt herself buckle at the sensation— Ruby's Aura surged to her like it belonged, like it wanted to be eaten, and the familiarity was mutual. Maybe a few months ago, drinking the soul of the First Honored Martial would leave Weiss feeling like a god.

Now it just left her feeling like a wretch. She needed something else.

She put her hand on Ruby's mouth. Ruby's brow creased and she quickly yanked her partner's hand away, revealing a look of genuine offense. "No way, princess," she chided. "If we're doing this," she gestured between herself and Weiss. "Then we're doing it right."

Weiss' blood scalded the inside of her face. "B-but— but I've laid the claim on thee—"

Ruby snapped the fingers of her free hand like Weiss was a misbehaving pet. "Nuh-uh, talk normal. And if you want to 'lay a claim', then lay a claim."

Weiss recoiled, suddenly feeling very far outside her own league, only for Ruby to jolt halfway up and wrench her down by the collar. "R-Ru—"

"Do not fucking call me that!" Ruby hissed through her teeth, sending spittle into Weiss' face that had her wincing. "You know what I want, princess."

Weiss squirmed. "I— I don't—"

Ruby growled, forcing Weiss back with a hard push of her forearm against the girl's auraless chest, reversing their positions and pinning Weiss' captured wrist against the footboard. "Yeah, dipshit, me neither," Ruby said roughly, her forearm backing off Weiss' chest to push her whole hand down on it instead. Confident as she seemed, Weiss almost missed how much her hands were shaking. "But…"

The steely press of Ruby's hand slowly eased, lifting until her hand was fully off the frilly front of Weiss' maid dress. She even freed Weiss' wrist, her hands moving slow until they were close to—

Weiss winced, but Ruby didn't slap her. She didn't choke her. She didn't even hit her. She just cupped her face— her palms were calloused, her fingers long and rough— and when Weiss realized her eyes were closed, she opened them to find Ruby staring at her like she was something she couldn't quite comprehend.

"You really don't wear makeup," she said, almost to herself.

"N-nay— no."

Ruby sighed. "Shit, princess. You're pretty."

Weiss tried to turn away, but Ruby's hands kept her still. "S-silence. Of course I am."

Ruby bent down, smirking shakily now. She chuckled with obvious nerves. "Your face got super hot when I called you 'princess'."

"Thou'rt deluded."

Ruby playfully patted her cheek. "Speak normal, princess."

Weiss choked. "Shut up."

"But I won't be able to call you princess anymore if I do that."

Weiss tried to cover her face, ineffectually slapping her own hands over Ruby's. She tried to siphon the girl as little as possible, but she still felt her soul trickling in through her fingertips. The multisensory 'taste' of Ruby's spirit ran over Weiss like a palette cleanser— a floral scent, a smooth texture like licking stainless steel, but with a hard and biting tang like frozen green apples. It slid over the insides of Weiss' skin like cold mercury, but it liked to move through her in bubbles rather than a rush. It seeped out of Ruby's fingers and crossed into Weiss' skin, but would spontaneously appear elsewhere and burst, spreading its sweet, biting, cleansing feel out from Weiss' left elbow, her right hip and knee, the sole of her right foot, her throat, her parietal lobe, her navel.

It was so much— the siphon, the hands, the Ruby— it was all draining into Weiss' skull and under her skin, both of them already so full— it was too much— something would break and Ruby would think it was all her fault or she'd be scared. Weiss squirmed, making a pathetic little noise. Ruby's hands immediately fled her.

"Weiss? You okay?"

Weiss breathed hard, slowly opening her eyes. "A-Aye, just… I… I don't know."

Ruby straddled her, flushed, surprisingly not tipping or swaying after what felt like an entire soul's worth of Aura. "You look overwhelmed. I think."

Weiss shook her head indignantly. "N-no, I would never be overwhelmed by something so paltry as—"

Ruby put her hand over Weiss' mouth, her fingers covered in patchy white sleeve as a barrier against siphoning. "Hey, dumbass," she said gently, affectionately. "It's okay to be overwhelmed. Is it the siphon?"

Weiss looked away, her stomach rolling with guilt. "I— I am sorry, Florabel, I ruined—"

Ruby waved her hands frantically. "Woooooah, there, princess, chill. You're gonna quit because of one little hiccup? I thought you were better than that."

"O-of course I am!" Weiss whined. "I never quit."

That infernal grin pulled at Ruby's lips again. "Good. I thought not. Stay here."

Weiss asked questions that Ruby didn't answer until she came back, holding up hands that were covered in white dress gloves. She returned a little more sheepishly than she'd left, and nervously picked at the cloth-covered fingertips.

"We don't have to," she offered nervously. "But… I'd like to… y'know… take my time with you. Figure stuff out."

Weiss gulped, but slowly, she nodded. Her words would not find her before she went to sleep— somehow managing it before Florabel.

Yang and Blake never showed up to the dorm. For some reason.

a/n: my funky format stuff sucks on ff, sorry for anyone annoyed by this. ill probably be posting an alt chapter for this on ao3 for reasons that i hope are obvious