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amayaonly1 · 2 years

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Diavolo's Cousin from Hell - Lesson 4 (Obey Me! x Female!MC/Reader)

@strawberry-moonpies Hello! It's been a while, hasn't it? I decided to take a one-week break to prepare for my test and go on a weekend vacation with the fam. It's been a while since I wrote anything, so I might be a wee bit rusty. Hopefully you'll enjoy this chapter. Cheers!

(Btw, I can't help but chuckle when I read the dialogues for the current event "Sacrifices of Darkness". They remind me so much of Balial.)

Interested to join the tag list? Drop me a DM! I write Obey Me! fanfiction for now.

Other work: A Lil' Oopsie

Diavolo's Cousin from Hell mini-series:

He didn't exactly know how long it took, but Beelzebub was certain that this was the first time he'd seen his own twin with such fury and stubbornness that could rival that of one of their elder brothers.

The Avatar of Gluttony remembered sitting inside his room enjoying a bag of Hell Cream Cat Tongue Cookies that he purchased from Madam Scream's when, all of a sudden, in came the youngest demon brother scowling. Surely it was without a doubt for him to ask what irritated him, and then have Belphegor open up to him. But never in his life had he seen the latter sharply mutter "Nothing" before sprawling on his bed.

Finally, after what seemed like eons, he got an answer - Balial.

Ah, yes. It's no surprise that this young demon Prince had the ability to irk the Demon Lords so effortlessly. All he ever did was cynically critique everything they did. From how they dressed up for school to the way they ate, their articulation, their involvement in the Student Council, their punctuality; nothing, and no one, was spared. Not even the eldest brother.

But now, not only did they have to deal with his nitpickiness, he'd imposingly invited himself over to their house; as if it wasn't making it any worse for them. Well, it's partially thanks to MC, but it would be merely hypocritical for any one of the demon brothers to pinpoint his sudden fascination with the human exchange student when they, too, were just as fond of her.

The only difference was that the Prince of the Underworld took an instant liking to her and didn't attempt to eradicate her; like them at the beginning.

"Just ignore him," advised Beelzebub. "He'll be here for two weeks only, right? After that, we won't have to face him anymore."

"But that feels like such a long time," the younger twin whined. Encountering the vile, little gremlin was torture enough.

"I think by now, we know what his personality is like. I understand how you feel, but there's nothing much we can do about it. The least we can do is hang in there, at least for MC's sake. Otherwise, it might seem like she's the one at fault, and we might accidentally make her feel bad about it."

Was it unfair of MC to make such a rash decision without discussing it with the demon brothers beforehand? Yes. But one could argue that she did it with genuine intention, and Balial was willing to help her while being under the same roof.

Perhaps the older twin was right. Might as well tolerate it all for MC's sake.

At that moment, a loud rumble resonated in the room. "It's almost time for dinner," noted Beelzebub with realisation. "Come on. Let's go downstairs. I'm starving." A wide, gleeful smile spread across his face. "I heard that it's MC's turn to cook dinner tonight. I can't wait to try some more of her cooking."

"You go ahead," insisted Belphegor, who easily let out a yawn. "I'll be there shortly."

But the orange-haired demon was concerned. "Are you tired? I can save some for you if you want to sleep."

"It's fine," assured his brother. "I just need a quick shut-eye."

To which, he nodded saying, "Alright."

Beelzebub strode towards the door, pouring the remaining cookies into his mouth before tossing the paper bag into the bin hiding in the corner. He shut the door behind him, walked down the hallway leading him to the staircase that would take him to the kitchen. It wasn't long before he got a whiff of an unfamiliar, bu tantalizing aroma.

Is tonight's dinner roast? he wondered. Or perhaps a hearty stew? What if it's another human realm burger he had yet to try? Ah, yes. There's also that human dessert called brownies that she'd made waiting for him in the fridge. Oh, just the thought of MC's cooking excites him! Beelzebub didn't even realise that he was already wiping away the drool hanging by the corner of his lips. Might as well pick up the pace if he wanted to try some of whatever she's cooking.

And just like his brother moments ago, his appetite churned when he saw who was in the kitchen.

A black cauldron was left on the stove as its contents eminated an aroma that made him drool even more. MC was at the island counter ceramic baking tray with rolls of dough stuck to each other. Standing across her atop of a wooden stool watching with fascination was the young Prince himself, with a white apron tried around his waist. Merihem, adorning a black full-body apron, was at the stove using a pair of thongs to grill some sliced Devildom vegetables on the cast iron grill pan.

Hearing the footsteps that suddenly halted, MC looked up and smiled upon seeing who it was. "Hey, there!" she greeted, just as she lifted up the tray. "We're almost done here. Balial wanted to try beef stew for dinner. Well, technically it's minotaur stew since I couldn't get any regular beef here. I've never made one before so I thought I'd give it a go with some dinner rolls and grilled vegetables. He and Mr. Merihem have been a great help preparing tonight's dinner."

"It's been a tremendous oblectament cooking with you, Miss MC," said the butler gratefully. "Your kind invitation has given us an exceptional insight into the human realm food. Why, I'm of the opinion that the Young Master is willing to try some of the recipes that you've humbly shared."

"I can assure you that, Mistress MC!" chirped Balial with a bright smile. "I didn't know the preparation of human realm food and our delicacies are alike. Quite an intriguing learning experience, I'd say! Even a taste of tonight's dinner tickles my taste buds. If I may humbly say this, I think your cooking is one of the best I've ever experienced; aside from my faithful Merihem, of course."

MC smiled sheepishly. "You flatter me too much," she said bashfully. "It's my first time attempting this dish. I hope it would turn out just as delicious as you expected."

However, the Avatar of Gluttony heeded no mind to the exchange. Rather, he was more interested in the brown savory gravy stewing inside. He stood in front of the cauldron, sniffed, and licked his lips with anticipation.

"Can I try some of this, MC?" he asked.

"I don't mind letting you try the stew with some vegetables, but if you want the meat we'll have to wait a little while longer," advised the said girl. After putting the dinner rolls into the oven, she approached the iron pot. She picked up the wooden ladle dipped in the stew that was left on a plate at the side and began stirring the contents while peering in, inspecting.

"I expected nothing less from the Avatar of Gluttony," remarked Balial with a despondent sigh. "We spent some time preparing food while he merely pranced into the kitchen asking for taste of everyone's dinner. A reductive sight, if I may be honest."

Beelzebub felt his eye twitch. Was that a sign of annoyance, or a sudden spasm in the nerves?

"It's alright, Balial," MC quickly assured, scooping some stew into a bowl before handing it to him. The demon's expression immediately morphed into one of excitement before "I'm used to it. That's why we cooked large amounts to accommodate Beel's hunger."

"I see."

Beelzebub didn't like the way the young Prince drawled the last word, although he tried his best to ignore him. He did advise his younger twin to do so, right? Not to mention, this wasn't his first time getting nagged by Balial. So it should be manageable, right?

Or so he thought.

"Was that why you left that container of brownies in the fridge?"

"Yes," was her reply. "Asmodeus found out about it on the internet and asked me to make some. So I baked a large batch for everyone. Well, mainly for Beel because I know that he gets hungry easily. Did you like them?"

"I did!" Balial gleefully answered. "It was so good that I finished it all."

What?

"Wow, that's quite a lot of brownies you had there," commented MC, looking at him with wide eyes. "Do you eat as much as Beel?"

"Pardon me for the interruption," chimed the elderly butler, who placed a ceramic tray of grilled vegetables on the counter. "But it has slipped my mind to inform you that the Young Master has quite a huge appetite. Do expect him to finish up any leftovers you decide to put into the refrigerator. I apologise for my tardiness."

"No worries, Mr. Merihem!" assured the human girl with a wave. "I can just make some more. Although, I'm not too sure if Lucifer would be happy to have the house budget spent on baking goods."

"Rest assured, Miss MC," Balial said. "I'm willing to impart my expenses to share the cost. It is only fair that I do such a thing if I were to stay in this place."

"Are you sure about that? Not that I mind, but you are a guest."

"My Father used to preach that when I share the same accommodation with another being, I shant let them bear all the burden."

Beelzebub didn't even bother to hear the rest of the conversation. All he was thinking was that the little brat dared to finish the brownies. The gull he had to even touch it! And he was looking forward to even getting a lick.

"Sorry, Beel." MC's voice managed to snap him out of his raging thoughts. "I know you were looking forward to the brownies. I'll have to make another batch tomorrow after school. I need to drop by the bakery to get more ingredients. But don't worry! I'll make more so that no one has to fight over it."

The said demon took a deep breath. There's no point getting angry at MC, he reminded himself. She wasn't the one who finished the brownies; she was the one who made it in the first place. So it's only fair that he directed his anger at the dwarf demon Prince.

"It's okay, MC," he assured, gritting his teeth as he tried to suppress his anger. Feeling his triumphant gaze on him riled him even more. "I know it's not your fault, so I don't mind waiting. But don't keep me waiting too long, okay?"

"Of course!"

But Beelzebub knew this won't be the last time that he'd become the victim of Balial's shenanigans. After all, he found that supercilious smirk plastered on his face was very incongruous.

And he began dreading the next thirteen days of hell.

#obey me #obey me x mc #obey me x reader #obey me imagines #obey me fanfiction

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aquaburst3 · 2 years

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For while now, people in this fandom have speculated about there being a time loop and characters ranging from Crowley to even Ace creating it. But to be honest, I think it’s just a flash forward.

Flash forward prologues aren’t anything new. An example of this would be in Twilight. (Stupid example, I know. But I’ve been depressed, having self worth issues and feeling like horseshit all day, so it’s the best I can come up with.) In the book, Bella rambles about her thoughts on dying and self sacrifice. These thoughts mirror what happens later on in the book when she almost dies in the ballet studio.

Similar thing could be said about TWST. While it makes sense at a glance, things start falling apart the more you think about it. Like...

If no one wants Grim at Night Raven, wouldn’t he just be kicked out and that would be the end of it?

If the timeline played out as is, wouldn’t Grim and Idia rot away in the Underworld? I doubt any of the Night Raven characters, including Vil, would ever make a sacrifice like that without character development they had with Yuu’s presence. So how the hell would Grim be able to terrorize Night Raven then?

Wouldn’t most of the people who have overblotted have turned into monsters?

How would something like this apply to the rest of the world?

God my brain hurts thinking about this!

But if it’s a simple flash forward, it makes things a bit more clear and takes away all of these logical issues. Granted, I could be wrong. But that’s my impression at the moment.

#aqua rambles #twisted wonderland

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chordwrites · 3 years

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The Healer

Prologue (not necessary to read first but provides some context)

Healer hid, watching Hero approach the beaten and unmoving Villain. If they were dead, all of Healer’s efforts would be meaningless.

Usually, Healer would wait until the battle was over to attend to the injured, or would find a moment when the fighting parties were separated to offer a quick heal. But Hero and Villain had never separated long enough for Healer to intervene, and Healer doubted that this hero would grant Villain any respite.

Healer pulled a few fireworks out of their satchel. They snuck a few building away—close enough for Hero to hear it but far enough to give Healer a few moments with Villain while Hero investigated. Healer muttered a small prayer, to who, they did not know. If this didn’t work, they’d be all out of ideas for helping Villain.

Quickly, they lit the fireworks, aiming them low, but away from any buildings that might hold occupants. The dumpsters should work nicely, and if a fire started, Hero would be able to put it out before it affected any citizens.

If their plan was successful, that is.

Healer raced towards the site of the battle, the explosion of fireworks sounding a few paces behind them and the impact against the dumpster augmenting the noise. They stuck to the shadows, and sighed in relief when they found Villain alone.

Healer crept forward, dread building as they searched for any sign that Villain was still breathing. They rested their hands on Villain’s chest, smiling a little when Villain’s chest rose and fell against their palms.

Healer concentrated, focusing warm energy out of their hands and into Villain, willing their body to be whole again.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Hero asked from behind them.

Healer jumped, but maintained the energy coursing into Villain.

“Healing them,” they said weakly.

“Why?”

“Because I can, and they needed it.” Their motivation had never been complex. If you have the ability to help others, you do it.

Hero scoffed. “Don’t you know the things they’ve done? You’re healing a monster.”

“I... not the specifics.” Healer had tried to stay away from the news and media after they’d realized that the heroes could be just as cruel as the villains.

“You’re young, so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. They’ve murdered hundreds, and the total casualty tally is even larger. Is that kind of person worth saving?” Hero paused, either waiting for a response or allowing Healer to soak in their question. Regardless, Healer chose not to respond, instead staring intently at their hands and the warm glow that emanated from them. “We always need new heroes, and your drive to help others is admirable. But what you’re doing now isn’t justice.” Hero pointed at Villain. “Helping someone like them isn’t justice.”

Healer’s hands shook. “I don’t care about justice. I don’t think I have the right to decide who deserves to be saved and who doesn’t.” God, healing was draining enough without debating personal morals with another super.

“Then listen to me, I’m saying this one doesn’t.”

The arrogance. “I don’t think you should be able to make that decision either,” Healer said.

The following silence sent a shiver down Healer’s spine. Dammit, why couldn’t they heal any faster? “If you save them, all the death they wrought from here on out will be your responsibility to bear.”

Healer's power continued to pour into Villain. That was a responsibility that Healer accepted, though they did not bear it well. It kept them up at night, and the accompanying depression had worried their mother to no end for the year or so they’d been doing this. They didn’t want Villain to hurt anyone, but they didn’t want to see them killed either. Healer didn’t know what was right, but they knew Hero’s way wasn’t it. It couldn’t be. They'd decided it was easier to forget about right and wrong, and just focus on healing anyone they could. Healer wouldn’t discriminate between the injured and dying.

Maybe it was too idealistic. Or maybe the adults weren’t idealistic enough.

Hero laughed quietly—a dark, intimidating sound. “If you’re helping the likes of a villain, you might as well be one yourself.”

The sudden rustle of movement startled Healer out of their concentration. They spun around, and Hero was in front of them, fist swinging. Healer braced themself.

Arms wrapped around Healer from behind pulling them back just before Hero’s fist connected. The arms grasped Healer’s waist and lifted them into a firefighter’s carry over Villain’s shoulder. Villain dodged a few more swings, keeping Healer secure despite the fast pace of the encounter.

Then, Villain ran, weaving between buildings and through alleyways as Hero kept on their trail. Not knowing what else to do, Healer clutched the back of Villain’s super suit.

Though Hero was fast, Villain seemed to know exactly where to go to confuse them, slinking into the shadows and maneuvering through the most obstructed areas. A few minutes into the chase, Villain halted, causing Healer’s face to slam into Villain’s back. The two ducked into a crevice between two buildings that Healer wouldn’t have noticed if Villain hadn’t been directing them into it.

The two sat in loud, breathy silence for a long time. Villain had an arm wrapped around Healer, and Healer clung to that arm like a lifeline. They didn’t understand what just happened. They were just helping people, weren’t they? How could that warrant a death sentence from a hero who was sworn to protect them?

And with Hero’s strength, that strike would have been one.

Healer didn’t know how long they waited, but at last, Villain let go of them and stepped out of their hiding spot, Healer not far behind.

Finally getting a good look at Villain, Healer scanned them for injuries. Though they’d managed to close up the vital ones, Villain still looked worse for wear, bruises covering almost every inch of visible skin, and blood soaking through most of their suit.

Villain stared at Healer, and Healer thought they saw a stern expression buried beneath the mask and mountain of bruises.

“I... I can heal up the rest of your wounds for you,” Healer said.

Villain shook their head. Healer wanted to protest, but as they stepped forward, their legs shook and their head spun. Even if Villain had accepted their offer, it was doubtful that Healer would have been able to follow through.

Villain tapped their throat, drawing Healer’s attention, then mouthed something. Thank you.

“No problem,” Healer said, their voice cracking a little. “Thank you, too, for getting me out of there.” For saving my life, Healer thought.

Villain nodded and mouthed something else, but as much as Healer concentrated, they couldn’t decipher the meaning. Villain shook their head again, this time more so at themself than at Healer, and pulled out a small pocket notebook and a pen. They scribbled something down.

Where do you need to go? I’ll make sure you get there.

“Oh, that’s alright. You don’t have to do that.” As much as they wanted to help heroes, villains, and civilians alike, they didn’t really need anyone to know where they lived.

Villain stared at them.

“You can go back to your home or base. I can make it back on my own.”

Villain’s eyes didn’t waver.

“It... it’s in walking distance if you want to walk with me, but I can’t have anyone in full super gear near my home.”

