Disclaimer:
The following story contains adult material. Fate/Grand Order and its related concepts and ideas are the intellectual properties of Kinoko Nasu, Type-MOON, Notes Ltd., Aniplex, DelightWorks, and other respective rights holders. This story is written solely for the purpose of entertainment, and not for any sort of monetary profit. If anything, consider this free advertising.

Corrupted Holy Maiden's Holy Night of Corrupted Holies

One day, in the holiday season, the White Maid of Orleans, Jeanne d'Arc, approaches you as you, done with your training for the day, leave the holo-field. "Master, may I make a peculiar request of you?"

You reply "Of course, Jeanne. What's the problem?" Asked with her usual strait-lace, but with such a palpable weight on her shoulders, you can't bring yourself to do anything but raptly hear her out.

"It's my sister." She says, and because of you feel incredibly pressured right from the start. "Put simply, she's very…bothered right now.

"I've tried to speak to her, to help her through it, but she won't listen to me. She rejects me outright. Even more harshly than she has done in the past." The Ruler's shoulders slump, and she clenches a fist in quiet solidarity in front of her heart, which surely hurts very much right now.

Sometimes 'family' isn't enough, you reply. Sometimes it's because someone is 'family' with someone else that they can so easily disregard the other.

Jeanne nods in agreement. "She's having a hard time right now, and the only way for her to heal is to let go. To let go and accept. But, there's so much anger. So much resentment. She has to make the choice herself. And she slams the door in my face, again and again. There's only so much that I alone can do, Master.

"…So, if you would, help her. Please." Her eyes, azure as God's own blue skies, are heavy with relinquish, and trust that she would put in you.

On some days even a saint needs a helping hand. You do not think too long and hard on your answer. You know that this is the right thing to do. You likewise nod, answer commit to the decision to talk to her. You crack your knuckles, knowing there's a tough job ahead.

"Grace be with you." Jeanne bows. "In the meantime, I shall pray for your success and safety," and as your feet clop against the immaculately white linoleum floor she does just that and clasps her hands together.

Well. Pressure's on now.

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- ] | [ -

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As the number of Chaldeas' allies grew with each passing Order, so too did the very halls of the establishment proportionally expand. While the original facilities had been by no means meager, spacious enough to accommodate the organization's multitude of members, and distinguished by the Enlightenment-sensibilities of minimalist utilitarian architecture favored by the magi who had designed the compound, it was because of the repeated, accumulated summonings of empire-builders, kingdom-administrators, and those with creative visions and the means to act upon those designs that the mountain enclave spread outwards and upwards in rapid renovation. In that harsh, cold environment, it grew stubbornly, persistently, in spite of it all. Like a cancer persistent in spite of the treatment that the King of Magic would so apply, a shining beacon in the dark, the final bastion of humanity's future grew, hoping against hope. Many a Servant's ability of Territory Creation was put to use, and niche after niche was added to Chaldea. Quality of life additions, personal touches that were absent in the original design plans.

In short, Chaldeas has recently gotten itself a proper open bar. One that the Black Maid of Orleans, Jeanne d'Arc, is moodily abusing with seemingly no end in sight. Rows of bottles are within her grasp. Vintage liquor, strong spirits. Enough of which can placate even a one as post-human as a Servant. She throws her head back, noisily gulps down a glass of firewater, pours herself another one and repeats the process. You heard this Jeanne long before you had ever seen her. Any bottle that is emptied is thrown like a glass missile and smashed against the walls adjacent to her. "GILLES! YOU WOOOORM! ANOTHERRR!" with a slur as much as a snarl she hollers at the bartender.

"At once, LA PUCELLEEEEE!" The wide-eyed Caster screeches in affirmative ecstasy. Since, incidentally, Gilles de Rais was on shift as the bartender, and he would never think to disobey her, there is no chance her wellspring of alcohol will run dry anytime soon. Strangely cutting in the vest, shirt, and tie of the uniform, he grabs a fresh bottle of brandy from the back shelf behind him, and despite his madness expertly slides the vessel all the way from where he stands to her position. She grabs it with the same lethal, precise speed a snake would use to snatch a leaping frog in midair, and with the bottle in hand and a whiny growl on her lips begins to refill her cup anew.

