btwn us and the weeds we make one entire incineroar

[crittersheep]

WHO: ROSE
WHERE: ROSE
WHEN: POST-WRESTLING / ARSON MATCH

shiny new barn post ☆

Comments

[wants_the_phd]

cw: violence, sexual assault

The specimen room looks a lot like a library, except instead of books, the racks are floor-to-ceiling cabinets filled with drawers, where bits of natural history of all kinds are filed away for research purposes. There are clusters of tables here and there where people can work, and it’s here where Azdaja sits with books, tools, and a pile of bones spread out in front of her.

As an apprentice, most of her duties are important but thoroughly tedious jobs. Lately she has been processing a whole lot of skeletons. These specimens here are fresh from the dermestid tank, and she just finished arranging them into the shape of the creature it came from -- which appears to be some kind of four-winged bird with a long, bony tail. Now she will label each and every tiny bone, take their measurements, record everything on a tablet, and then put the bones away in the appropriate cabinet. It’s slow, meticulous work.

An Azdaja lookalike peeks into the room. She doesn’t have a name (neither of them do, at this point in their lives) but our Azdaja thinks of her as Wasp Lips, because of that one time she got stung on the face and her lips were swollen like sausages for days.

“Yo. I need the calipers,” she says.

“I’m using them,” says Azdaja, barely looking up.

“I don’t care. These ones are rusty and I can’t deal with it any more. Give me yours.”

“Fuck off.”

Wasp strides confidently into the room and reaches for the calipers, then abruptly yanks her hand back again as Azdaja slaps at the table, claws already out, guarding her calipers like a food-aggressive dog. Azdaja’s staring directly into Wasp’s eyes. Slender horns peek through her hair, and a thin black tail is now trailing out the back of her chair.

“I said, fuck off. I have a lot of work to do and I’m not getting behind because of you.”

“Well, you’re going to have to figure something out, because I’m taking these,” says Wasp, starting to walk around to Azdaja’s side of the table. “And you can either give them to me nicely, or I’m going to ruin your day.”

Azdaja rises from her chair as Wasp approaches, bristling, still maintaining eye contact. “Big words as always, you cun—”

Wasp snags Azdaja by the horn and slams her face-first into the table with astonishing speed and force, sending bones clattering across the floor. Azdaja twists herself sideways to wrench her horn free of Wasp’s grip, blood from her nose splattering across the table, and slashes at Wasp’s face with her claws, aiming for her eyes. Wasp catches her by the wrist, bangs it down to the table hard enough to yank Azdaja off balance, grabs a knife from the tray of implements, and stabs it down straight through her palm and into the wood behind it.

She screams, trying to jerk her hand back, but the knife’s lodged in the table, and all she gets for her effort is the feeling of the blade rubbing against her bones and tendons. Her scream is cut short by hands tight against her throat as Wasp throws her whole body weight onto her windpipe, cracking her head back against the table hard enough to make her teeth rattle.

She thrashes, trying to push Wasp off with her one free hand. Laying back over the table like this, with Wasp’s entire weight holding her down, Azdaja’s feet can’t get purchase on the linoleum floor. She swipes her claws at Wasp’s face but she dodges it neatly, then chomps hard on Azdaja’s forearm.

Azdaja’s eyes go wide, pupils dilating like saucers as she struggles. Her sleeve has protected her from the worst of the venom, but she has no defense against the hands around her throat. She jerks and writhes, unable to free either of her hands, unable to kick Wasp off with her in between her legs like this.

Seconds tick by like hours as she succumbs to the lack of air and blood flow. Her eyes unfocus. Her limbs grow heavy. Her vision starts going dark, and all sounds fade to a distant, steady hiss.

Wasp spits her arm out and it thuds onto the table. She seems satisfied with this, gives Azdaja one final, punishing squeeze, then lets go. Azdaja doesn’t react, even to draw breath. Her consciousness is already teetering on the edge of the void and her body is flirting with the idea of following when Wasp slaps her so hard her head snaps to the side, blood spattering across the table.

It’s enough. Azdaja coughs, sucking down deep, rasping breaths. She tries to roll over, but her limbs won’t work properly. She squirms on the table, feeble and helpless, as Wasp starts undoing her pants, and then roughly tears down Azdaja’s.

“Stop... Stop it...”

Azdaja’s voice is soft and hoarse, and her one free arm is weak as she tries to push Wasp back by her face, even as Wasp mounts her. Wasp is staring, rapt and hungry, into her eyes as she does it, reveling in her struggles as Azdaja’s claws slide harmlessly off her cheek, lacking the strength to even break skin. The squirming and gasping as it happens just seems to encourage Wasp, who takes her pleasure viciously at Azdaja's expense, until she eventually leans forward and sinks her teeth into her neck as deep as they’ll go.

This time the venom takes hold completely, and Azdaja’s body goes slack even as Wasp’s efforts get rougher. Eventually she finishes with great, shivering satisfaction. She surveys her work, licks the blood from her fingers, helps herself to the calipers, and casually leaves the room. Azdaja, meanwhile, is still on the table, half undressed, cheeks painted red from her own bloody nose, and a knife through her upturned palm.

It’s hard to tell how much time passes. She’s vaguely aware of other people passing through the room, hears the occasional giggle or tch of disgust. All she knows is that by the time she can move her body again, she hurts absolutely everywhere. Her head is spinning. Bones and tools are strewn all over the floor.

She groggily unpins her hand from the table, to tired to muster more than a hiss of pain..She stumbles to the nearest sink, over in the nearby maceration room, to to wash her face and gingerly check her nose for breaks. She blots the blood from both sides of her hand.

That’ll have to do for now. She has so much work to do, and now she’s running behind. So she goes back to her work table, gathers up the scattered bones, and starts again.