Villain nodded and pulled off their mask, right in front of Healer. Healer blanched at the utter disregard for secret identities. But they didn’t sense any ill will or ulterior motive, so they went behind a trash can and began changing into their own civilian clothes as Villain did the same. When they stepped back out, Villain made a point of not looking at Healer. Maybe they were trying to respect their identity, not that it would help much if Villain knew where they lived.

Healer walked home and Villain trailed behind them like some sort of underworld bodyguard. Every time Healer glanced back, Villain was scanning their surroundings with an intense alertness. Healer couldn’t blame them, they were keeping an eye out for any sign of Hero, themself. The thought of them sent their stomach into somersaults. Yet, there was something comforting about Villain trailing behind them.

Their anxiety mixed with guilt as they remembered Hero’s words. What did it say about them that a mass murderer trailing behind them was comforting. Wait, were they putting their mom in danger by letting Villain come with them?

But it was too late to do anything about it, now. They were already on Healer’s block. “This is it,” they said, and Villain nodded. Healer noted that Villain still wasn’t looking at their face, their eyes instead pointed at the ground with occasional flickers towards the adjacent streets. “Thank you,” Healer said, with an awkward laugh. “I was really scared back there.”

Villain nodded again, and Healer started closing the distance to their apartment. The next time they turned around, Villain was gone.

#writing #heroes and villains #kind villain #evil hero #snippet #flash fiction #healer #the healer #young hero

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thegeneralguy · 3 years

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The Champion of Olympus - Prologue

This is the first series I´ve ever worked on. I remember I saw a post about the gift of the gods from @absqrst in the past, so I worked a bit around that general idea. It´s gonna be long, but I hope the patience makes it worth your while. I want to clarify all the characters in the stories are adults.

The flaming chariot sped over the clouds as thunder roared through the night sky. The vessel of the sun had its usual flames dimmed, but there was no doubt who was commanding it.

“He must be really mad to be throwing such a tantrum.”

Said Apollo to himself as he drove through the dark clouds. He was in the middle of a particularly erotic composing session with Terpsichore, muse of music, when the message from his father blasted through the roof of the mansion and engraved the urgent message on the floor. His presence was being requested for an extraordinary session of the twelve. Apollo couldn´t even remember the last time he saw his family together, but it usually meant bad news for everyone.

The last time his father and Poseidon argued, a massive tidal wave ravaged the land of the rising sun down on earth. The celestial plane wasn´t always indifferent towards mortal matters, and Apollo made sure to keep inspiring those beautiful human minds in order to create both beauty and a form of expression that eased up tension in difficult times. The fact that his family was meeting again could only mean disaster, both for mortals and for gods.

The sky grew increasingly stormy the more the chariot approached the thunder palace. Zeus´s residence was directly on top of Mytikas peak in Mount Olympus. The home of the gods was on an entirely different plane than earth, but vaster and richer. It existed both parallel to the terrestrial plane, but above it in hierarchy, and was ruled by the will of the deities that inhabited it. Each Olympian had its dominion, but Zeus ruled above all.

The chariot slowed down as the imposing marble columns of the palace became visible. It stopped on one of the gardens, and Apollo rushed to the nearest entrance heading to the meeting. The door to the throne room was guarded by celestial Sentinels, the latest invention from his brother Hephaestus. The automatons had the shape of the pinnacle of the masculine physique and were made of gold with a tiny bit of ichor, the blood of the gods. They served mainly as guardians, although he had made use of a couple of them for more personal matters, like an extra boost for the sexual soirees he usually hosted.

Apollo could hear the heated discussion from outside the room. The Sentinels opened the doors and suddenly twelve pairs of eyes were instantly focused on him.

“Apollo. So glad you decided to grace us with your presence. Take a seat.”

Said Zeus with a sour scowl. He was indeed the last one to arrive. Even Hades was there, so it must be serious. He took his seat next to his brother Dionysius, who gave him a knowing look.

“How many were there this time?”

Asked Dionysius with a cheeky smile. Apollo remained with his sight to the center of the room, trying his best to ignore the provocations of his brother.

“Come on I´m dying for a little excitement. Things have been rather grim around here, and I´m dying for a little spark of *hic* entertainment.”

Apollo gave his brother an irritated look. The God of wine was looking as disheveled as ever. His muscular body was partially covered by a glowing white cloak, with some grape vines hanging from his belt and decorating one side of his head. He was holding his everlasting wine cup with one hand, while his face rested on the other.

“I was with Terpsichore. We were looking for some inspiration.”

“Right, right. Maybe next time I can join you both. I could use some inspiration too you know. Remember the parties we used to throw with the muses and the nymphs? I´m pretty sure you got more inspiration than you bargained for back then…”

A lightning bolt stroke right before Dionysus, who sighed and diverted his attention to Zeus.

“I apologize father. Please do continue to illustrate us with your crucial monologue.”

He said disinterested as he took a big swig from his golden wine cup.

“This is no joke Dionysus. It is the first time since the Titanomachy that we´ve faced a situation like this.”

Apollo had heard legends about the epic war against the titans, an event that changed the course of the world. His aunts and uncles fought alongside Zeus for ten years in order to dethrone Cronus and other titans loyal to the Golden Age regime. He tried his best to focus on the near future, but he couldn´t get past the next few days. He felt like a thick fog over him interrupting his vision of the future. It was unusual for the god the sun to have his gift of prophecy clouded, specially in an event of such magnitude like his father was describing. His curiosity started to turn into genuine worry, and he focused his attention on Zeus once again.

“The Fates contacted me recently with news from the underworld. It seems that the king of the monsters found a way to break through the veil separating his prison in Tartarus from the rest of the infernal plane.”

“That’s impossible. The abyss in Tartarus is inescapable. Not even Typhon is capable of gathering enough power.”

Said Poseidon skeptically whilst stroking his magnificent beard.

“It is a different kind of problem brother. Typhon is trying to seep some of his energy into the terrestrial plane. We´ve grown disconnected from humanity in the last century, and Typhon is trying to take advantage so he can gain some adepts of his own in order to amass divine energy to break free. I already consulted with Hades, and it seems a breach in Tartarus´s security is not impossible.”

“But what would that mean for us father? We still have enough divine power to launch a counterattack if he does manage to escape, we will be ready for battle.”

Said the mighty Ares. The god of war was known for taking aggressive decisions that lead to confrontation. His mighty physique was a testament for his strength and his prowess in combat.

“Not if he gains some divinity himself. The monster already possesses enough strength on his own to blow up half of Olympus. If he acquires some power from human devotion, not even I will be able to stop him.”

It wasn´t fitting of Zeus to admit inadequacy of any kind, and Apollo knew it. He grew only increasingly uncomfortable imagining the possible outcomes of a monster invasion. In any scenario, Earth would face the biggest catastrophe.

“What do you suggest we do now father? Humanity isn´t what it used to be. The facilitated communication of humans has bred doubt and paranoia. It won´t be hard for Typhon to appeal to humanity´s loss of self in order to succeed.”

Said Athena who out of her siblings seemed the most invested in the problem at hand. Hades who had been cautiously quiet listening to the conversation raised from his seat to answer the wisdom goddesses’ question.

“It seems we got time on our side, my honorable niece. Infusing earth with energy direct from Tartarus will take time. And the first thing Typhon will try to gain are champions. Without some avatars directly on earth he is still powerless”

“Don´t be ridiculous Hades. There hasn´t been a champion on earth since ancient times. Let alone a hellish spawn from the original monster himself.”

Exclaimed Poseidon with a booming laugh whilst slamming his gigantic trident on the floor.

“Hades is right brother. A champion serving as a recruiter is the only way of gaining direct adoration. The negative energy coming from Typhon will take care of the rest. It´s only fair we do the same.”

Zeus´ stern face showed a glimpse of amusement, his muscular body almost twitching with excitement.

“It is time we choose a new Champion of Olympus.”

Everyone went completely quiet for a second. The incredulous eyes of the twelve Olympians were staring at the god of thunder. Then the room was immediately filled with chatter and discussion. Apollo looked around as his brothers and sisters talked aggressively between themselves. The idea of gifting divinity to a mortal hasn´t been touched in eons, so it was only natural for the godly unrest to take place. The ritual was long, complex and it required the cooperation of all the Olympians.

“But why father? What makes you think a new champion will do anything to stop the monster from breaking out? Last time we tried to make one divinity rejected him.”

Said Ares slamming his powerful fist on the armrest. The main reason the gods didn´t get celestial conduits on the terrestrial plane was because few humans were eligible for the gift. And even after getting one who was compatible with divinity, all Olympians had to agree on the candidate, and there was always someone who chose differently. If the will of one god was against the chosen one, the ritual backfired and the person would be consumed by the divine power.

“A champion will help us connect with humans again. Times have changed, and we won´t be able to amass enough power to retaliate against Typhon if we don´t gain adoration again. Besides, we are going to do things differently this time. Each of you will have the possibility of choosing one eligible candidate. Afterwards we will put the chosen ones through three heroic tests. The one that manages to complete the tasks will get our blessing, and so divinity will be achieved. If we all agree on these terms, we won´t kill the candidate during the sacred ritual. And we will be sure the best choice was taken.”

“It seems you already had this planned out brother.”

Said Poseidon in a slightly suspicious tone. It wasn´t unusual for his brother to come up with grandiose plans that required thorough cleaning afterwards. The god of the sea laid back his heavily muscled back on the chair and wondered about what Zeus was really planning.

“This is madness father. And even if the plan worked, we are not sure divinity won´t corrupt the champion. It has happened before. And I´m sure some of us won´t have Olympus´ best interest in mind when choosing a candidate.”

Said Athena whilst eying the god of wine, who was in-between drinking and undressing the Sentinels with his eyes.

“Of course, it would be you who started judgement sister. Perhaps if you sought interaction with other one than your precious little owl, you wouldn´t be practically embodying neurosis instead of wisdom.”

Said Aphrodite clearly in odds with her sister´s self-perceived moral high ground.

The room exploded in a cacophony of displeased voices. Apollo sighed as he looked at his family once again imploding on its own. He knew that deep inside everyone was excited with the idea of gifting a mortal with divine powers, it was a fascinating process. It allowed the gods to mold a person according to their needs, and of course desires. The trip down to the terrestrial plane could be a hassle, but nothing none of the twelve Olympians could handle. He was particularly keen on seeing what his normally silent brother Hephaestus and his hermit twin sister Artemis would come up with.

Suddenly Zeus slammed his hand on the giant round table on the center and thunder flashed all across the room and resonated with a deafening sound that completely drowned the gods´ anxious voices.

“The decision is made. According to Hades we got exactly until the next lunar cycle for Typhon´s energy to start leaking out of Tartarus. Until then the champion has to be chosen and ready with his task so we can avoid the most corruption possible. Each Olympian must have their candidate ready by the next full moon and present him before the celestial gateway on the base of Mount Olympus. That is an order.”

Zeus´s eyes flashed excitedly with the glow of golden lightning.

“Meeting adjourned.”

The king of the gods then disappeared with blinding thunder. Each god made their way out of the palace to get ready for the task at hand. Apollo got on his chariot and smiled. Apparently, a new form of inspiration was presenting itself to him, and he was going to enjoy every second of it. It was fitting for his father to turn a crisis situation into a competition, but this time Apollo was excited to participate. The chariot of the sun then departed hastily into the night sky as the thunder clouds dissipated and a dark moon adorned the firmament.

#olympic gods #transformation #musclegrowth

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pandemilkbread · 4 years

Text

devil 007 (prologue)

devil 007 (Bakugo Katsuki x Reader)

summary:

(demon!au)

Turns out Bakugo Katsuki never wanted to eat your soul, rather he just needed someone to play video games with.

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ's ɴᴏᴛᴇ: ʜᴇʀᴇ's ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀᴏʟᴏɢᴜᴇ. ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ :>

☆ ☆ ☆

𝑖. 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑢𝑒

“That was a fucking accident.”

“An explosion that big is not an accident!”

You might be wondering how the hell were you hanging on the tallest building in the underworld holding on to a pipeline for your dear life. While your notorious partner-in-crime Bakugo just watched as you dangled ninety feet in the air.

“I swear if I die I will shitting haunt you for all eternity! You’d be fed up with all my shit the moment my soul reaches your territory. Just imagine, me annoying you fore—“

“Jump.” He grumbled.

No. Jump? Hell no. You’d rather die than jump into his arms. Bakugo was more likely to miss, and you’d fall (probably five storeys) before he dare tried to save you.

You wanted to scream. How all this happened in the first place, you hardly remember. No, you did remember.

It was all because of that stupid book.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

It was a mishap, really. The wrong book got delivered to the wrong place at the wrong time, and exactly the wrong thing happened as a consequence.

You were a college student who had just finished the semester, and frankly... a miserable one you were. Failing a quiz was one thing, but you had to mess up your finals so badly a retake wouldn’t suffice. You had to take up the subject all over again.

Sighing, you lay flat on your back. The ceiling had this magical property to suck up all the negativity in your life.

(it didn’t. but you’d like to think so.)

You had all the time in the world to repeat the subject. The problem? Cash. Having a scholarship at a prestigious university wasn’t easy. One measly failure could mean bye-bye free tuition fees and hello student loans that could last centuries + a liver.

Doomed you were, honey. You groaned. At least the treasury board approved the student allowances; which meant? The poor student (you) finally bought the heavy shitass syllabus for your major. The subject you failed.

It could take weeks for the parcel to arrive. What did you expect? You only ordered it days ago. The sooner it gets here, you’d be studying your ass off until 5 A.M. for weeks. Hooray.

A sudden ring of the doorbell awoke you from your senses. Huh, it did arrive earlier than you expected. You scooted towards the door and twisted it open. There lay a box wrapped in tape, a sticker with the words ‘fragile: handle with care’ shone in bright yellow.

You picked it up and shook the item. It was lighter than you expected. How the heck did a 700 page book become as light as a diary? Did they send you the wrong thing? Crap. You scoured the whole box to find neither details about who the recipient nor who the sender was.

Oh, well. Did that mean you could keep whatever was inside? You grinned. Opening up the box, you find out it was a vivid red book entitled:

Ultimatum Wishes: The Ultimate Spellbook for Summoning Demons! All your wishes will come true! Follow the instructions inside.

Yeah, right. Like you could summon a demon to send you a trillion yen.

(apparently, doubt didn’t stop you from trying.)

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

First of all, what the actual fuck.

Your curiosity got the best of you. The instructions were pretty easy; sugar, salt, dirt, water, a jar of mayonnaise, a drop of blood— basically, the usual ingredients for summoning demons. Like that’s shitting normal? You had to mix them all together and spread them into the circle you drew on earlier.

Second, did you really summon a demon?

You were obviously not in your dorm room. It was bigger, darker, and colder to what you were accustomed to. After saying a stupid chant, you make a wish and boom! demon comes to you. So the instructions said.

It was a joke, really. You never thought the book was actually real! Once you said your wish, a bright light flashed and... you were here. A basement like room devoid of light, making your fingers the only things you could see at the moment.

You were sprawled on your back, staring at your hands. If only your eyes could adjust to the light then you would be on your merry way to finding the exit. Except, that you didn’t really need to adjust. The lights opened with a flash and you were met with red eyes:

“Took you long enough, brat!”

Lastly, who the hell was this?

The moment you and this miniature bomb exchanged looks, and he realized that you weren’t the person he was hoping for, the man grabbed the collar of your shirt lifting you high up to the ceiling.

“How the fuck did you get here stupid human? Pretty gutsy of you to just waltz in like you own the place, hm?” He growled, slightly shaking you with every syllable he uttered.

You barely registered it, you-know before you were lifted up, but this person in front of you was terrifying. He radiated waves of “answer properly or i’ll rip you into shreds” and you didn’t want to die.

(not at least before smacking this crappy brute.)

“Put me down you—you crappy dog! Treat me nicely and I’ll tell you everything,” You choked.

He scrunched his eyebrows in confusion. “You’re really haggling with me now, maggot? The last time I checked I could easily squeeze the fucking life out of you—”

“T-The book! Shitty book! Followed it and I’m here!”

And with that you were dropped onto the floor. You yelped upon impact, rubbing the area of your neck with your fingers. That hurt. Your eyes hovered to your assailant and saw his frustration building up. Hoo, a little bit more and he’d be on fire.

“...How’d you get it?”

“Sent to my doorstep. D-Didn’t think it was real I thought—”

“You opened it knowing it wasn’t yours?”

“Oh, no you aren’t! Don’t blame me for your shitty mistake in the first place!”

“Watch your tongue, human.”

You sighed. Everyone knew you were someone who wouldn’t back down from a fight, but your senses told you otherwise. There was a fine line between pissing him off and stabbing you in the heart, you knew you were likely closer to the latter part of the scale.

“Fine. Whoever that package was sent to, it came to me instead. Why am I here?”