Her intensity can be felt across the room. It wafts over the tables and chairs as strongly as the smoky stench of burnt flesh caught on wind blowing over a battlefield, or a sacrificial yard.

Yup, she is in a truly bad mood. You knew that it was going to be tough, but if you knew that it was going to be this tough this early on a part of you wishes you could have denied her request and let it sort itself out in time. But, she put her faith in you. And that's all that matters.

Opening the door causes a bell to ring, audible even over the smooth jazz Christmas muzak, the signal that a new guest has arrived. Additionally, the sound of your footsteps on the bar-restaurant's hardwood flooring, which sounds quite different from when you walk over Chaldeas' usual halls, further marks your arrival into this dangerous territory. There is no sneaking into here, nor is there a chance for undetected escape. There's no other where to go but deeper into the room, with the Caster and the Avenger. With a smile that closes his bugged-out eyes and stretches his thin, rubbery lips from ear to ear, Gilles de Rais does what is expected of good customer service and warmly welcomes you to the eatery/watering hole. "MASTER! Welcome, WELCOME! May I interest you in one of our COOL specials?!" He shakes and vocalizes dynamically at your arrival, a picture of boundless excitement.

Perhaps a little too warmly. But it's Gilles. It's the thought that counts, and he surely put all of his twisted, tormented thoughts into his zest for this current job of his. You tell him no, not yet, and proceed to sit at the bar, a stools-worth of space away from Jeanne, the Dragon Witch, and the current source of Jeanne, the Holy Maiden's troubles.

Unlike Gilles, she hasn't yet given your presence any regards. She only fusses with her glass in hand, and the drink swirls gently.

The air around her positively reeks, alcohol and smoke, like a tavern destroyed in a siege. How much has she had? Lord only knows how many broken bottles can answer that. Asking what's wrong, say that this isn't like her, try to break the ice with Jeanne d'Arc's 'younger sister,' Jeanne d'Arc…Alter.

"HAAAH? I'm me, dammit, you idiot of a Master." Jeanne Alter looks from the corner of her eye to you. "'m no one else but me, 'n dun you dare everrr fuhget it."

True. Of the two Jeannes, this one is far more indulgent. That in of itself isn't that strange. Drinking like this, though…

"Dun care. If you argue that I-I'll roast you on a stake fer, fer stupidity, you boor."

Just as well. No one would want to argue the literal meaning of that, and that's not even why you're here in the first place. So you attack the topic again. "Anyone who drinks all by themselves has a problem. What's yours? "

"Y-You really 'r a cretin! Can't figure 't out yerself b'now…"

"If I knew, then I wouldn't ask."

"Seriously?! Have you not seen your new Servant?!" Jeanne Alter angrily barks. Her bar breath is even stronger when you're right in the line of fire, making eye contact with her. The look Jeanne Alter gives you cues you for an answer you've yet to give.

After a moment of quiet reflection you answer "…what's wrong with Ishtar?"

"Not her! NOT HER! That festive THING with the annoyingly coffeehouse-order name!"

Jeanne. d'arc. Alter. Santa. Lily.

Oh. Her. The Santa Claus for this year. What a time that had been. Still, as far as answers went that answer was meaningless. "What's wrong? You should be happy you have a little sister to pick on."

"I don't want her as a little sister! I don't want her, period!" Jeanne Alter whines like an upset jackal, leans back on the stool enough that it's on two back legs of four and tips the glass of brandy into her mouth. She swallows it in one gulp, yet somehow messily enough to spill brown, sweet spirits dribbling down her chin, spilling through the cleavage between her breasts to soak into silky black material of her dress. The stain grows like an open chest wound, resembles a stigmata right over her heart, acting as a sink for every single shred of negativity in her body. "GILLES! BORDEAUUUUX! NOW!" She roars.