He contemplated for a while, searching for the right words to spout out. Oh God no. Were you brought here as a sacrifice? You shook your head. Anything but that! Sweat dribbled down your forehead. Why wasn’t he saying anything?

“...to kill...”

Yeaph. And with that, you blacked out.

(imagine, fainting from your own demolition. oh, you hope you didn’t actually break a bone or two.)

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

You awoke to a strange tapping noise, more like a smack, and groans of infuriation. The vivid colors of black, pink, and yellow caught your attention, making you stare in awe. Was that Mario Kart...?

The clicking sound came from the blonde who sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes drawn to big television screen in front of him. While you were on a black couch around three hands away from the man. Seemingly, he could sense your tiny movements as you sat up, compelling him to chuck a controller at you.

“You gonna play or what?”

Huh? You took the object, feeling the texture in your hands. It’s been a while since you held a controller; even longer since you played a game at all. The game home screen flashed, the cursor hovering over the “new game” button. He clicked it forcing the game to switch into the character screen.

The man picked Bowser. Ah, not surprising. You grinned as you chose Princess Peach.

The game began immediately after and you thought, wow. You sucked at this game! Your cart hit track walls, bounced on boulders, special items that you sent managed to hit you instead. Rigged, this must be rigged! Just because the last time you played the game was ten years ago, doesn’t automatically mean you were shit at it.

Your companion thought differently.

“You’re crappy at this game.” He sneered.

You rolled your eyes. “It’s just the first game! A warm-up, you’ll see.”

And yes, he did see. See you fail round after round, time after time, the twenty games you played seemed to only prove your awful skills at a simple multiplayer game. You groaned. How was it possible to lose this much? Even the computer controlled characters beat you senseless.

Gently placing the controller on the sofa, you wrapped your arms around your knees. Was this a test? A test to see whether if you were worth killing? Oh boy, you would have been slaughtered at the first playthrough.

“Are you going kill me now?” You murmured.

If this was how you were going to go, at least you had fun. Well, you did lose more times than you could count. But hey, it was enjoyable.

“Ha. You think I’d let you go that easily?” He stood up, turned and grabbed the controller. “You made a pact with me, and now you’re gonna run away?”

His other hand reached for your chin and pulled it up, your eyes meeting his.

“What’d you wish for, princess?”

alright. so that’s the prologue! thank you for reading. i’ll have the chapter one ready soon. so pretty much, what happened was: you received a package. bored as you were followed the instructions and summoned a demon. except, you were actually summoned somewhere else to bakugo no less.

the introductions come on to the next chapter!! please leave a like if you like it aaaaa it would mean alot ;;;;

#bakugo katsuki #bnha scenarios #bnha imagines #bnha fanfiction #boku no hero bakugou #bakugo x reader #bakugo katsuki x reader #bakugo x you #boku no hero imagines #boku no hero scenarios #bnha fics #devil 007

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shinobis-of-ninjago-au · 3 years

Text

Shinobis of Ninjago

Pilot 2: Ruler of Shadows

Prologue Pilot 1 (Pilot 2, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3), Episode 1

((Tw: violence, blood, injury, mild language, death))

After checking each other over and finding minimal injuries, besides Nya's face, the three returned to their camp. They packed up what little of their belongings the Skeleton Army had left intact and set off towards the Amber Temple.

When they reached it forty-five minutes later, they dropped their packs at the start of the bridge. Crossing over, they stopped at the doors.

"Skylor?" Seliel called. "Sensei?"

Pixal removed her hood, frowning as she stared at the temple. "The Sai of Absorption were here, as well our friend, but I only sense loss." She said, sitting down on the steps that led up to the door. "The elemental weapons have left this realm and are now in the Underworld."

Seliel groaned and flopped down. She removed her zukin, pulling at her pink hair in frustration. "The one place no mortal can cross over."

"We might not be able to cross over, but I know someone who can."

The three turned around, seeing that the doors had been cracked open, a person clad in orange leaning on them for support. Skylor smiled weakly. "Hey."

Nya jumped up, running over to wrap her arms around her teammate. She stopped about halfway, pointing to the figure hanging limply at her side. "Who's that?" She asked.

"Señoras, I'd like you to meet my brother, Jayson Guadjoso."

Seliel was on her feet and beside Skylor in seconds. She lifted up Jay's chin, inspecting his face before calling the Purple Ninja over. She removed Jay from Skylor's arms, handing him to Pixal. "He looks pretty bad. His pulse is weak. See what you can do and we'll drop him off at a hospital."

Pixal nodded, taking Jay to where they dropped their packs, hoping they had medical supplies that would help him. Seliel turned back to Skylor. "Not really the way I envisioned meeting your brother."

"Yeah, well, I didn't really envision becoming a ninja."

"Touché." Seliel patted Skylor on the back as she went to join Pixal in taking care of her brother.

Nya floated over to Seliel. "I was right."

Seliel turned to look at her. "About what?"

"Someone related to Skylor has to be attractive."

Seliel blanked before bursting into laughter. "Let's just hope he's nicer. And speaks Ninjargon." Seliel muttered under her breath. She knew how hard it was to learn a new language.

"I doubt that. Guadjoso siblings: pretty and feisty."

"You should get that engraved on something."

"I'm thinking 'bout it." She left Seliel's side to stand next to Skylor who was watching Pixal clean out the cut on Jay's face. "Ya said you knew someone who could get us into the Underworld?"

Skylor turned around and let out a sharp whistle. There was the sound of flapping wings as a dragon shot out of the volcano. It landed next to Skylor, staring curiously at the other three shinobis.

"Are you insane!?" Seliel shrieked.

"Once she realized we were trying to protect the sai, she actually became quite a softie." Skylor explained, patting the dragon on the nose. "I'll take her and run to Ignacia with Jay. I'll come back to get you guys and we can go get the weapons."

"There's not enough room for all of us on that... thing." Seliel stammered.

Skylor hummed. "Y'know what? You're right." Seliel let out a sigh of relief. "But I got a way to fix that."

Skylor pulled Nya and Pixal up onto the dragon's back. Jay was nestled in between Nya and Skylor. Seliel, however, refused to go near the dragon. Instead she went back to the Horse Carriage. She leaned against it as she watched the other three take off.

A few seconds later she fell backwards, her back hitting the floor of the wagon as she was lifted into the air. She peered over the edge, seeing the trees getting smaller and smaller. She took note of the large talons gripping the sides and the large wings flapping overhead.

"Skylor!" Seliel yelled. "What the hell are you doing?!"

Skylor's face appeared over the dragon's side. "Taking my brother to the hospital."

"Put me down!"

"Okay."

The dragon released its hold on the Horse Carriage, Seliel screaming as she plummeted towards the ground. Suddenly, she stopped. Looking up she spotted the dragon, Skylor smirking evilly and her teammates trying to stifle their laughs.

"Ha, ha, very funny. Now I know why you're the agitator. Let's just get to Ignacia so I can stand on the ground again." Seliel buried herself far in the corner of the wagon for the rest of the long flight, refusing to converse with her friends.

Instead of stopping at the weapons-smith shop, they flew past it into the closest village, Scarleton. The citizens in the parking lot scattered as the dragon lowered itself onto the asphalt. The ninja dismounted, and started heading for the door. They attracted a lot of attention, not only from the dragon but from the shinobis, as such warriors hadn't been seen in Ninjago since before the Serpentine Wars. (But it was mostly the dragon.)

A doctor rushed out, wanting to see what all the commotion was about. When his eyes landed on Skylor he rushed back inside. He soon re-emerged with a team of nurses and a stretcher. They took Jay and immediately took him inside, leaving Skylor at the front doors to fill out paperwork. When she was done, Pixal was waiting for her by the doors.

"Where's Seliel and Nya?"

"They wanted to get Nya's cheek checked out. She got hit pretty bad." Pixal eyed Skylor up and down. "We should get you home and clean you up." Skylor opened her mouth to protest. "We will know the second Jay wakes up. Come."

Climbing onto the back of the dragon, they took off, traveling the mile to the blacksmith shop. The dragon was left in the yard as the two ninja went inside.

Half an hour later, Skylor's ribs and wrists had been bandaged and they were sitting in the main shop when a knock sounded at the door and the phone rang.

Pixal stood to get the phone as Skylor opened the door. Seliel and Nya entered, immediately sitting down and sighing from exhaustion. Skylor took note of the Horse Carriage in the yard and thanked them for bringing it back.

They heard Pixal thank the person on the phone and hang up. All heads turned to her.

"Your brother's alive, lots of cuts and bruises, broken ribs, fractured ankles and wrists, dislocated arm." She paused, looking as if she didn't want to say something. "They had to jumpstart his heart. They said it was nothing like they've ever seen, like his life was sucked out of him."

Skylor's face went white as she slowly sat down. Shaking her head, she puffed out her chest. "I know mi hermano, he'll be okay, he's stronger than he looks. Misako's going to get the crap beat out of her though." Her teammates nodded in agreement. "Alright ladies, rest up, we have a big day ahead."

————————————————

At sunrise, the four stood outside, rested, bellies full, and with a new determination: to avenge their sensei, retrieve the weapons, and save the continent of Ninjago.

Climbing atop the dragon, they raced to the Western Coast, the Eastern Mountain Ridges, and the Forest of Second Glances.

Around ten o'clock in the evening, they were flying above the clouds, wind in their face and clouds above their heads.

"I hate this!" Seliel screamed as she clung to the dragon that had been guarding the staff. "I hate this!"

"Stop being such a baby." Skylor said. "This is awesome!"

"Yes, this is quite fun." Pixal agreed.

Nya squealed in surprise and enjoyment as her dragon did a barrel roll. "I think I'm going to call him Tsunami." She exclaimed.

"So how exactly do they cross over to the Underworld?" Seliel asked over the sound of rushing wind.

In response, the dragons pulled into a nosedive. They pulled their wings in and spun at rapid speed. Nothing seemed to be happening and the ground was getting closer with every second. The ninja closed their eyes and braced for impact that never came. Instead, there was a blinding flash of white light and a sudden stillness.

When the ninja opened their eyes, they gasped in amazement. They were racing through tunnels, little balls of purple and red light floating in the air and crystals of all colours reflecting the light.

"Is it over?" Seliel asked, hands still over her eyes.

"Nope!" Skylor replied. "Chica, you gotta see this."

Seliel carefully peeked through her fingers before letting her hands drop, staring in awe at the scenery around her.

Minutes later they reached an open cavern. The dragons skidded to a halt and collapsed on the ground, the journey seemingly having taken a lot out of them. The kunoichis dismounted, gazing around the cavern.

The little balls of light were still floating, and torches were mounted on the walls. The air seemed filled with static that only seemed to increase as they went deeper underground. They walked for a while longer, occasionally ducking behind something when a skeleton passed by. They walked through winding tunnels until they reached a cavern similar to the one they had landed in. The chamber was massive in comparison and dropped off into something resembling a main foyer.

On the opposite side of the cavern, there lay an entrance to a headquarters of some sort. Guards were positioned all along the walls, grips tight on their spears.

"They're expecting us." Skylor whispered. "This is now a pure stealth mission. Keep quiet from now on. We're going to hide ourselves down in the next cart and they're going to give us front row seats to kicking Misako's culo."

"Hey, I'm the leader. I give the orders." Seliel said.

"Okay then. What are your orders, all great and powerful Phantom Ninja?"

Seliel paused. "Do exactly what Skylor said. Stealth. Cart. Kicking Misako's butt."

They waited for a few minutes until the next cart arrived. Two guards were escorting it to be handed off to another two waiting on the platform of the elevator. As soon as the first two guards left to go get the next cart, the ninja sprung into action. Slipping into the cart before the other two could notice them, they took cover in crates and barrels. Skylor and Nya shared the biggest one, as they were the smallest. Pixal and Seliel had taken refuge in separate barrels.

The elevator ride was painstakingly slow. The cart jostled around as it was rolled off the platform and onto the hard rock.

Pixal peered out of a knothole in her barrel, seeing guards lined along every inch of the wall. When they neared the entrance she pulled back.

"Nothing gets through without inspection. Dark Lady's orders."

At that moment, the four shared the same thought, though it was Skylor who voiced it.

"Shit."

Pixal's crate was opened first, but she was waiting. "Nighty-night, bonehead." With a smirk on her face, she punched the skeleton with all her might, it flying backwards and out of the cart.

The other three stood up, a stupidly big grin on Skylor's face. "That was the most badass thing I've ever seen you do."

Pixal smiled, not quite sure if it was a compliment, but took the konran's expression as a good sign. "Thank you."

Seconds later the kunoichis found themselves surrounded by armed guards. "I count twenty boneheads to every one of us," Seliel said. A smile donned her countenance. "And I like those odds."

"Any ideas?" Skylor asked minutes later. She snap kicked a skeleton. "I'm all ears."

"What about the Tornado of Creation?" Nya yelled back.

"But it could destroy us!" Pixal reminded them.

"I'm getting those weapons or I'm going to die trying." Skylor said. "Who's with me."

Seliel hesitated before nodding. "Let's do this."

Quickly spinning into their spinjitzu, the four took down as many skeletons as they could. They began to be pulled together and knowing that it might be the end, they closed their eyes.

"Ugh, does anyone else feel like they jumped off a ten story building and landed on concrete?" Skylor moaned. There were three other consecutive groans as the kunoichis got to their feet. When Skylor finally decided to get up, she was met with three faces grinning obnoxiously. "What?"

"You love us." Nya drawled happily. "You loooove us."

"What?" Skylor spluttered. "No—I don't know what you're talking about."

"Mystake said we needed a bond strong enough so we wouldn't be destroyed. Ti nas voliš." ('You love us.') Seliel cooed, matching Nya's tone.

Skylor looked down. "Yeah, maybe, so what?" She mumbled. She grunted as she was embraced by the three. "Okay, we've established I like you guys. Can you let go, though? Bruised ribs and all." Her teammates let go, apologizing.

"Hey, did anyone see where the boneheads went?" Nya asked. At the sound of muffled shouts and angry grunts, the four turned, seeing that the army had been locked up in some sort of cage made from the elevator and the entrance to the base. The ninjas smiled and gave each other high-fives.

Pixal smirked and pulled up her hood. "Let's go get those weapons."

A lone figure stalked through the Skeleton Army base. They were not a skeleton, for they had muscles and skin. They wore white robes, which were soiled and torn.

They carefully made their way through the hallways, ducking out of sight when anyone approached. Not having a destination in mind, they soon found themselves at the heart of the underground base.

The room was darkly lit, a simple chair made from bones in the center and the far walls black with shadows.

"Sister." A quiet voice greeted. "It is so nice to see you again. When was the last time? Eleven years ago, correct?"

"Sister." Mystake growled. "I thought controlling the Skeleton Army would be beneath you."

"Oh, it is. But they do make loyal minions." Misako paused. "Tell me, how are your little kunoichis? The one seems to have behavioural issues. She was very mouthy the last time we met. I would... love to fix that."

"You will not lay a hand on my students."

Misako let out a little laugh. "Students? Is that what you're calling them now? Such a high ranking name for lowly puppets, don't you think?"

Mystake narrowed her eyes. "You will not talk about my pupils that way." Mystake's eyes finally adjusted to the dim lighting and she could make out a figure lounging in a throne, robes draped loosely off her body and a warrior's helmet resting on the arm of her throne.

Misako waved her hand. "Yes, yes. The boy was useful though. I must thank you for handing him over to me."

Mystake flinched, Skylor's face flashing in her mind. 'Because of you my brother is gone.' 'You let him get captured.' 'Your fault!' " What do you want, Misako?" Mystake hissed.

"You already know what I want. But your head would be a nice bonus." Misako snapped her fingers, Samukai appearing from within the shadows. "Seize the sai, and if you can, get rid of my sister. Her voice is starting to annoy me."

Samukai bowed. "With pleasure, Mistress." Three weapons were handed to her from skeleton slaves in the shadows. Samukai stepped out, seemingly admiring the three Golden Weapons in her hands. "One more to complete the collection."

Samukai began to circle Mystake, searching for a weak spot. Stopping at the right side of the woman, she lunged forward with the trident.

Side-stepping the attack, Mystake grabbed Samukai's arm and twisted it behind her back. Samukai kicked backwards, hitting Mystake in the knee. The Sensei gasped, letting go and stumbling back.

"Why don't you use the sai, Mystake? They would no doubt help you in your dire situation." Samukai teased.

"And let you see their perfection? Never."

Samukai growled before lunging forward, this time with the bo-staff. Mystake was hit square in the chest, and fell to the ground. Samukai came at her once again, the white-clad woman somersaulting out of the way. As she got to her feet, she was hit by something sharp in her back. She fell forward onto the ground, a pair of feet appearing next to her.