"Yes, yes! LA PUCELLEEEEEEE!" He takes the bottle and slides it right into her waiting grasp. She holds her hand in front of the numerous other bottles. The other in front of Jeanne Alter, surely half the liquor cabinet, gently rattle from the light impact of the Bordeaux being claimed. If she hadn't caught it, all of those bottles would have gone the way of a tenpin strike, glass and alcohol every which way.

It's up to you how much this intimidates you, but you don't let it show on your face. You look to the Avenger until you're positive she can feel your gaze on her, and when she locks eyes with you you hold the eye contact with her until you cue her to continue her story.

She pours herself a goblet-full of Bordeaux as she goes on. "Lookit her!" Jeanne Alter says, even though the Christmassy variant in question is nowhere in sight. "That outfit. That nubile, slight frame. That gimmick. 'Ooh, 'm a Santa, 'll give you things you want. Make th' childr'n happy dis Noël, me included?' Ye, she's a stockin' stuffer, alright. Smol'nuff to get stuffed into a stockin', but what about her smol stockin' itself getting' stuff't, huh?"

"Her… small stocking?"

"—Jeanne d'Arc Alter Santa Lily, she's jus'za walkin' fetish ob'jeck, an' that reflec's on me 'cuz now 'm jus' reduced to a fetish obj'jeck…"

"You're an Alter, too, you know."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're an Alter. You're already, erm, of sorts, a fetish object."

Jeanne Alter looks positively crushed. The mopey disgruntledness has fled, and all that remains in its place is pure shock.

"N-NOOOoooo?" Her hand shakes sporadically, and red wine sloshes over the edge. "The-That's not, n-not, n-n-not—"

"Your very existence is a perversion of hopes and dreams, done so for selfish reasons," you say. "It is what it is, so let's just accept it for what is."

"IT'S TRUE, A THOUSAND APOLOGIES, JEAAAAAAANNNNE!" Gille de Rais crooned from the far end of the bar, not looking or sounding the least bit sorry with a face full of crocodile tears.

"'M justa, justa plaything, y'say? Izzat all there is? I see. I see. I see." Jeanne Alter takes a hefty swig of the Bordeaux—what remains of it that hasn't sloshed onto the counter, that is—as she contemplates her existence.

Did you…did you do it right?

"…I see. I see. I forgot m'place. All those times? Times I, helped y'all out…noble, but misguided, distracted…"

Uh.

"Justa plaything. A toy. Fer dark, v-vindictive pleasure." Jeanne Alter cradles herself, and it pushes her breasts up beneath her forearms, presses them up against the flimsy material of her dress.

UH.

"Jeanne? It's fine, you—"

"Yer right. It is—fine. This time, mine especially, it's all borrowed. So even a toy…can play with itself. Even a fetish can have its own pleasure, right?"

Jeanne Alter laughs. Jeanne Alter cries. A young woman faced with the truth, and the only means to respond to it. It's the sort of laughter only meant for herself, for her sake alone, and you only happened to be privy to it because you were there at the right time. Unable to say anything, unable to do anything else in response, you indulge in the laughter and tears of a woman for as long as you are able. It is your responsibility to do so.

It only lasts for a minute. Once she collects herself, Jeanne Alter says to you "Master. Drink up. The world's about to end. The King of Magic awaits us all."

"But I'm a minor."

"Sixteen."

"Eh?"

"In my country, the drinking age is sixteen. B-But everyone drinks way before that, so it's fine!"

"We're not in France."

Jeanne Alter materializes her flag and explosively stakes it into the bar counter. The pole sinks a solid meter with her own force and strength alone. With the sound of metal scraping on wood she twists her wrist this way and that, sending the pole deeper and deeper, with the same sort of savagery as if she were torturously digging it into the flesh of a victim. She throws her head back and lets out a deeply sensual sigh in what must be satisfaction, and unhands the firmly-buried flagpole. "I claim. This land. In the name of Orleans! Under the rule of the Dragon Witch!

Her face flushed from all the drink, Jeanne Alter holds the goblet to you. "So—drink, Master."

There's nothing else to do. You tentatively take it. Even in her drunken state she notices. "Dun be shy. Why? You afraid uffa lil' indirect kiss w' Jeanne d'Arc? 'S jus' backwash, Master. Take it, take it. If m'what ye say m'am, then enjoy yerself w'me—" She then calls out "GILLES!" in a rough, high voice that cracks.

"YES?!" the bartender asks.

"BRUT! AT ONCE!"

"OOOH WHEEE! CAN DO, LA PUCELLE!"

Oh, the things you'll do to keep your promise with Jeanne d'Arc, the white one.

.

- ] | [ -

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With no other choice, you drink with Jeanne d'Arc, the black one. You drink with her. Nowhere near her inhuman levels of imbibing, of course, but you still drink enough to get a heady buzz going in your brain.

"Giiiilles!"

"Y E S! Y E S! Y E S!?" He's mixing a strawberry margarita as she calls for him.

"Thas'nuff, y'hear? Y're relieved'a duty! I'll-I'll close th' place m'self, now!"

"Are you sure, my dear Jeanne?! Is this enough?! Can you handle that in your present—"

" 'Said m' fine! Go, go, havfun elsewhere, you! YER DITHMITHED!" she slurs very shamelessly.

"V-very well. 'Til the next time you've need of my services, then." Looking ever so slightly dejected, Gilles de Rais leaves the bar to retire to somewhere else.

When he reaches the door, Jeanne Alter calls to him again. "GILLES! A t-tip!" She throws something that bounces off of the ceiling, skips along the wooden floor, and rolls to his feet. Gilles bends down to pick it up. He holds a shining golden statuette of a cloaked magus armed with staff.

"A C-Caster m-MONUM-MENT?! BLESS YOU, SAINT JEANNE! BLESS HER, ALL!" He graciously accepts her reward, nearly clicks his heels together from the excitement, and readily make his way away, clinging to his prize with a deathgrip empowered by faithfulness.

"Merry Christmas, Gilles." Jeanne Alter says to herself. "And good r-riddance." She stands from the bar, wobbles slightly. You stand up to help her walk, but she pushes you aside, rejects your help. You let her go, and she jankily reaches the door. She bolts the doors locked, pulls the blinds down, and turns back around to return to the bar. The whole time you think she's going to fall flat on her face. You wouldn't be mistaken for thinking so. She's downed so much, and she's wearing dark, thin heels of the highest order. It's reasonable to think that there's an accident awaiting her in the future. But, that accident doesn't happen on the way to and from the entrance. She makes it back here in one piece, gives you a heady look, and grabs a bottle of bourbon.

"Come," she says. This time you do closely follow her, for in the next couple of steps she stumbles. But, you're there to catch her, like she wanted you to. "Yer gud fer a few things, 'rntcha, Master?"

"What's the meaning of this, Jeanne?" You ask her. She leans into you, takes a swig straight from the bottle.

"Walk meh. T' that priv't booth." Having that drink, she gestures—with bottle in hand—to a room with hanging curtains tied up at the sides, a table with a large candlestick and a semicircular couch clearly visible through the doorway. The bottle dangling at her side, Jeanne Alter clings closely to your arm with her free hand, a gesture that would have been almost childlike if it weren't for how her breasts pressed against your bicep so.

At her request you lead her into the room, the warm glow of the empty restaurant is distant now, compared to this 'grotto.' With the black saint on your arm, this place feels strangely sanctified, serene and dark, vaguely Genesis-like. Late as it is, to the extent that that means anything in timeless Chaldeas, it would be an easy thing to fall asleep right here in this room, right on those seats around the table. The two of you sit down, and she sets the bourbon on the table.

"Will this do, Jeanne?"

"…No…" Swaying back and forth slightly, steadily in her seat besides you, Jeanne Alter replies. "Dis…dis ithn't enuff yet…"

She leans into you. All the way into you. Her lips latch onto yours, and with a hungry moan she takes your lower lip between her teeth, claiming it. She holds your head in between her gloved hands, keeping you in place.