Samukai kicked her over onto her back, coiling the whip in her hand. She bent down and reached inside Mystake's pack. Pulling out the sai, she stood up, turning to her master.

"What have you done?" Mystake croaked, the pain in her back growing.

"What needed to be done." Misako answered. She held out her hand. "Bring the weapons to me."

Samukai looked down at the four weapons in her hands. "No." She began slowly. "You will obey me now. I hold the power."

Misako threw back her head and cackled. Four different coloured figures stumbled into the room and she laughed harder. The four ran to Mystake who was laying on the floor, her robes becoming even more soiled with red.

The one in orange looked up Misako, her eyes narrowing and catching the light. "You. You're going to pay for what you did to my brother you—!"

Mystake reached up, grabbing the pant-leg of her student. She shook her head and Skylor stepped back, not taking her eyes off Misako.

"Remind me to deal with you at a later date." Misako said. She turned to Samukai who was staring down at the weapons in her hands, a bright golden light creeping up her bones. "No one can handle all their power at once." Misako reminded her. "Selfish fool. Did you think I wouldn't plan on your betrayal."

"What's happening to me?" Samukai exclaimed as the glow began to encase her neck.

"I've had you under my heel this entire time. You and your army were simply pawns. Not even I can handle all their power! But now that they are combined, it will create a vortex through space and time, allowing me to finally escape this ghastly place."

Samukai screamed out as the golden light encased her face, beams of light shooting out of her eyes and open mouth. There was a blinding flash of light and she was gone, the weapons laying on the ground along with her armor.

A bright portal appeared, spinning with silver, white, and golden light, the edges crackling with electricity. Misako stood from her throne, placing the helmet on her head. She walked down the few steps to the main level and stopped in front of the portal.

"Mother would not want you to do this, sister." Mystake reasoned.

"Mother is no longer here, sister. Good and evil, there has always been a balance. Where I go, the balance can be destroyed. Soon I will be strong enough to posses the four weapons, so I may recreate the world in my image." She paused, looking Mystake in the eye. "You, you were always her favourite."

With that, she was gone. The portal disappeared and the weapons lay on the ground, long forgotten. The static, which had seemed so strong before, was now gone, leaving the Underworld feeling even darker than before.

"She is gone, but she will return." Mystake winced as Pixal pressed a cloth against her back to try and stop the bleeding from the wound caused by the whip.

"Then we'll be ready for her." Skylor claimed, picking up her sai and tossing the weapons to their rightful holders.

"Then I have done my part. The balance has been restored." Mystake sighed and closed her eyes, a smile on her face.

————————————————

The five raced through the skies, happy to be out of the gloomy place that was the Underworld. Mystake was seated behind Pixal as they flew towards Ignacia. Instead of stopping at Scarleton, they continued towards the weapons-smith shop.

Skylor landed first, and was already dismounting by the time her friends had even reached the yard. Skylor looked around, now that there was light outside she could see that the neighbours had tried to fix up the yard as best they could. At the sound of a door creaking open, she turned, her face so bright it could rival the sun.

Their neighbour, Mr. Mathews stood there, pushing a wheelchair. And in that wheelchair was Jay. "Skylor!"

"Jay." She breathed.

Skylor ran over to him, wrapping her arms around his torso. His left arm was in a sling and all of his wrists, ribs and ankles had been bandaged. His right temple had been covered and all cuts taken care off.

"¿Qué te tomó tanto tiempo?" ('What took you so long?')

Skylor let out a small laugh and wiped her tears away. "Primero tenía que convertirme en ninja." ('Had to become a ninja first.')

"La naranja se ve bien en ti". ('Orange looks good on you.')

"Te extrañé." ('I missed you.')

Jay paused at the sudden topic change before wrapping his right arm around her, bringing her in closer. "Yo también te extrañé. Nunca más te vayas por tanto tiempo." ('I missed you too. Never leave for that long again.')

Skylor pulled away. "No puedo prometer eso. Ella regresará, y quiero poder protegerte." ('I can't promise that. She will return, and I want to be able to protect you.')

"Ya me has protegido." ('You've already protected me.')

"¡Casi te matan porque no pude ocuparme de unos estúpidos esqueletos!" ('You were almost killed because I couldn't take care of some stupid skeletons!')

"Casi. Estoy aquí para ti y no en el Inframundo." ('Almost. Because of you I'm here and not in the Underworld.') He wiped her cheek and smiled up at her. She smiled weakly back and he brought their foreheads together.

Skylor took a deep breath, overwhelmed. She pulled away from Jay, giving his hand a squeeze.

Jay smiled. "¿Te importaría decirme quiénes son porque me saludan como si me conocieran y no quiero ser grosero?" ('Now, do you mind telling me who they are because they are waving at me like they know me and I don't want to be rude.)

Skylor laughed, thanking their neighbour who was already headed down the path and taking control of Jay's wheelchair.

"Jay, saluda a mis hermanas".

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anncanta · 3 years

Text

Hierogamy: Dracula BBC and the myth about Kora-Persephone

Today I would like to talk about the mythological drama in the series Dracula and some of its aspects, without which, it seems to me, the perception of this text will remain incomplete, and the understanding will not be as deep as it deserves.

But first, perhaps, it is worth saying a few words about why it seems to me that it is so significant to consider the mythological drama in a work of fiction in general and in Dracula in particular. Isn't it enough just to look or read, perceiving the text as it is, and not going into the study of some complex deep layers? Sometimes it's enough. But more often – no, it isn't. The answer to the question of why so lies in the very nature of a story and the art of storytelling.

The mythological drama is never fully developed in the text at the formal level, although there is where it precisely can be seen. This seems to be a contradiction just at first glance: the drama (in its original ancient Greek meaning) is a kind of ‘deep development’ underlying all events and scenes. It is like a labyrinth, a skeleton, a matrix on which the rest is built and grows.

That is, why is it important to look ‘from here’? For the same reason that it was important for Jonathan Harker in the film to find a map: in order, firstly, to understand how the castle is arranged (and therefore Dracula himself), to relate himself to it in a certain way – and to get out of its boundaries, that is, to include the castle in a wider context, which will allow the character to find freedom.

Finding freedom, in this case, should be understood quite literally – as going beyond the limits of restrictions and, as Dracula and Jonathan each correctly note in their own way, – a look from above.

This view has many advantages, but the main thing is the ability to perceive what was seen in its integrity.

Because in a good story, ‘how’ is always ‘about what’, so if you don't understand ‘how’ or ‘for what’, or even ‘what it was’ in general, most likely you haven't read the text, and it remained for you something like a set of colored spots on the wall, beautiful or annoying, but – as researchers of the brain and psyche never tire of reminding, – in the absence of a ‘key’ such thing does not exist as the story itself.

It is not at all necessary, by the way, should be a mythological or psychological, archetypal, or fairy-tale ‘key’. Or all at once. At one stage or another in life, each viewer and reader needs their own set of the ‘keys’ or a specific one. First of all, it is the literal sense of the story at the plot level. But without a ‘key’ at all – there is no text. At least because the text itself, as a phenomenon consisting of – whether linguistic, pictorial, or auditory – signs, is a key – to our ability to imagine things that do not exist ‘in reality’, and to ideas, images, and meanings.

But back to the text.

In Dracula, the mythological drama is present at all levels, and there are no parts, ideas, or interactions between characters in any moment of the film where it would not be important in one way or another.

We will not consider all aspects in which the mythological context directly manifested itself, as it will take too much time. Let's see just one – the one that is the main motive of the film and somehow creates the main plot collision, and with it – the metaphor and essence of the story itself.

And this is the motive of hierogamy.

Hierogamy as a concept can be considered in two aspects. The first is mythological, in which it represents the name, description, and modeling in the ritual a sacred marriage (from the Greek ιερός γάμος, Latin hieros gamos) of the god and goddess, and the second is alchemical (archetypal), denoting the combination of male and female principles in the process of creating a philosopher's stone.

Hierogamy in one way or another includes a sexual context, in the sense that it puts at the center of the event and experiences ‘connection’ and ‘dissolution of boundaries’ to create a single one that will be greater than the sum of its parts.

In Dracula, both of these aspects are present and can be recognized from the very first minutes.

We will not go into details, just list a few examples.

The most obvious and conspicuous is Dracula's castle as the fruit of love between Petruvio and his wife (whose portraits hang side by side on one of the floors and, as we learn later, are the ‘entrance’ to the mystery of the castle and its structure, and at the same time – the ‘exit’ to the outside world), Jonathan as the bride of Dracula, thanks to the interaction with which the Count is able to leave his ‘prison without locks’, the connection of Mina and the remnants of Jonathan on the verge of space separated by the sacred bread, allowing Dracula to penetrate inside and give rise to a new interaction of the male and female, and so on.

But the fun begins to happen in the second episode.

Given as a prototype, a form and a plot configuration, the mythological drama of hierogamy has so far been satisfied with literal images of heroes and disclosure at the level of the plot. It was difficult to suspect something more in it than a direct (allegorical) depiction of mental and emotional processes. But in the second episode, a new layer appears in this story. Or rather, it stops hiding.

It's so simple, so obvious and so cheeky frank that when you watch it for the first time, you miss it in an attempt to follow the plot. And only by the end of the episode you do guess that you should follow something else.

Yes, we do not yet know – and we have nowhere to find out – that the action of the prologue of the second episode takes place on the same ship, which will become the stage for the internal and external drama, but the style and images, the very structure of the situation, gradually suggest what will be discussed here.

And it will be the drama of Kora-Persephone.

Let me briefly recall the content of the underlying ancient Greek myth about Kora, Hades, and Demeter.

The daughter of the goddess of fertility Demeter, Kora, attracted the attention of the ruler of the underworld, the god Hades, and he kidnapped her, taking her to him, to the lands of the dead. There Kora spent some time, communicating quite closely with Hades, after which she begged him to let her go to the ‘upper world’ for a while so that she could see her mother, whom she was terribly longing for. Hades fulfilled Kora's request, but on the condition that she would return, and gave the girl several pomegranate seeds for the journey. During her stay in the kingdom of Hades, Kora refused to eat anything, so by the time she received the gift she was very hungry, and therefore, soon after she found herself on earth, she ate the seeds. And since the pomegranate is the fruit of Hades and the symbol of marriage, this made her return to Hades a must. Meanwhile, in the ‘upper world’ fields and plants ceased to bear fruit, and eternal winter came, as Kora's mother, Demeter, mad with grief and longing for her daughter, turned away from people and nature. Zeus found a solution to the problem. He decreed that Persephone (that was the name of the goddess who had ceased to be a girl) should spend six months on Olympus, that is, with her mother, and six months – in the kingdom of Hades, now her husband.

Thus, the myth, on the one hand, describes in the language of an archaic worldview the logic of the changing seasons (Persephone on Olympus – Demeter rejoices, spring and summer come on earth, Persephone in the kingdom of Hades – Demeter suffers, autumn and winter come on earth), and from the other, represents the mystery cycle of successive transformations of a girl into a woman and the unification of male and female in sacred marriage.

Let's see how this mystery cycle unfolds in the film – on a formal and substantive level.

The ship on which Dracula sails to England is called Demeter. In the center of the plot of the episode are the abduction of a virgin (a nun is by definition a virgin, if not physically, then symbolically) and the interaction of the hero with her on a ‘lower’, deep level. Lower, in the sense – detached from the everyday, visible to everyone, taking place in the light of universal attention and perception.

The hero who kidnapped the virgin (by the way, we have no doubt that he kidnapped her, from the very beginning – just do not know how exactly it happened; and therefore our desire to follow them closely is so intense) does not completely belong to the world of the living, although he does not belong to the world of the dead either. He seems to live on the border, not being part of either of these two realities. So that no one has any doubts about who he represents, let us recall that Hades was not always associated with death among the Greeks, and was never considered the master of hell and a synonym for death and destruction. He created a kingdom for himself, which he called by his name, in order to live away from everyone. And only later did he become the ruler of the world of the dead.

Obviously, the description of Dracula's life in the castle refers to the reality of Hades in the underworld, largely parodying it. Because, although Hades is the king of shadows, he is still a king, and his kingdom is real. Whereas Dracula lives, in fact, in a dump filled with bad memories and rotting broken dolls, locked in the boxes.

But Hades also kidnapped Persephone, not on great terms.

Both stories, the mythological one, and the story told in the film, lead us to the fact that the hero (the masculinity, the organizing principle) for completeness and development lacks a partner, another view of the same world, a beloved-opposite.

Dracula finds her at the gates of the convent and, according to the logic of the mythological drama, drags her to him. There is an interesting moment: hardly, having captured Agatha, Dracula went with her immediately to the ship. Most likely, he first brought her to his home, that is, to the castle, and only after that, when the time came, he sent her to Demeter. So, their interaction began in the castle, in the literal realm of the dead, and continued on a ship in the middle of the sea, in a transitional space, in a space of changes. This fully corresponds to the myth of the transformation of Hades, who has gone from voluntary loneliness to becoming a king in the world of the dead, where everything is indefinite, mobile, unsteady and although it does not change in the sense in which it happens on earth, it represents the idea of change as it is.

Everything is possible in the space of changes, therefore, here the most important thing for the whole film takes place, and that will give the story an impulse to move forward and being resolved in the form, which we see in the third episode.

Let's turn now to Agatha's story.

On the ship, she travels in the role of Kora – at first, abducted and held in the ‘underworld’ and not realizing her position (Hades, let me remind you, having kidnapped Kora, did not immediately make her his wife, and she was sort of his guest – until the moment when she persuaded him to let her go to earth to see her mother), and then – in fact, the mistress of this very kingdom.

Why mistress? It is rather difficult to answer this question. But there are details in the text that give hints and, on close examination, leave no room for double interpretation.

The simplest and most obvious is the physical location of the characters in the frame. They are on an equal footing, both in the center, and although Agatha is shorter than Dracula, she is as ‘in her place’ as he is and feels just as confident.

The second is how they communicate. In addition to the fact that the dialogue, the beginning of which we see in the prologue of the episode, is quite friendly and mutual (no one hangs over anyone, does not threaten anyone, and does not try to pressure – for those who have forgotten what it looks like, there is the final conversation in the convent), Agatha's position is read from the phrases thrown by Dracula in passing, but very eloquent. Such as ‘You choose’ – in response to the question of who will play black and who will play white. And this is only the upper layer of interaction, there are more of them, and on each one, it is acutely felt that here Agatha is not a prisoner, but a partner.

You might say, – of course, this is all part of an insidious plan to keep Agatha in the dark, and no real courtesy (not to mention real respect and closeness) is out of the question. Dracula is just playing with his victim. But this is the essence of the story and what happens on Demeter, as well as in the space of the original drama. Hades kidnaps Persephone as something alien, beautiful, and unfamiliar, something that attracted his attention in the distant upper world and that, like a fruitful grain, fell into his dark hermetic kingdom and ignited the spark of life in it.

Hierogamy and everything that precedes it is a mutual process, otherwise it makes no sense.

But then a moment comes in the story, which in the mythological drama corresponds to the stage of the earth, empty due to the grief of Demeter and the despair of Kora, yearning for the upper world.

On the ship, which has lost most of the passengers and half of the crew, because of Dracula's appetite, tension grows, and in the same way, it grows inside Agatha, who despite her quite comfortable position, begins to realize that something is wrong here.

Internal and external tensions converge at one point – on both sides of the doors of cabin number nine. And when the doors open, the mythological drama comes to the surface.

Interestingly, the story here does not even try to hide what it really is – from a detective in Agatha Christie's style, turning into a mystery action. Moreover, it directly admits it – when Dracula invites passengers and crew members of the ship to cabin number nine and brings them to Agatha's bed, he opens the curtain.

But what is going to happen here?

Let's see what the situation is in terms of structure.

The hero, who for a long period of time keeps a woman abducted by him from the ‘upper’ world, alien to him, experiences the invasion of this very world and is forced to present this woman to those around him and somehow explain her presence in this place and their relationship. Let us recall that the relationship between Kora and Hades also remained ‘unnoticed’ for the time being, or rather, until the moment when its uncertainty began to create problems.

Let's forget for a while about the individual needs and questions of passengers and crew – the important thing here is that all the ‘inhabitants’ of the ship demand to explain what is happening and to open cabin number nine.

Demeter demands Kora to her. She does not agree to put up with the current situation and calls Hades to account.

What remains for the hero? He, as in the Greek myth, acts with cunning: in this case, in the film, he tells the story that the woman lying in (his) bed is a murderer, the terrible eater of people whom passengers and crew have been unsuccessfully looking for throughout travels.