"Jeanne, I—"

"I'm. A fetish. Use. MEH." Jeanne Alter breathes every single word out. Hard. Every single syllable sends one of her smokey alcohol breaths right into your nose. Your world is enveloped in a haze of booze and fire. It echoes of a wish that asks for joy and violence in equal measure. Makes your mouth water for fine dessert; FLAMBE. She deliberately presses her soft, full chest against yours. Her nipples, stiff, alert visible through the fabric of her dress' top can be felt even through YOUR clothes. "Du eht. Dun seh noh, Master." Every word of hers, every single hungry mumble she makes as she eyes you up makes her wiggle more and more of her sinfully soft body into you.

"I won't. I'll say yes. Yes."

Jeanne Alter tries to lance your tongue with hers. Your tongue already feels sore, trying to put up with her, and she still forces more and more on you. It feels like she'll lick you raw, eat you bit by bit. You fight back in one of the ways that presents itself to you. You wedge your hand between you and Jeanne Alter and squeeze one of her breasts.

"M' breasts! Yer always lookin' at them, Master. I know. Dun' lie." Your touch makes her start and stop all over again, sending her hot breath across your face and driving your senses wild. "Y' look at hers too, doncha. But mine're bett'r." the young woman follows your move with her own, and reaches her hand down your pants, straight past the waists of both your trousers and drawers, and touches you directly. Her silky fingers, still wrapped up in those midnight-pitch gloves, are soft and tantalizing and set you ablaze with each stroke. "Y touch yerself, thinking about them, 'bout yer sexy lil' Avenger keeping you warm at night, huh, Master?!"

"Yes. YES." You squeeze harder, roll it around. Put your second hand to good use. She has two breasts, after all. Surely that's why God put them there on Earth like that. Intelligent design enough to make you believe. As for your chosen patron saint? The choice for worship right now is obvious. Her nipples are like dulled daggers in your palms, the pressure from gripping her French Alps drawing faint lines that get lost amongst your other palm lines.

"H-How w-would you like 't, Master, 'f I strok'd yeh off ri' here inna pants, huh? H-How m-much would 't bothuh yeh?" Jeanne Alter presses her forehead against yours; the tip of her nose presses into yours; her eyelashes, they press against yours – she gets too close, but it's never close enough for either of you.

Meeting her forehead in kind, you share her breath as if it was yours. "I wouldn't care." You manage, and it's from the bottom of your heart, colored with your lust as it runs wild, whitewater-rafting on the alcohol you've had.

"Yeh dun care? Then go down, down." She urges you. "Treat meh. Like y'd treat that fantasy—" Jeanne moves your head down, pushes you in the right direction. After that, you're on auto-erotic autopilot. Her dress' top is in the way. You move her cups to the side. Expose more of that chalky, pale, perfect skin to your hungry eyes. Your hungry tongue. Jeanne Alter's full, naked breasts are yours for the taking. You nip one of her diamond-hard nipples, stiff mounds that crown her soft mountains, and caress the tip with the edge of your tongue. You suckle at her, worship her, massage that which your mouth must leave behind. Still you run your tongue further down, leaving her breast almost radiant with spit, a trail of wet spit that needles between her breasts and slides down her abdomen, over her dress—a dress which still is stained from her many spilled drinks. You taste dried alcohol, and would dare to suck her leftover brandy from her clothes for an eternity, were it not for your mission at hand. Amid her own natural scent, and the bottles she nearly drowned herself in, you can SMELL HER. You're drunk off of her, but your own desire has bolstered you, and you can SMELL HER even amidst all else. So you head down, drawing your tongue down the prime meridian of her body, tasting her all the way from top to bottom, and how you so long for what the bottom promises.

You come to where Jeanne Alter's legs meet. This is it. You don't hesitate. You move her skirt aside, and she's bare down there, right before you.

"No panties?"

"Wh-Who do y-you think I ehm?" Jeanne Alter gives a husky slur, batting her golden eyes right at you, coyly stroking her hair as she awaits your next actions. "Th' white one? P-Protip: sheh d'doesn' wear 'em, either."

"You're amazing." Your spread her with your fingers, relishing the puffy, sticky feeling of her wet lips, and put your tongue to work once more. Tasting her outside, licking at the juices from the inside, before they can escape. Tasting her savory sweetness. Jeanne Alter holds your head in place, groans a sultry groan of utter approval.

Then, the flood comes. Straight from within.

Servants have no need for food. What they consume of that sort is either digested into a piddling source of energy or passed through directly. And she has filled herself to the brim. Letting out a hefty sigh, Jeanne Alter pisses a veritable Grail's-worth of straight cocktail of warm alcohol right into your mouth. It doesn't taste good at all, you tell yourself. All sorts of different flavors profiles and bodies, tannins and bitters and tartness clash together, wines and champagnes and scotch, brandy, absinthe, and more, all making war on your tongue and burning your mouth alive. But it gets you WASTED in moments. The smell alone threatens to knock you out.

"You…you're amazing…" You whisper out when the shower passes, feeling light-headed, yet somehow ready for more.

"Who…d'y think, I ehm…?"

Your pants are tight, oppressive. You need to breathe. You need release. You peel them down, and freedom gives you goose bumps all up and down.

"Took y' long enough, Master. If you wait 'ny longuh you'll get whiskey dick."

"Not. A. Problem." You almost fall onto her, but that's good enough. You rearrange yourself and take her slickened slit oh-so easily. She raises her legs, and you fold them at the knees, lean into them and into her, again and again. She can't resist, and lets out a cry of girlish delight.

"Jeanne-!"

"Call me 'Alter!' " she gasps out in a moment of drunken clarity. "Hit me over the head that I'm someone else's derivative fantasy! U-Use meh, Masterrr! E-Even though i-it's my first t-time, use mehhhh!"

"Alter!" You reply, feeling the nickname roll off your tongue, liking the feel of it. "Alter!"

Alter rocks her body with yours, a cacophonous rhythm as she holds onto you, arms wrapped around your neck, like she's hanging on for dear life. As you pull in and out of her, tasting her body with every stroke, she clenches at you in kind. A tight hug from the inside, begging you, enticing you to stay longer and longer. A promise of mutual pleasure at the cost of all else.

You treat each other well. You can feel the edge looming on the horizon. Your breathing and hers is ragged, blots all other sound. The music is white noise, unheard and unnoticed in the background, not even a distraction. You only finally hear it again after you moan with release, after she lets out a raspy, rolling whine in response. Christmas music plays, and you looks at each other with heavy, lidded eyes, and see how messy the other looks, hair all ajar and sweat beading on your foreheads.

You say, with harsh breath. "Alter…"

"Mas-ter…?" she replies, her breathing like yours.

"Wanna, wanna d' that again?"

"'M still awake. So yes."

You move again. Feel your seed roll around in her, swish around with each of your pumps. Alter's just as good as before. No, better.

"Masterrr…" she beckons. "S-Sit down, you fool, and let me—" She leans into you, attacks your tongue with hers once more, and wiggles in your arms until you concede and sit down on the booth's couch. Alter climbs on top of you, crouches over your lap, and drunkenly rides your body, just like that. Her big breasts move in hypnotic, captivating kind. She falls into a pleasured trance, her head leaning back, rolling with her movements, hair bouncing and flowing, each up and down moving her according to the flow of your bodies. "Mas-terrr, how is it? Izzat good?"

Of course it's good. She knows this. She just wants to hear you say it. You know this, so you tell her how it makes you feel. Alter lets out a devilish chuckle, grips you tightly and reaches behind her for the bourbon. She imbibes straight from it, guzzling it down, pulls it from her lips and, with another giggle, lets the drink splash onto her breasts, trickle down her body—all the way to the point where the two of you are connected. Her small patch of pale, thin hair soaks up what it can and turns a golden blonde color, darker than but reminiscent of her other self's naturally wheaten locks.

"Alter!" You wince out. The bourbon burns, makes you work her faster, just as she wanted. You work her good, and Alter lets you know just how good. She cries out again, clenches hard, pushes you out from the sheer force and lets it rain, a brief flash flood meant for you alone that caught some of the couch in the crossfire.