Dracula is trying to explain Agatha's presence here and now, on this ship and in these circumstances – not only to deflect suspicions from himself, but also to structure the situation in which they find themselves – not so much because he wants it, but because that he has no other choice.

What happens on deck is a logical consequence of his decision. Brought to light Kora is no longer the same as before – having visited the kingdom of Hades and entered into a close relationship with him, she can no longer remain a girl and just a daughter of her mother. Her innocence is left in the arms of the lord of the underworld. And since he really does not intend to let her go, all that remains for him is to make their relationship ‘legal’.

The hanging scene, entirely built on the interaction of Agatha, Dracula, and the ‘choir’ consisting of the crew of the ship and passengers, looks like another erotic at the same time (after the first scene in the convent), in which Agatha again from above and again largely dictates conditions, – and as a kind of coronation scene.

But not only the one.

There are so many meanings in this scene, and they are so closely intertwined and interconnected, that in order to see them all, you should carefully examine it – slowly, gradually.

First, Agatha is placed on a barrel and a noose is thrown around her neck, intending to execute her.

It would seem, what does Hades' marriage to Persephone have to do with it?

According to ancient pagan beliefs, the remnants of which are also preserved in Christianity, the bride, who left her home and married the fiancé, was considered dying for her previous life and being born for a new one.

Not everyone on the ship agrees that an unfamiliar and barely breathing woman is indeed guilty of the murders on the Demeter, and a dispute erupts between the judges hungry for justice. Among others, the captain speaks out and says that the woman standing on the barrel is the wife of the mysterious Mr. Balaur, who paid generously for her transportation in cabin number nine, without attracting unnecessary attention.

The word ‘wife’ is important. Firstly, because Dracula (Hades) still knows more than Agatha (Kora), even if he did not fully formulate it for himself. And secondly, because in the mythological reality in which the characters undoubtedly are, words matter. Let us recall that events still take place in a transitional space in the midst of changing and constantly moving waters. In this reality, what is not uttered is not defined. What is not shown does not exist. (I don't think I need to explain to anyone that cabin number nine is Schrödinger's box.) Thus, the one who utters the word determines this reality.

In the noise that arose after the recognition of the captain, most of the spoken words are lost, but two of them are heard clearly and turn out to be the main ones. This is the word ‘bride’, declared as a negation, and ‘wife’ disputed by no one.

At the plot level, this is just a confusion, a skirmish of frightened and distrustful people, but at the symbolic level, everything is clear and logical.

First, the bride announced that she is not the one (‘I'm not Balaur's bride!’).

Second, another person declared publicly that she was the wife of Mr. Balaur. Who, in turn, is nothing more than a mask, a pseudonym for Dracula. This is not enough for marriage, you say. Yes, sure. At the plot level, no doubt. But the characters are in symbolic space. And here, in this space, it is important who utters these words.

The captain pronounces them – a person who, by his position, is the master on the ship, who has the right to judge and resolve disputes, the right to execute and pardon, and – to seal marriages.

But this is not enough either. There are almost no coincidences in such texts. It was not in vain that I mentioned that the word ‘wife’ was not disputed. A mythological drama is being played out before us, but it is being played out in a nineteenth-century setting. Therefore, for a legal marriage, another formula becomes significant.

‘And if there is anyone among us who knows the reason why this marriage should not be contracted, let's tell now or be silent forever.’

Then one final touch is missing to complete the ceremony.

The moment when Agatha asks who has the courage to knock over the barrel and hears Dracula's answer: ‘Me,’ on a metaphorical level, ‘closes’ the frame of the ritual action.

The fiancé approaches the bride and makes a movement to ‘end the game’ – literally to kill Agatha, and symbolically, to complete her transition from bride status to wife status. Here even blood is present as an attribute of the loss of virginity, even though, in this case, the bride has long since said goodbye to it. But we are talking about the symbolic aspect of what is happening.

Let's not forget, however, that the lord of the underworld kidnapped Kora-Persephone and involved her in marriage without her direct and informed consent (more on this later). Therefore, Agatha's actions, when she spits blood in Dracula's face, literally designed to reveal his vampire nature for everyone, symbolically signify the resistance of Kora-Persephone and the desire to escape from her husband. But some things, having started, are quite difficult to stop, so Dracula still knocks over the barrel. Having successfully landed surrounded by ‘guests’ at the wedding, Agatha survives. But on a symbolic level, her death was not the goal. The goal was to physically separate one part of her life from another. This is exactly what happened.

Thus, we can conclude that after the end of the second episode, we are no longer facing Kora, but Persephone – the queen of the underworld.

But, as in the myth, Persephone at this stage is still the point of intersection of the conflicts of several characters. This is Hades, who wants her to return to him from the upper world, Demeter, who does not think to retreat, and... Persephone, who needs to deal with herself and who she is now, and how she will continue to be.

At the mythological level, it is the conflict that will become central in the third episode.

In the myth, at the request of Persephone and Demeter, Hades released Persephone to the upper world, giving her (some sources say – forcing to eat, but this is unlikely since it does not correspond to the function of that types of objects in myths and fairy tales) several pomegranate seeds... It was because of this that Persephone, having eaten them already on earth, was forced to return back to the underworld.

Do you remember what happens in the third episode?

Zoe van Helsing (a doctor, who, by profession, every day deals with the reality of both the ‘upper’ and ‘lower’ worlds, and exists and works on their border) – who can be considered a kind of ‘earthly’ incarnation of Agatha, Persephone from ‘upper world’, meets Dracula, whom she did not think to meet. By her own admission, she never really believed that Dracula would be found. And Dracula, seeing that his ‘wife’ does not remember him and does not want to return, gives her his blood and offers to ‘read’ it – if Zoe guesses how to do it.

That is, you understand – he does not directly offer her to drink his blood. He only gives her what she wants. Just like in the myth.

Zoe is a researcher, and besides the fact that she may have hoped that Dracula's blood would somehow help her recover from a fatal disease, she probably really wanted to know the secret of vampire blood, as any real scientist, inquisitive and hungry for knowledge.

Now let's turn to myth again. Persephone ate the pomegranate seeds that Hades gave her because she was hungry because she refused food all the time she was with him.

By the way, these seeds originated from drops of Dionysus blood.

The connection of Dionysian ecstasy, wine, blood, intoxication, and the processes occurring at the level of the ‘lower world’ – the world of the corporeal and the unconscious, is spoken directly in the text several times, but I think there is no need to dwell on this here.

After that, it is not surprising that the symbolism of the field appears here, – in the middle of which Zoe finds herself after drinking Dracula's blood. If in the second episode Demeter was present as a ship, a womb, a mother, carrying the potential of the future and protecting her child, then in the third she appears before us as a fertile layer, a bed, giving Agatha-Zoe-Persephone her blessing and, thus, the opportunity to complete the transformation and become a full-fledged spouse of her husband, at the same time, keeping the connection with the mother on a new level.

All this allows the story to unfold in the finale in a mysterious – alchemical context.

The fact is that the cult of fertility, the cult of Kora-Persephone, presumably formed the basis of the Eleusinian mysteries, mythology, and philosophy of which greatly influenced the views of medieval Western European alchemists. From here comes the similarity and continuity of images, ideas, and descriptions of processes, a close, often inherited metaphor, and, in a certain sense, an underlying common myth.

As the screenwriters themselves remind in one of the interviews, Dracula is a story of resurrection. So there is nothing surprising in the fact that in the finale of the third episode and the entire film, the mythological motive of Kora-Persephone and the alchemical one – coniunctio oppositorum* – are combined in one hierogamy.

This is openly stated in the text as well. In one of the last scenes of the series, Dracula says, addressing everyone present at once, and indirectly to the viewer: ‘Journey's end. Lovers meeting.’ This is a literal description of the alchemical stage of the union of the masculine and feminine principles.

Therefore, in the final scene, he and Agatha are making love – at the level of the plot, this is due to the development of their relationship as individuals, as a man and a woman, but at the symbolic level this is because the opposites they represent have reached a state where they can merge to give the beginning of a new one.

It is important to remember here what the story is constantly showing visually: there is what is happening on the ‘outer’ plane and what is on the ‘inner’ plane. The space of the film is constantly divided into two levels-states: Dracula's castle and the monastery, the monastery and the area in front of the monastery gates; what is happening in Agatha's workshop and the same thing – recorded in Dracula's blood and played in Zoe's head, Dracula and Agatha, lying on the table in Dracula's apartment, and Dracula and Agatha together in a golden light.

Let me remind you again: a real myth, an archetypal drama, very rarely unfolds in front of the viewer or reader directly, told in literal, poster language. Most often they turn out to be ‘wrapped’, embedded in the shell of a legend, parable, or fairy tale. In this sense, nothing has changed since the time of the ancient Greeks. The basic narrative structures are the same. How, perhaps, we all remained the same. Therefore, stories like this work. Therefore, they are important.

And also – because they are all-conquering beautiful.

* Сoniunctio oppositorum (Latin) – the combination of opposites. One of the key stages of alchemical Work.

P. S. In conclusion, I would like to show a few symbolic images from alchemical treatises. I will not show the corresponding scenes from the film – I think you yourself will recognize them. The first two illustrations are prints from the Splendor Solis, the third – from the Rosarium philosophorum.

#dracula 2020 #bbc dracula #count dracula #agatha van helsing #meta

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whumping-out-of-timee · 3 years

Text

Awakening

Cw: Broken bones, Injury, Exhaustion, Blood, Implied cannibalism, Supernatural horror, Hearing voices, Bones, Implied dead bodies, Panic attack, Emotional distress, Environmental hazards, Mild swearing

Previous: Falling Short

This is still part of the prologue (part 2/3), I'm dragging it out a bit too long maybe. Anyway, let me know if I forgot to tag something!

Red Masterlist here

*****

Nothingness, a whisper stirring to the top of it, breaking the surface. Only to drown again without words.

Quietness, there is nothing here. Rhythm of breath slowly coming to consciousness.

Wait-I.. am something still?

It was cold, something cold pressed against his left cheek? Or was it all around him? He couldn't tell but the freezing was rabid. It was leeching into his bones with aching intensity.

He became aware he was laying on his side. Groaning at the sharp pain in his leg when he tried to move.

Eyes shot open, illuminated by the endless dull pastel they fell upon. Paleness divided only by the deep shadows that cracked though it. A vast, blank canvas that mirrored the stars above with near crystal clarity.

Shit.. it's the salt flat. How long have I been here?

He had no idea, but he knew this place was pure despair under it's beautiful surface. This was the outskirt of the underworld, a place the cast out often fell. The weak scavenged off before they can escape it. Such a wretched place, that whispers haunt it in sorrow. The afterthoughts of those that perished in it's vastness. Voices that were once demons, he would join the solemn chorus if he didn't find a way out soon.

The best hope was to escape before the sun came out, he would die of dehydration quickly in the heat of day. The salt was notorious for drinking every bit of moisture available.

Inside he felt terrible. New fire eating at him. This feeling was fighting for control. Hunger crying out for attention. His eyes burned, his color erased no doubt.

But, now was not the time to mourn his lost self.

I'm just Niko now, a thought quickly drifting away with his breath.

He strained to sit up, everything was sore. Right leg felt close to excruciating, as he rearranged it beneath him. Shivers ran down his spine as his leg didn't feel solid under him, restraining himself from crying out.

No being would hear his cries for help anyway, his heart felt shallow. He was forsaken, Felix had unbound himself from Niko, shedding the responsibility like it was nothing.

That bastard.. after all my years of loyalty, this is how he repays me. In traitorous cruelty.. curse him. I would've gladly died for him, yet he sacrificed me on a whim!

He had to save himself for once. The injury would heal soon no matter how much it hurt now. But there was no time to wait, he couldn't let himself die here.

Every direction he turned his head seemed the same, but he knew there was only one way to salvation.

But which is it?

The echoes overtook his thoughts, endlessly whispering of misfortune. His now sensitive ears could hear every grisly word they said. Every syllable radiating up from the baron white ground to meet him.

He tried his best to ignore them, looking to the sky, a different sky than he was accustomed to. A bright white star shining the brightest, setting the white beneath him aglow. His new sense of night vision painfully overpowered as he stared into it. More white: the color of death, erasure.

Will I sink into the white as well?

He quickly shrugged the thought away, deciding he would follow the star. It was better than no direction at all, at least that way, he couldn't go in circles.

At that decision, he forced himself to his feet, not yet used to his new wings and tail. His bones were no longer hollow and he was heavy.

He stumbled forwards on his bad leg, noise escaping from him involuntarily. Throwing his hands out to catch himself, he noticed his clawed hands for the first time. He lifted his hand off the ground to stare, turning his palm up towards his face. Dark claws on his curled fingers contrasting with his salt stained palm.

"No time for this now" he murmured to himself, setting off an eerie chain of whispering.

He rose up slowly on his good leg. Shifting his weight to his other leg gradually, testing if it would support him. It did. He winced as he took a shaky step, but it held him up.

The sun bleached bones of hundreds were in sight, doomed to stay in their grim places forever. A few souls wandered like zombies far in the distance, others making smooth movements as they searched for the unlucky.

Best to avoid every being here, Niko had never been very strong. Falling always makes one stronger, but he had no faith in his ability to defend himself.

Lining himself up with the deafening brightness, he started walking, a deep limp paining him with every step. Though, it hurt less with every passing minute. Gradually he sped up, still walking directly towards the white glow above.

Soon he had been walking for hours. The faces of the dead looking up at him with envy, voices getting more relentless with their words. It was getting to him, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it.

Was he to be like that too? Scavenged on by his own kind

A terrible thought that started to consume him. Graphic whispers choking out his own thinking. He fought back against it, his last stand.

He wanted to run, and he nearly could. His leg was starting to feel much better, the limp getting shallow.

I cant panic right now, I have to drag myself from this hell

The burning warmth in him strengthening.

Was this what strength felt like? A strange feeling

But it was only fleeting, put to death by the purplish glow on the horizon. It was dawn, the beginning of the end. His end, lost spirits filling in every detail of his demise.

My time is up, I'm going to die here

He felt so thirsty already, it worsened the more he thought about it. Swallowing hard, he started to run. Easily ignoring the pain caused by it. Did he have a headache now? It felt like did. He ran faster, tripping over bones carelessly. All he could see was the endless expanse, his breathing was wild, eyes unfocused. The stars blurring in his tears, splitting into a thousand shards of light under the growing lilac color.

It's over, was all he could think, none of it mattered now.

Every step was fighting him back, exhaustion setting in. He stopped, bracing his hands on his knees under his ragged breathing.

A creature stirred not far away, disturbed by his presence. Deep sea green eyes peering over its pile of collected misfortune. The sound of bones slipping to the cracked ground. A demon like him, fresh blood smeared over its lower face, whatever it had been eating hidden from Niko's sight.

Niko tried hard not to imagine it, he didn't want to know. Hopeless thoughts overtook him again. He ran, even though it was nearly impossible.

I have to keep going! They'll eat me too, maybe they won't even wait until I'm dead.

He ran for a few solid minutes, the aching pain came to him after the adrenaline started to wear off. His heart dropped further as the sun broke over the horizon, instantly adding heat to his skin. The ground burning with a newfound intensity.

Something new caught his eye, squinting to make it out in the harsh light.

A structure? It was a structure

Black stone in the distance made of sharp angles. It was more than a structure, it was a town! Shape broken up by the horizon.

He turned towards it, walking defeated as the heat of day started to spike. Salt starting to feel uncomfortably warm under every step he took. It was so far, deceptive on the narrow plane of view.

As he neared, he noticed others lingering in greater quantities. Niko kept his vision to the ground as he passed them by, not veering from his course. He walked steadily, not changing his demeanor at all. It was a bluff of false strength that the others weren't willing to test.

Every muscle was protesting his feat as he drew nearer to town, heartbeat drowning out his hearing. Niko's foot made contact with the scorching brick of the town at last. He had survived, against all odds.

*****

Next: Hunted by the Past

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writing-mermaid · 4 years

Text

The Princess and The Mad Hatter, prologue : Don't you see I'm the narrator and this is just the prologue

Summary : What if Snow-White wasn’t the fairest of all ? What if the most beautiful princess of the Enchanted Forest has been forgotten because she didn’t fell in love with a prince ? This is the story of a curse and of a love story defying all the codes of fairy tales.

Pairing : Jefferson The Mad Hatter x Princess Rose (OFC)

Warnings : None

Word Count : 626

Author’s note : I’ve already posted this, on my main blog, but I decided to rework on it to repost it. Hope you’ll like it. Don’t forget that feedback is appreciated and really important.