"Hah? H-How wuzzat, Master?" she says, short of breath but still raring to go. Alter doesn't skip a beat, and she takes you in her grasp, her gloves dirty from your collective juices and more, and replaces you back inside. You ride in her, like it never happened, seeking nothing else but to share more lust with her.

Alter's moves are incessant. Needful. So are yours. The two of you respond to each other, and before either of you know it the fat load you loosed within her is joined with another.

"Masterrrr, wh-what a good feeling…I think, I think I love it inside."

Next, Alter stands up and pulls off and away, leaking your essence and hers in equal measure. She trembles slightly, shaking steadily from side to side like a tree in the breeze. It's all catching up to her now. But, it's still not enough. Even still she craves your touch, desires to be fetishized even further, nothing but gratification until she collapses. "I-I can handle it, one more time. Some come, Master…"

Alter leans back on the table, her eyes burning a pair of holes into your soul. She turns around, keeping her gaze locked with yours, Alter flips her dress over, exposing her round, bubbly rump to you. Her thigh-high nylons draw attention to her legs, draw your eye up, attract it to that fine bottom. She grips her sweaty left cheek, peels it away, and reveals a hint of her bumhole for your eyes only. "'M DEFINITELY d-drunk enough for thiiis." She urges you, the hunger in her voice showing up one more time, to entice you in full.

"Say no more, Alter." You put your hands on her cheeks, one hand on top of hers which was already back there, and prepare to hilt into her rump.

"But-!"

"Yes…?"

"I can get even drunker if you use that bourbon, there."

"…Why the hell not?" You reach for the bottle, wet your whistle—good stuff—and press the tip to her spread butthole. With the last remaining bit, you pour it straight into her gut. Alter lets out a strange sound, but she definitely approves. The bottle pops out, and a little bourbon pours out and trickles into her southern lips.

Good. You hilt into her with ease. She clenches are, gripping you like a pair of new rubber gloves as you move back and forth. Her hips press against yours, pull back, trying to find some semblance of rhythm the two of you can salvage from this twilit haze of drunken foolery.

Either way, somehow, miraculously, you find it, and work with it, exploring each other in ways never before experience by either the Master of Chadeas or Jeanne d'Arc Alter. Of course it was a miracle. She's a saint, black as she may be. She grips you tight, and you take her depths. The speed increases. Your sack begins to slap against her from underneath. Alter touches herself down there, unable and unwilling to resist the temptation. She makes herself leak even more. With one hand you grip her hip, and with the other you tease her right breast, savoring its full softness.

It finally all blurs together. Comes to a head. Enough is enough. The human body can only take so much, even if one of the partners is a Servant. You empty yourself in Alter for a third time, making your mark deep in her butt, and as the two of you moan in helpless afterglow together, your bodies take that as a sign to pass out there on the couch with only peaceful, empty minds free of dreams to await you and Alter.

If this hasn't resolved White Jeanne's troubles, or a relapse occurs, then, well, you could always come back for a follow-up session.

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- ] | [ -

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Jeanne d'Arc Alter Santa Lily, the problem child in question whose existence had vexed the big Alter, checked off her gift list. "Well, I GUESS that's okay. Those two blockheads deserve it, even if they really don't. It's Christmastime, after all." Even so, she scowled at the list for a bit longer, for some reason.

"Anyway. List's almost done." She said when she finally allowed herself to stop. "And Santa's always the last to treat herself, anyway. So, let's see, the penultimate gift-receiver to be IS…"

—Gilles de Rais, of the Saber variety.

"Huh. Go figure." Jeanne d'Arc Alter Santa Lily noted, with some pause. "Could this be what they call 'Killing two birds with one stone?' "

With bag on shoulder, holy spear in hand, list in skirt pocket, and hopes aflame in her heart, she went on one last journey to bring holiday joy.

"Oh, and no," Jeanne d'Arc Alter Santa Lily said aloud to herself, as the thought occurred to her. "I'm not gonna use a Christmas miracle to restock the open bar. That's all of your damn faults."