Song of the title : The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide Is Press Coverage - Panic! At the Disco

Masterlist

The Princess and The Mad Hatter masterlist

Buy me a ☕

Storybrooke, 2016

Emma walks with purpose towards the edge of the forest, Hook glued to her steps. The blond woman is pissed off, decided to found, as fast as she can, the magic creature, potentially dangerous, according to Gold, which abruptly flown away from an item from his shop, creating a huge mess on its way out. Cars are turned upside down, windows are broken, and a mysterious purple trail shows a way to follow, the savior immediately rushes after that thing to avoid it to make new damages, her boyfriend just behind her.

Once on the edge of the wood, they both scan the surrounding area to find their prey.

“Look, there is something over there”, Emma points, walking slowly, trying not to frighten the figure she had spotted.

The form on the ground doesn’t have anything of a monster or a magic creature, Emma notices once she is closer to it. It’s a human being, more exactly a young woman, lying on her stomach, the side of her face buried inside the feathers and the wet ground of the forest. Light white skin, with long auburn hair falling on her left shoulder. With the shape of her body, Emma immediately notices that the young woman is pregnant, and probably close to the end. Hook observes the scene, watching Emma gently pulling away the unknown woman hair from her face and then looking for her hand to take her pulse.

“Bloody Hell !”, the pirate suddenly exclaims, while placing his right hand on his mouth, eyes wide open in a state of shock,

“What ?”, Emma asks. “Do you know her ?”

“Aye, love. I know her… She’s my princess.”

“What ?! What do you mean your princess ?”

“Not my princess in that way. It’s my princess, the one from the kingdom I come from, my birthplace. But I thought she was dead a long time ago…”

“Wait a minute, if I understand well, she’s the one you were talking about with Liam in the Underworld ? The one you asked for news ?”

“Aye, that’s her”, he answered. “How is she ? Is she alive ?”

“She seems to be okay.”, Emma tells him grabbing her wrist. “But she really breathes slowly, and has a very weak pulse, we need to take her to the hospital.”

Emma gently turns the young woman on her back. She pulls off some other hair, in order to see her face’s details. If she really is a princess, as Killian said, she has the beauty but not really the look. Her clothes are very simple, but Emma’s gaze stops on the young woman’s face, she can’t see her eyes color, but judging only by looking at the thin lines of her sweet face, her straight and delicate nose and her thin mouth of the color of a pink rosebud, Emma doesn’t doubt that this young person, who she thinks is not even thirty, has something noble.

While Killian bends to pick up his long-lost friend and takes her gently into his arms, while paying attention to not scratch his hook in the thin skin of her back, Emma thinks about what to do next.

“If she’s a princess, and considering her state”, Emma says, pointing at the young woman's belly, “she might have a prince somewhere. We need a prince. Her prince. If she has been cursed, I suppose she’s going to need a true love kiss to wake up.”’

“Oh no Love, that not how it works with her”, Hook answers with a smirk. “Believe me, it’s not a prince she needs.”

“If it’s not a prince she needs”, Emma sighs in complete disbelief, “what does she need ?”

“A hatter”, Hook answers, smirking at her.

Taglist :

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baoshan-sanren · 4 years

Text

Prologue? I guess?

to that Madam Lan runs away AU I’m probably never gonna write

The fall had come early that year, and more than one harvest was ruined by frost.

Not many know it yet, but the winter will follow too soon as well, harsh and long, as if intent on exacting punishment. Firewood will run out long before new trees can be cut. Newborn sheep will die in the pens, before their mothers have a chance to surround them with warmth. Rivers, lakes, and wells will freeze, orchards will be destroyed by the heavy snow, thatched roofs will bow and break, and hundreds of people will perish in the icy winter storms.

But all of that has yet to come. The fall might have arrived early, but the streets and markets of Gusu are as crowded as ever, despite the early frost, despite the unforgiving cold.

“Did you hear? Madam Lan has run away!”

“Madam? What Madam?”

“Madam Lan! The wife of Qingheng-Jun!”

The word spreads quickly on the autumn winds, from one mouth to the next, from one ear to the next, each eager to hear the story, and even more eager to repeat it to a neighbor.

“She ran away? How do you know?”

“The Lan Sect has sent out search parties all across Gusu. Dozens of them! Checking all the farms and wagons and travelers, creating ruckus everywhere they go. They will come here next, I reckon, then you will see I was right.”

It must be said that there is something satisfying about the land’s most esteemed cultivators being brought low. Especially the Gusu Lan, the paragons of righteousness, the unflappable, the ever-dignified. No common man would accuse the Gusu Lan of pride that is not deserved, or arrogance so commonly seen in cultivators from the other sects. And yet, when the mighty fall and make fools of themselves, it is hard not to look down, if for no other reason than to see what their face might look like, once it is smeared with mud.

“A search party? For one woman? Ridiculous.”

“Shame, shame. To make such a disturbance. What does Qingheng-Jun mean by shouting about it from the rooftops? Who announces to the world that his wife has run away?”

“What do you know about it? She took the children too. Both of Qingheng-Jun’s sons, stolen away in the middle of the night.”

More than one woman at the market snorts at these words, but none speak their thoughts out loud. Can a woman really steal her own children? And if she does, what does this say about the father? That Qingheng-Jun must have been a cruel one, if a Madam, a wife of a Sect Leader, would run in the night like a thief. To leave a warm home and full larders, silk clothing and fur-lined cloaks, to abandon all connections and family, with two children in tow, just to wander the world like a beggar-- eh, there must have been some heinous event, some grave injury, some unforgivable sin.

The men yell back and forth, shocked and indignant, that such a woman can exist in the world. But by the evening meal, it will just be another anecdote for them, quickly forgotten.

In contrast, more than one woman will light an incense that night, and pray that the winter cold hold off a little longer. Running alone, with a child on each hip, is no easy thing even in the height of summer. They think, she should have come to her senses earlier, when the ground was not frozen, and the crop abundant.

Although not many will voice their true thoughts, they will not forget. When the cruel winter comes, cracking their hands, freezing the breath in their chests, they will think of Madam Lan and her two children. They will remember a woman who turned her back on comfort and riches and status, to give her children a better life, and they will feel a little warmer with that thought alone.

The first year passes, and Madame Lan is not found.

The second year passes, and Madam Lan is not found.

The third year Qingheng-Jun falls ill. For many months the cultivation world does not know if the Gusu Lan Sect Leader will live long enough to continue his search. By the spring the following year, his condition improves, but his spirits do not, forever altered by the loss. He enters seclusion as the first magnolias bloom, and his brother, Lan QiRen, takes the duty of the Sect Leader. Neither Madam Lan, nor her two children, are ever spoken of in Cloud Recesses again, as if by silence, the stain can be washed away.

The leaders of all sects, large and small, shake their heads when the incident is mentioned. What a terrible precedent. What a horrifying event. Who could have guessed, that a wife of a Sect Leader could do such a thing? How could Qingheng-Jun have married such a woman?

There must have been something wrong with her, some affliction of mind, or a disturbance of temper. After all, had she not lived in seclusion herself? The Gusu Lan must be better off with such an influence removed. One should not mourn a diseased branch cut off from the inheritance line, but be grateful that it was removed in time. Heavens can only guess what her children would have grown to be, under such guidance.

They mutter, and shake their heads, and avoid the subject when it strikes too close to home. Their wives, and mothers, and daughters, listen in silence.

In the fifth year, Madam Lan is not found, but something else of importance occurs. The Sect Leader of LanLing Jin, Jin GuangShan, dies in his sleep.

He dies in his sleep, with three prostitutes in the room, and a pillow over his face. He dies in his sleep beating his heels against the bed, lungs struggling for breath, nails clawing at the sheets. It takes him two incense sticks to stop thrashing around, like a dumb chicken with its neck severed, not knowing when it is time to lie down and die.

Madam Jin is understandably distraught. Her only son is eleven years old, not quite ready for the mantle of the Sect Leader. However, there is nothing to be done, but bear the loss the best that they can. After all, she had been a Sect Leader’s wife for many years; who better to guide the child, to lead him by the hand, to offer advice? It is a heavy burden for a woman still in mourning clothes, but Madam Jin shoulders the responsibility, and bravely carries on as she always had.

And if the three prostitutes find their home in the Koi Tower, who is there to raise opposition? One is a decent seamstress, as it happens, and the other two have a good head for numbers. Poor girls, to have lived through such trauma and misfortune. How can they not be forgiven, and offered another chance at a better life?

Madam Jin’s kindness and benevolence truly knows no bounds.

In the sixth year, Madam Lan is not found.

In the seventh year, Madam Lan is not found.

In the eight year, Madam Lan is not found, but a tragedy in two parts occurs in QiShan Wen.

First, Wen RuoHan and both his sons are assassinated in the night. All three are found in their beds, their tongues severed, their chests split open, their ribs pulled out like wings.

Many mutter under their breath when the details become known, naming old curses, debts unpaid, and offenses against the gods. No ordinary assassin would put on such a display. An entire inheritance line snuffed out in one swift blow, in one night, the slaughter so vicious that the hardest men can only speak of it in whispers? And for the assassin to never be discovered?

No, no, it is no assassination, this. It is more likely to be punishment. What could have the three done to deserve such a thing? Something odious to be sure; nothing a common man should know, or ask about.

On the heels of the slaughter comes a plague, mysterious and deadly. Wen RuoHan’s bloodline is the first to feel its effects. His brother, and his brother’s sons, all of his cousins, and all of their sons. Not a single mother, daughter, sister or a wife catches the plague, but the men perish in droves. Each feels perfectly well one day, and is found dead the next morning, their necks swollen and black, their tongues rotten in their heads. Fear sweeps across QiShan, permeating every household.

First the gristly murders, and now this? What had Wen RuoHan done, for the heavens to punish his people in such a way? Are they all to perish for their Sect Leader’s sins?

The best healers from every sect are summoned, but long before any arrive, the plague disappears as swiftly as it had arrived. No one knows what had caused it, or what had stopped it, but soon, the word spreads of the little girl healer from the north of QiShan, whose brother had fallen ill, and been cured by her hands.

Who is this girl? Surely someone blessed by the gods. Otherwise, how can a child stop a plague on her own?

It is not long before her name is on everyone’s lips. Thousands of people descend on the Nightless City, hoping for a glimpse of this blessed creature who had brought the land back from the brink of disaster. Songs are composed in her honor, and stories written of her deeds, each one more fanciful than the last. She is a girl child who had tricked death, who had gambled with demons of misfortune and won, who had crossed into underworld to find her brother’s soul, then carried it back into the land of the living.

Not a year goes by before she is elevated to a goddess among the common folk; the patroness of healers, the mother of the sick and downtrodden, the subject of thousands of prayers.

Who else can sit the Sect Leader’s seat now? How else would dare?

The Wen Sect begs Wen Qing to lead them, and she accepts graciously.

She must be, beyond any doubt, a saint clothed in human flesh.

In the ninth year, Madam Lan is not found.

In the tenth year, her two sons descend from the Immortal Mountain.

#the untamed #cql #mdzs #ficlet #m #i'm never gonna write this thing btw #i just wanted to kill a bunch of people who deserved it #and give the lan siblings a clean slate with no war #so if i do write more #it can be all night-hunts and fluff

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scribbleseas · 4 years

Text

The Indignant Pawn, Chapter I: The Princess of Germany’s First Kiss (Prologue)

Description: You are Y/n Y/l/n- formerly known as Princess Helena, the runaway princess.

You're an assassin for hire who only agrees to find the worst of London's criminals at the business end of your knife; until a mysterious woman hires you to end the likes of Ciel Phantomhive, the King of the Underworld. You find yourself trading your weapons for your abandoned family crest in order to infiltrate his home as none other than Princess Marie-Louise, your twin sister. What's to happen when you find that the young Earl is more than a callous businessman?

OVERALL STORY WARNINGS: sexual assault (once in the prologue), objectification, misogyny, death, detailed description of blood/gore, detailed description of murder, lying, impersonation, theft, weapons, detailed panic attacks, symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.

Author’s Note: If you have any questions or concerns about these warnings, please don’t hesitate to contact me! Otherwise, I hope you enjoy the first installment of TIP!

-Dan

⇠ PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ⇢

. . .

DECEMBER 12TH, 1883

SCHLESWIG-HOLSTEIN, GERMANY

“Her Highness is missing again, haven’t you heard?” a woman spoke over the incoherent mumbling of men and women who were in the process of boarding the SS Mary- a steamship that was preparing to go to London, from the main port of Schleswig-Holstein. Their words were muffled to a girl as her lithe figure was contorted into a crouch between restrained boxes of cargo on deck. She trembled as they did nothing to compose the unforgiving draft of December air.

Her eyes were downcast, staring at the soiled silk of her petticoat. The sight of it caused her lips to twitch in amusement, the brown grime and recently melted snow did well to spread up the skirt, which made the elaborate dress more worthless than it had been coming out off the seamstress’s thread and needle.

“Who, Princess Helena? They ought to put her in her place when they find her- the rest of them are nothing like that hellchild,” another woman’s voice carried a heavy disdain, highly resembling Governess Lydia’s admonishing words- the verbal equivalent to the crack of a punishing whip. However, she missed the hateful German language as instead sported a thick, English accent, much like the first woman’s.

The girl’s grip on one of the thick gold chains in her pocket bag tightened as she twisted it around her finger and back again. Every bit of gratification the blemishing of her fine wardrobe gave her was quickly dispatched- made to be as bitter as the cold that stung at her nose. “How they managed to corrupt one of those children out of- what, four? Frightens me. Princess Marie should have a sure enough influence on her.

Naturally, the virtuous Princess Marie Louise of Schleswig-Holstein was a necessity to speak of to make a proper comparison. Though her visage was identical to Princess Helena’s, she couldn’t never have the grit that her sister’s character possessed. Marie was the perfect girl- obedient and soft-spoken, which was why she was so loved amongst the public and the royal family. She had the attitude of a sprouting tulip or a fleeting butterfly while her sister had broken nearly every custom a royal ought to obey.

The mere thought of Marie herself caused the girl’s features contort into a frustrated frown, as if she’d tasted something sour. Something undesirable, quite like herself, she’d come to realize.

“At least we’ve got on before the Peelers could start searching ships, heavens knows- that one is smart enough to climb aboard,” the woman continued, “what she’d do in the country of her grandmother is lost to me.” The woman’s doubt was quite an inspiration to the girl. There was plenty to do in London. How the girl hated being underestimated.

“Reckon the brothers will join the next massive search party?” The first woman asked, referring to the eldest siblings of the Germany royalty- Prince Christian and Prince Albert. Prince Christian was the heir of the throne, much to the public’s relief, considering he was the most disciplined- the most honorable, though he was only sixteen.

“Of course. They’re Princes. They must, no matter how fruitless the search is,” the second responded, her reproachful tone caused the girl to shudder again, perhaps pitying the small infant that was smothered in soft blankets. She could hardly make out them between the thin opening in front of her, her person was tall and slender, her skirts perky enough to suggest that they were made of light, shiny silk. It seemed he was militant because she was a noblewoman.

A deeper male voice interrupted, “shut your sauce-boxes! The princess doesn’t mean nothing to the royal family, so why would she be of any more public concern?” he asked, clearing his throat, the scent of his cigar sharper in the cold. The girl wrinkled her nose in equal part concern and disgust- gentlemen were never to smoke around ladies.

“Oh, Arthur. Put that thing away, you’re an embarrassment,” the tall woman gestured to the sleeping infant as she turned her back to the man who adjusted his grip on the detailed carpet bags as he followed the two women with ease before stopping to begrudgingly do as he was told.

“Of course m’lady,” he scoffed, putting out the cigar in the astray that was near the railing as other men seemed to do so in suit. The man picked up the bags again to follow his companions out of the girl’s earshot.

“Besides, you know Her Majesty fancies her grandchildren as much as her own summer home. She’s to make everyone care, you tool.”

. . .

DECEMBER 13TH, 1883

LONDON, ENGLAND

“Your name?” An officer demanded, his face stoic as he squinted at the girl, trying to get a proper look at her face as she concealed it with a burly scarf. There were dozens of officers by the port, each asking the same question to the incoming travelers. While most provided them with an answer, the girl simply stared at the man, her optics wordless as she pretended to claim unfamiliarity with his language as opposed to her own native tongue. “I asked for your name. Are you deaf?”

Under her scarf, she pursed her chapped lips. “Ich spreche kein Englisch,” (I don’t speak English) she mumbled, her ears reddening with the lie, though they were concealed by her elegantly braided bun and the limp hood that covered her head. She watched the guard, his stance straightening before shaking his head in disdain. His old face was keen, though he evidently lacked the energy to question her any further.

“Wait for your mother next time,” the officer commented, impatiently gesturing for her to move along. His frown passive enough for the girl to assume that her passage into the city was acceptable.

London was crowded, the cold air stale with the far off stench of horse muck and smoke. Carriages passed through the streets, the sound of the hooves of horses sounded on the uneven cobblestone. The conversations of pedestrians polluted the atmosphere, boys with the latest papers were sure to badger each passerby. News of the missing Princess came to London faster than SS Mary had been able to, which meant that Her Majesty had to have been notified of granddaughter’s disappearance already.

The girl followed the pavement, appreciating the lack of cracks and the polite, genuine society around her- until she was interrupted already, within a matter of minutes of leaving the sport the SS Mary had docked in.

“Buy one of me papes, Miss, please!” A freckled boy scurried over to the girl, whose hand paused as she considered pulling down her scarf. It was too soon, though she reckoned that exposing her bun like a proper lady would do well to keep her inconspicuous. No one would know that her dress was of German make and housed heavy, jewelled accessories under the multitude petticoats she sported.

The boy was shivering, his cheeks red. He was too thin for his jacket, and his gloves were fingerless. The girl had no money, yet she found herself fishing a certain ring out of her pocket bag, it was emerald- her birthstone settled in a polite rose gold. It was likely worth more than the company that managed to produce the paper that the boy was distributing. His eyes followed her gloved hand, widening considerably as she offered the ring to him. Selling a paper for a few coins was no use to anyone.

“Sell this, for no less than... fourteen hundred pounds. And wait a week, at least,” the girl ordered, her accent was more pronounced than what she would have preferred, but her point was deliberate enough to make up for it. The winter was too harsh for such a young boy (who couldn’t have been much younger than herself) to only look out for himself during. No heedful mother would allow her son to leave home in such ill-fitting clothes, which suggested that he was alone. When he hesitated, she pressed the ring into his palm.

“I-I..I can’t take this,” he protested with a regretful sigh that was visible as his warm breath collided with the air. He tried to give it back, his hand still and outstretched, but the girl led his fingers over the ring with her own hand. “Just buy some pap-”

“Spring is months away. Buy yourself an overcoat that fits,” the girl was smiling under her scarf, though it was only visible through her eyes as they squinted around the sides.

“With...fourteen hundred pounds?” the boy repeated his voice in a dramatic whisper. His brown eyes were welling up with grateful tears as he pulled her into a cordial embrace. It was inappropriate, though they were around the same age. He gave her a tight squeeze, trapping both of her arms in it before letting go and running off, his satchel dropping papers in his wake with every bounding step. “Thank you!” he exclaimed over his shoulder with a half-wave, though he’d nearly bumped into a woman in his ignorance. He stumbled to the side of the pavement and took off his hat for her, since she was escorted by a man in a tailored coat and cane, statues of wealth.

. . .

DECEMBER 27th, 1883

LONDON, ENGLAND

“I saw Princess Helena! She was here, in a scarf-” the girl’s eyebrows were knitted as she stared to the side, away from the Peeler that she attracted with her concerned screeching. Her apron was in a muss of batter and the remnants of an egg yolk. To match, her hands were caked in the unidentified substance as their wild gestures failed to exaggerate her point. She too, was young, not too much older than the girl who was currently hiding herself between two buildings, her scarf hanging low around her neck. She could feel sweat beginning to perspire through her shift and her stay was too loose and floppy with each significant move she made. Dressing herself had proven itself to be more of a challenge than she anticipated, especially with navigating the cross ties that required the deftness of fingers she did not possess yet.

“Please Katherine, all of that sugar has made you delusional. Get back to work and wash your face, would you?” the Peeler scoffed, gesturing to any onlooker to carry on. He rolled the girl’s paper into a thin coil, resembling his own wooden truncheon as he tucked it into his boot.

“You bloody mutton-shunter! She came in wanting a loaf of bread! I swear it!” Katherine defensively rubbed her cheekbone, unconsciously spreading more flour on it. She gave the street adjacent to her one more long look before returning to her parents’ shop. “Don’t give me that rubbish.”

“Her Highness has been missing for…’bout two weeks. If she was going to show up, she woulda done it by now. See yourself off, now,” he waved the adolescent away from his post at the end of the street. Vaguely, he could recall a comrade of his speaking of a strange girl in the port, alone- her face covered. Perhaps...he shook his head. The media ought to stop this witch hunt for the poor girl, it seemed to be getting into his old head.

Meanwhile, the girl found herself in a difficult position. For two weeks, she had been able to live off of the wealth her jewelry had sowed, renting a room along with new petticoats and boots, while vendors in the market square had time to ruminate amongst themselves. They refused her further business unless she unraveled the uncouth scarf that concealed her nose and lips and in spite of her protests (the damning weather, potential ugliness), but to no avail. Concealing her face was unseemly and unladylike. Evidently, the result of her obediently removing her scarf was having to dash off and hide, all because of the papers. It would have been effective to fake her own death before she had boarded that bloody steamboat.

In her hunger, she could hear her stomach protesting in a chorus of low growls. The scent of bread in the bakery had been too tantalizing to describe as her most recent full meal was nothing but a distant memory. She rested her head against the bricks of the building, strands of her hair clinging to the porous material and causing her bun to fall more than it had previously. Her chest rose and fell as she stared at the grey sky. Snow was going to fall again, for the second time that morning.

“Ey- you there,” a male voice was getting closer, his silhouette unveiled as he entered the girl’s sightline. A smart grin was playing at his lips, pronouncing the smile lines that were on either sides of his eyes. “You gave that girl a serious fright, didn’t ya, Your Highness?” He was holding a paper, the headline facing outwards: PRINCESS HELENA OF SCHLESWIG- HOLSTEIN; YET TO BE FOUND. The man was scruffy and as he drew closer, as did the trailing scent of a cigar. His suit was plaid, the jacket unbuttoned to reveal a white undershirt.

The girl’s first instinct was to start off again, though she knew in her state, she wouldn’t get too far. Instead, she crossed her arms over her chest and stood up straight to face him. “What’re you, eight?” He continued, “I ain’t much into the royal scene, but I remember old Helena getting married to old Christian a coupla years ago.”

The girl tensed as he stopped at a respectful distance before her, while he disrespected the parents of the missing princess. Their eyes met, his being a deep, confusing green. His hair was a russet brown that slicked back, exposing the aged wrinkles in his forehead as well, a matching set to the lines near his eyes. “Ten,” she corrected him, her arms reluctantly uncrossing. This man was intelligent for a commoner, she could see it in that childish stare of his.

“You’ve got a gift, then,” he commented offhandedly, “well, Your Highness,” he laughs at the wry pleasantry, his shoulders jumping along. “I reckon we can help each other out a bit.”

The girl raised her chin, a request for him to elaborate as he continued to speak, each word visualizing in the cold air. Around his mouth and over his jaw was the making of a beard, barely poking out of his skin. It managed to suit the indigent man. “Have you heard of a confidence trick?” The girl was silent, which he took as a discreet ‘no’. “You’re gonna need to take off the scarf and play ‘long, then, alright? Come with me,” he gestured towards himself as he led the girl out of the alley.

It was unwise of her to trust a strange man, yet the girl’s ample intellect was undermined by her curiosity and inevitable starvation. She unwrapped her scarf, wrinkling her nose as it was exposed to the biting wind. Small snowflakes fell, wetting her hair and face before leaving trails down the beige stomacher and gown she dawned. The man lingered at the foot of the alleyway, merely watching the street before fixating on a pregnant woman and a man, presumably her husband. He led the girl to the pair, his face contorting into a desperate, doleful look of despair.

“Please, good sir- good lady, my daughter has fallen ill and I’ve…” the man looked down at the girl, who had the sense to cough into the sleeve of her shift, her shoulders tense as if every breath was hard to take in. “I’ve lost me position to the boss’s son.”

“You have our sympathy, good sir,” the husband started, only to be interrupted by his wife’s glare. Her hand was on her distended belly, sourly reminding him that their own child could be ill in the girl’s place in the future. Their exchange was wordless, yet brief. The look the woman shot at her husband was akin to the look the girl’s own mother gave towards everyone around her. With a sigh, he offered the man a large bag of coins, “today’s wages. You best get to the physician before he closes for the night,” he dismissed with a nod, arm in arm with his satisfied wife.

“Do find yourself a tenement. This cold won’t be doing your girl any favors,” the woman frowned, shouldering her furs as if they’d disappear suddenly.

“God bless!” the man simpered with a bow as he waited for the couple to show themselves further ways down the street before turning his attention back to the astonished girl. “Well?” he asked, “call me Baxter. And your name, kid?” There was a knowing smile defining the old lines in his face as he handed the heavy bag of coins to the girl, who was silent for passing beats as she tried to decide if Baxter was the man’s first name or his surname, if either. She’d never know.

“Y/n,” she mumbled, accepting the heavy bag in her small hands.

“Pleasure’s mine, Y/n,” Baxter laughed, “let’s fetch somethin’ to eat before we starve, yeah?”

. . .

OCTOBER 11TH, 1885

LONDON, ENGLAND

“A lady is more than capable of giving a man a good collie-shangle,” Baxter said, his sleeves rolled up as he faced the girl. “The world’s all chuffed with this idea of stronger, faster, fatter- whatever,” his baggy shirt was billowing in the gentle wind as they were fixed in the shielding wood of their shabby home. The wind was feeding through the open window to the side. “This is what matters, Y/n,” he gestured to his forehead, with the intent to help her see that he was adhering to his brain, or intellect, “understand?” Her natural English was still a work in progress.

The girl was twelve, and this was about to be her first of many defense classes. The conman had finally decided that she was ready as in the streets, a proper knowledge of fist to cups was as necessary as breathing. She nodded slowly, digesting each syllable the man had said. It was the complete opposite of the royal way, where she’d be shoved into dresses and ignored, like an abandoned toy. Baxter never ignored her; he was more of a father than hers ever was.

“Your mind is always gonna be your greatest weapon,” the girl’s eyes traveled down to his belt, where there was his usual handgun sheathed to it. Baxter had taught her how to shoot it, though she had yet to lay so much as a finger on it. It was for emergencies- life or death situations. Baxter cautioned that violence was always the last resort- the ‘time out’ in a hopeless situation. “This is just training you how to apply it to useful combat. How you’ll be able to take out someone bigger than you.”

At the time, this would apply to nearly the entire world’s population, considering the girl had hardly rounded out from the higher quantities of food she’d been consuming, and only grew a few inches since the day she departed Germany. “I- that’s...have you gone mad?” she asked, her eyebrows furrowing. The crown of her head was hardly adjacent to the midline of his bicep.

“How’d you go about it, kid?” Baxter asked, crossing his arms over his chest as he waved his hand dismissively. “Think.”

There was no thinking about it. Besides their height difference, it was his strength versus hers. Even his arms were longer, which meant that he could defend himself simply by using her own force against hers. Biting her lip, she was pleased to comprehend what he had meant by her strategic rationale being her primary weapon, though next to a fist of a hand that could cover the entirety of her face, she couldn’t see how it was relevant. Her only virtue would be her agility and speed, which were also useless in a spar.

“Draw ‘em in by giving ‘em an opening to come in close,” Baxter said. “You’re small, so they’re gonna try n’ use that against you by getting in real close and pushing you around,” he explained by example, starting towards the girl and gently pushing her back by her shoulders. It wasn’t enough to force her to move, but it was enough to demonstrate.

“Won’t they be pushing to injure?” The girl questioned, her nose wrinkling in frustration.

“No one pushes to injure- not in the streets. That’s for ol’ church-bells in their fancy skirts and we ain’t having none of that. ‘S a waste of our time,” the conman shook his head, as if the fact was obvious. “Pay attention now,” he gestured for her to step away again. “You’re gonna use your height to your advantage. You’ve full access to vulnerable points, like me throat n’ me torso. Now come back in.”

“Use your hand to drive me back,” Baxter directed, merely pointing her into the right direction. She’d recall the answer better if she found it by her own hands.

The girl’s small hand curled into a fist for a moment. He told her to drive him away, not to strike. With an open hand, she surged her arm upwards, spreading her thumb and index finger to accommodate the stretch of Baxter’s throat as she gave the hold a short push so as to not hurt him.

Baxter was smiling now, “brilliant, ‘n right after, you’ll wanna finish it with a knock er two. Since you’ve ‘em stunned, they’ll be mindless weight that you’ll be able to draw in. Drive in, push the throat, pull in ‘nd bring your knee in, ...where, Y/n?”

The girl followed each step, visualizing it as Baxter explained them. Drive in, push the throat, pull in, force her knee...if he was mindless weight, he’d be slouching at his waist...leaving his whole middle defenseless! “Your midline,” her lips turned up at the sides as she smiled. He liked to say that she inherited his ‘troublemaker’ grin while she told him that they liked to call her the Devil Child behind her back in the castle. It’d made him laugh.

“Exactly. Now try it,” Baxter directed, bracing himself as the girl drove her small hand around his throat, the other pulling his arm away by the sleeve, a welcome addition. With a huff, she (attempted) to pull him in, but for model purposes, he allowed her to, which left him open to getting hit in the upper groin area with a surprising amount of force. “Good,” he grunted, planting his shoes into the ground to avoid putting his full weight on the girl. “Go high again,” he instructed.

“Your throat is at a poor angle,” her hands were getting clammy as it clutched onto either of his sleeves.

“Then don’t use it. Unnecessary movements can be suicide,” he scoffed, but it came out as more of a wheeze when her palm forced his face back, causing his tall frame to arch back as he moved with her, suddenly. “You’ll finish off with your elbow and other hand.”

“Right,” the girl nodded in confirmation, pulling his body down by the sleeve with one of her hands as she used her other arm to simulate butting his head with the bony joint of her elbow. She released the conman, who stood up after bending himself back to crack his spine, vertebra making consecutively loud exclamations. He was beaming at her again, the wrinkles on the outside bits of his eyes curling with his lips.

“Now we ought to run it until you break me into bits. Buck up,” he said, extending his arms to his starting point.

. . .

AUGUST 12TH, 1887

ALFRISTON, EAST SUSSEX, ENGLAND

Spending the summer out of London was an understated relief. In Baxter’s shoebox of a countryside home (he said he’d inherited it from his father), the girl was able to let her hair down from its bun and loosen the tight strings of her stay, even going as far to muddy her boots, all of which would have caused a riot within her former life.

By then, the German princess, Helena had been missing for nearly four years. Her Majesty had been heartbroken to establish her granddaughter’s funeral in 1885, though it seemed she was the only individual of royal blood to truly mourn. Even Princess Marie-Louise, the twin of Helena’s, was quite stoic as they lowered the empty coffin. And thus, it was quite simple for the girl to remove her scarf and freely introduce herself as Y/n L/n, the foreign girl who stood at the side of the cunning conman- who was also the kindest of anyone she’d ever encountered.

Baxter, within their four years together, had aged considerably. His dark locks of hair had begun to gray as it fell past his eyebrows that morning, the wrinkles next to his eyes were more defined with every squint as he took a long drag of his cigar. He exhaled, blowing the dark smoke into the cloudless atmosphere of Alfriston as they reclined against the cool stones that made up the walls of the building behind them. It was a textile shop, but it wasn’t open quite yet- the owner was on his way.

The girl was staring at her cream colored boots as they peeked out from under her skirts. They were the cleanest pair she owned, and thus, employed to help orchestrate their plans for that morning. Dimly, she could recall stealing them from a whining daughter of a baron. Her crying was more shrill than a highest soprano in an opera house. It was Baxtor who told her that any spoiled maid could be distracted by something better than they already had. He was proud to watch on as the girl waited for the baron’s daughter to remove her boots in awe of a new pair.

Now, they were worn by the girl under a first hand gown, bought with an abundance of coins from different pocket bags and wallets. The gown was a gloomy shade of blue, enlightened by the gold lining that kept it secured to the stomacher. It was regal enough, given the pretenses of the meeting.

“Remember, liars stare off and shrink away. You’ll do neither,” Baxtor affirmed, to which the girl nodded, steeling herself. “You’ll look right into the bloke’s eyes... and take all he’s worth,” the man chuckled derisively as he coughed from the dryness that the cigar had put in his throat. The girl smiled, the corners of her lips twitching. “He’s gonna be mad as hops too, thinking he can outsmart you because you’re a girl.” Baxtor always spoke in a way that resided between both a common man’s tongue and that of an aristocrat, which naturally influenced the girl’s own English- in addition to her accent that tended to turn her ‘th’ sounds in most words into a noise akin to a ‘d’, ‘s’, or ‘f’. ‘Their’, as an example, tended to verbalize as ‘deir’, which was nearly impossible for the girl to differentiate. In short, her English accent would never be completely flawless, despite the conman’s efforts.

You’ve taught me well enough not to waste your breath on filling silence,” the girl moistened her lips, her grip on the large envelope in her hands was tight as she accidentally wrinkled it.

“Have I?” She could feel Baxter’s meticulous gaze on her for the moment.

He was more than aware of that fact, seeing as the girl was quite astute to begin with and paired with his wide field of knowledge, the incoming baron simply couldn’t stand a chance.

Speak of the devil; a dark carriage rode up to the building, rolling to a stop as the driver pulled back on the reins of the horse. He proceeded to open the door for a top heavy man, suited in a high top hat with a matching jacket. His mustache twisted at the ends, in contrast to the unconvincing smile that his thin lips twisted into. Baron Steven Wright- the owner of one of the most competitive textile companies in Europe, for the time. His factories were working double time as he was desperate to find a way to edge out the rest of his opponents.

His desperation was what made him a viable target for this sort of schematic. Baxter liked to compare ravenous businessmen to the little, cattish girls of ruffles and pink. All they wanted was more- they took and stole until they could find something better. Tricking them out of their own fortune was easy enough- it was blameless, considering they were the ones stupid enough to let their own greed drive them.

“Lord Wright,” the girl lowered her gaze and dipped into a proper curtsy. Though it had been years since she followed the proper social etiquette of addressing a titled man, the movement was still of second nature.

“Miss Hartmann,” Wright moistoned his lips, his steely gaze meeting the girl’s as she returned to her proper stance. “Pleasure,” his hand was in the deep pocket of his jacket, it was a heavy fur and the beads of sweat that dripped down his forehead were signs that he was merely wearing the burly thing in the middle of the summer to show off his status. They were quickly dabbled away by a handkerchief before he continued to fish a key out of the pocket.

“Johanna, please,” the girl corrected with a smile, immediately attempting to lower the man’s weak guard. She was a girl, and she’d merely use that to her advantage. Baxter was silent at her side as he played the role of a defensive escort for a clueless daughter of a German baron whose body was recently dug into the earth. The girl was to sell him a false land deed in Dosenmoor under the pretenses of his erecting more factories within the industrializing country. By the time the man traveled to make note of his spoils in the flesh, Baxter and herself would be back in London- knee deep in new plans.

“What a shame it is, your father passing so suddenly,” the man started, pushing his key into the padlock of the shop’s door. “Your grieving must’ve been cut short, being the head of his trade now. What is it, agriculture?” It seemed the man thought he was cheating a thoughtless, grief-stricken girl out of prime land.

“Of fodder beet and potatoes, yes, my Lord,” the girl nodded, her lips relaxing into a content line as the baron turned his back to her. Briefly, she met Baxter’s eyes as he nodded once, a prompt for her to go inside after the chubby man. “My mother...didn’t fancy the truth,” she was less cautious in watching her accent for evident reasons.

The baron was laughing, though it sounded like a series of strangled wheezes- likely from too many cigars. The girl noticed that Baxter must have finished his off between Wright’s arrival and then, as it was improper for a servant to be smoking in the presence of a female. “True love at its purest, my dear. Being unable to cope when he parts first. Deciding to join him for fear of being alone. My, you’re so young, running such a manly business in your dainty hands.”

There was a bitter taste in her mouth as she bit her tongue. At least the walls of the shop took them out of the rising sun and humid air of the countryside. She appreciated the scent of old wood as the baron led them up a rickety flight of stairs to a room at the end of a hall. In the room, there were shelves of books and in the middle of it all, a neat desk, as opposed to the tables of assorted fabrics, threads and partially woven clothes on those they had passed.

“Perhaps you’d consider handing it off to someone,” Wright mused, the implication as conspicuous as his mustache, or even the pink in his face that surfaced with the effort that took him to climb the short staircase. “Johanna,” he urged, the girl’s lack of eye contact leading him to believe that her attention was elsewhere.

“My Lord,” she needed to bring the matter of their meeting back into focus, though easily, she could weasel the man out of more of his fortune. This wasn’t about being greedy. The girl allowed the man to pull a wooden chair out from under the table for her to sit in. Baxter was lurking behind her. The girl smiled again, in order to mask the directness behind her next comment, “what keeps us from the matters at hand?” Wright sat himself on the opposite side of the table, a grunt passing through his lips as he gauchlessly righted himself. He was making a show out of what needed to be a five minute meeting in order to try to rouse the girl, an acting beneficiary of hundreds of free acres of land into giving him more than he paid for. Little did he know, Wright would be getting much less than he was emptying his bank for.

“Right, stay the course,” the man was too amused with her, as if he was cooing at a cute stray kitten. It was a mockery that caused the girl’s blood to curl in frustration. “Why don’t we start with sorting those out?” He requested, gesturing to the envelope in the girl’s hands with his chin.

. . .

FEBRUARY 3RD, 1888

LONDON, ENGLAND

There was a loud knock at the door, truculent and intrusive. “Johanna Hartmann!” Each knock was stiff, causing the door to wobble as it threatened to give in. “Open in the name of Baron Steven Wright! This instant!”

Their home was small, hardly larger than the first floor of a tenement within the heart of London. The main room served as the kitchenette and Baxter’s bedroom as he gave his (the room down the short corridor) to the girl. The fireplace was on, the heat crackling and filling the vicinity with warmth as it fought off the frosty draft of February.

Baxter stirred from his light slumber with a start. Johanna Hartmann? Vaguely, he could recall the name form one of their older scams- from the summer their offseason. They made quite a profit off of his greed, more than triple what they made off of working class pedestrians. The fallout was late in meeting their doorstep, however.

Baxter was confident that he could diffuse the situation without waking the girl. She needed her rest after their long day of practice- teaching her how to unarm a gunman was a necessary skill, especially for a girl as she strode into her adolescence. He wouldn’t always be around to guide her, after all.

Baxter stood from his arm chair, quickly looking from the empty hallway and to the door again. Thankfully, she wasn’t awake yet, which gave him time to turn this man away. Opening the door, he was met with three men, each much younger than the baron. By the way their hands lay protectively on their belts, he was able to conclude that they were carrying some form of a Remington shotgun. The lights were too low for a proper shot.

He forced himself to smile, his shoulders dropping as he mirrored the body language of the other men. Improper posture was telling of their backgrounds- it was something he had to have the girl unlearn to survive the streets, amongst many other things. “Is there something you lot needed?”

“Put away y’re gigglemug, if you know what’s good for ya,” the man in the middle said, his words thick with a cockney accent. “Where’s the lass?”

“Lass?” Baxter repeated, moistening his lips as he feigned contemplation. “I haven’t the slightest-”

“Don’t sell us no dogs-” the man scowled, a wrinkle forming between his bushy eyebrows. With the slightest nod of his head, his accomplices pushed past Baxter, causing the door to slam against the plaster wall. “Just hand over the money and we won’t have to blow no one’s brains outta their skulls,” he continued, pulling out the gun that Baxter had predicted. It was pointed in his general direction, a threat. Vaguely, he could hear the soft whining of the wooden floor as the girl started down the hallway, her lantern chasing the dark away as it revealed her face.

“Johanna Hartmann,” the man laughed dryly, cocking his head, an arrogant smirk contorting his tan face. “Well? Cough it up. Every coin of it,” he ordered, aiming at her, rather than Baxter. “Before I get angry,” he added.

“Y/n, get out of here,” Baxter ordered, fixating his assertive stare on her as her lips set in the indignant pout that she assessed situations with. “Now.”

“One step and I shoot this bloke. Then yourself.”

“Sir, I don’t know anything of a Miss Hartmann,” the girl started, biting the inside of her lip. “Perhaps you could go to the Peelers?” she suggested, purposely widening her eyes in false innocence as any simple girl would advise a stranger to go to the police. “Her name sounds...quite German?”

“If anything, you lot seem to be more likely to steal- barging in during the wee hours and waving them guns about,” the conman started, tutting in disapproval. Evidently, he was switching tactics, since the men were not buying into their act of innocence. It wasn’t wise to challenge three impatient men with guns in their hands, and the girl knew this as she communicated through her eyes in a warning side gaze.

Met with angry scowls, he continued in his play to distract the trio. “I’ve got our papers. I’ll prove that she ain’t no Heathmen or Hartman, or whatever-” Baxter rolled his tired eyes before turning on his heel. He was in nothing but his nightshirt, similarly to the girl, who was merely glad in a sheer shift. It was improper for her to be so exposed in a knee-length, cotton gown.

The girl watched on as the conman stalked towards their cupboard over the kitchenette. She assumed he was after a knife to defend himself, though it was fruitless. These men were well into their twenties at least- likely paid off by the baron to do his bidding as he sucked on a silver spoon.

“I’ve had enough of this. He’s insolent, Pete. Let’s just shoot ‘em and search the house,” the man on the left flank said, moments before he was shot in the side by...Baxter, whose face was steely calm, his lips in a dead serious line as he recoiled from the force his gun exerted against him. The sound of the bullet rang throughout the small house as the man’s body fell in a cursing heap.

Baxter wasn’t quick enough as immediately, the favor was returned to him by so called Pete- the snarling man in the middle. “Y/n!” the conman yelled, as before the gun went off, he’d assumed the bullet was to fix itself into her flesh, rather than his. Thankfully he’d been wrong as instead, the white-hot pain in his stomach spread through his body as blood began to soak his clothing. He was grateful that he was able to keep from eating his words- an unecessary movement was suicide. At least the girl was able to learn that firsthand.

Screaming, the girl was trembling more than the conman as she thrust herself to his side. The sound of her anguish was almost as deafening as the dispatching bullets were.

Her breathing was labored- she could feel her heart racing in her ears as unborn tears stung her eyes. She balled up his shirt, pressing it into the bleeding wound. “You can’t,” she urged, her accent flaring as it tended to do when she was stressed, or upset. “Don’t please-” her hands were shaking as through the dirty lens of his new glasses, Baxter could see tears running down her cheeks. He hadn’t intended to leave her like this, but their time was limited. His time was limited while hers was a mere bullet away from being so.

“Y/n, listen here,” Baxter’s voice was weak, though his eyes carried the same impish spirit that he had met her with all of those years ago. He whispered, gesturing for her to come closer, her ear to his lips, “trap the gun,” he said, in which she nodded, a lump forming in her throat as his cold hand wrapped around her wrist, pushing it away from the fabric of his with a confident nod. “Trap the gun, Y/n.”

“I-” she started through labored breaths as she wiped her eyes, staining her face with his blood by accident. There were too many words. Too much admiration and respect...familial love, but not enough time.

“I know,” he said, tears pooling his eyes as he weakly waved her away to face the two standing men with shaking legs and tears that left tracks as they fell down her face. Her heart was heavy with grief because not even Baxter, the strongest of any man could survive such a wound without care and she- a mere girl could survive two men with guns to her back, as it seemed.

Trap the gun.

The girl mustered the remnants of courage and rationale in her panicked conscience. She was this conman’s legacy, as far as she knew. She wasn’t going to die in their hands. They were not going to take her. Rage began to run through her veins in the form of adrenaline.It caused her heart to stammer faster, her hands to curl into fists as she faced the two remaining men, the third being dead on the floor. Neither of them seemed to care about him- poor bastard.

Trap the gun.

She wiped fresh tears off her flushed face with the back of her hand, choking on a sob. Draw them in. “I’ll..I can do anything- please don’t sh..sh..shoot me,” her breathing was labored as she focused on formulating a plan, throwing her heart into every tear, each new gasp for air that was unpracticed, unlike the pathetic script of words that escaped her lips.

Trap the gun.

“James, I reckon we can find a way to get this little tramp to pay back every bit of the coin she owes the boss,” Pete smiled, his cold eyes exchanging a sick smirk with the standing accomplice. “We oughta show her the ropes right here. Sweet thing’s beggin for us in that getup.”

Draw them in.

They were trailing forward, the hair on the girl’s arms standing standing at attention from both the cold that the open door was inviting in and the intensity at which the men were staring into her flesh. “Look at her, she’s a beaut...even with all of that blood on ‘er. She’d go for a pretty penny after we break her in, Pete,” James agreed, the girl only comprehending pieces of their words, half listening to keep herself from moving too soon. They weren’t close enough.

The man who had shot Baxter- Pete- was less than arm’s length away as the barrel of his gun was dipping and he didn’t stop his pursuit until the muzzle of the gun was resting on the girl’s hipbone as a looming threat. James, meanwhile, scoffed, “don’t be coy with us- take this off,” he ordered, tugging firmly on the soft material of her shift. He was behind the girl, his own prowling fingers working on top of her bloody ones to do so.

It was cold between the clothed bodies of the men, they were damp with melted off snow and rough with the common material they were made out of. Pete was playing with the necklace around her neck, twisting it around his finger whilst James’s calloused fingers continued to wander; grazing from the girl’s sternum, down her stomach- until it was between her thighs, gently caressing. His hands were cold. Everything was cold.

James’ lips were attached to the juncture between her neck and shoulder, suckling the skin after pushing her hair out of the way. The pad of his finger was insistent on rubbing around a specific margin of her womanhood, causing her to exhale, the sensation growing warm as it was hard for her tremulous legs to carry her. Pete was kissing her, his lips predatory and slick with saliva.

“Hmm, Pete, feel her,” James praised, his coarse hands on either of her thighs, urging them apart as he supported her with his thigh. “Wet already.”

“Has she already been broken in? Lord knows what she was doing here with that old bum,” Pete mused before grunting in approval as his fingers ran from the spot James had been rubbing, down to her lower entrance. His gun faced the floor as he was more occupied in exploring her formerly sacred womanhood.

“Doesn’t matter, she’s ours now, isn’t that right?” James asked, forcing one of his fingers past the girl’s saliva-slick lips. “Speak, whore,” he forced another slender finger into her mouth, pressing down her tongue.

The girl choked on the two digits as they threatened to touch the back of her pharynx, her face flushing in equal parts embarrassment and rage. Reflex tears formed in her eyes, rolling down her cheeks. The man retracted his fingers with an amused laugh. Her nails dug out small crescents in her palms where they dug in.

“Oh, she’s crying. What a little princess,” Pete sneered, “wanna bet she tastes like one?” he asked, his own laugh was shockingly similar to James’ as he brought his intruding fingers into his mouth with a groan. Princess. If only they had known- the looks on their faces, the fear would have been invaluable.

Trap the gun.

Adrenaline sprinted through the girl as she ignored any lingering hesitation in her body. Her bloody hand took hold of the barrel of Pete’s gun as she forced it to the side, trapping it in her grasp. The man faltered, yelling in surprise as the unclothed girl stepped in (away from the line of fire), forcing the firearm down to face the floorboards. Her arm was completely straight as her other hand came around to help pull the gun away with all of her strength, paired with the strongest knee to his groin that she could manage with her shaking limbs.

Dammit, James, shoot ‘er!” Pete yelled, his face pale with fear as the girl unlocked the gun, her heart beat growing rapid as she met his eyes for the first time that morning. The sun was rising behind him, painting his skin a luminous orange and enlarging his shadow behind him. He would have made a fine man- tall and broad, his facial hair kept to a clean fade. The girl was doing him a favor.

She could hear James pulling out his own gun again, mumbling a curse under his breath. They should have killed her when they had the chance as in her stead, she shot Pete without further hesitation, the first bullet digging into his stomach and the second, his jugular as he fell. The sound again, reverberated throughout the room, the scent of gunpowder at a new peak. As it had before, the recoil of the gun caused her to stumble back, her arms involuntarily being forced up.

“You bitch! You’ll, you’re going to bloody p--” James screamed, glowering at her as he struggled to get his fumbling hands in place. But he was too slow.

With another fearsome blast, the girl was pushed back again, causing a stinging pain within the muscle of her shoulder. James was evidently, in worse shape as he fell to the ground. Blood began to blossom near his lower ribs, which was far off from where she had initially aimed. The sun was shining on him, his ashen skin and closing eyes. For the next few moments, she could hear his labored breathing, growing rapid before it stopped, suddenly.

The girl was breathing heavily herself, struggling to recollect her thoughts as she felt a warm, unidentified slick run down her thigh, Baxter’s blood drying on her hands and under her nails, making her skin feel stiff. Her ears stung, as if someone had forcefully shoved fabric into them. Her arms were heavy and the air was thick with gunpowder.

She pulled her shift back over her head, her eyes reluctant to leave the corpses of her attackers, as if they could reanimate and try to impose themselves on her again. Her fingers rubbed at her tear-stained cheeks, the lump in her throat was finally beginning to settle down again.

Someone had to hide the bodies.

. . .

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#ciel phantomhive #ciel x reader #black butler #strangers to lovers #anime fanfiction #sebastian michaelis #murder #angst #historical romance #historical fiction #victorian era #black butler fandom #black butler fanfic #the indignant pawn #ciel phantomhive x reader

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