Eros and Artemis [Castlevania, promptbingo challenge]
Title: Eros and Artemis
Fandom: Castlevania
Rating: R (For some really harsh language.)
Prompt: Stranger
Word Count: 681
Summary: (Graham/Rachel) She picked the wrong missionary to beat up on. After having her ass handed to her, Rachel starts to admire her new adversary.
"If you don't have any fucking money, then get out!" The bartender screamed, pushing Rachel backwards into the floor. Her dark, curly hair was scattered across her face as she staggered to her feet. Tears stung her eyes as she reached for one of two guns strapped around her torso, hidden well within the jacket she wore. With a subtle click, the long barrel of St. Timothy was staring down the reluctant bartender's forehead.
"I've been out of work for three months now," Rachel started in a deep, throaty voice, "and you seem to have forgotten how I saved your ass from that band of werewolves four months prior. You've been giving me shit ever since I lost my position at the Church."
The man stumbled back and hit the shelves of liquor behind him, signaling a dead end. He knew Rachel well enough; she was a troubled youth with a flair for anything risky or explosive, much like her temper. Although she'd rescued countless citizens from the recent attacks, she never stuck around afterward to receive any kindness. That sort of thing didn't suit her, the unsung hero-type.
A smooth voice echoed from the entrance of the pub suddenly, "Now, now, I don't see any need for such violence."
"It's that missionary! He's the one who healed the mayor's daughter!" someone shouted from the corner of the room, rising from their seat to greet the man garbed in white. A multitude of others joined in, surrounding the stranger.
Rachel called over her shoulder, "This ain't any of your business, Holy Man. I suggest you leave before things get ugly. I've got a score to settle with this ungrateful bastard..."
Money crashed onto the bar counter, startling the owner. The missionary behind Rachel spoke again, "That should be more than enough to pay for her bill."
His pale hands alighted upon Rachel's quivering arm, urging her to abandon her anger. Instead of heeding his warning, she whirled around and turned the gun onto him. She scoffed at his self-righteous attitude, "I don't need your salvation or any other garbage you're selling."
"You seem to have gone astray," the man murmured and pressed his temple against the barrel of the gun, "and as a servant of the Church it is my duty to help you find your way again. So, forgive me for what I am about to do."
What happened then was a blur. Rachel doubled over as her adversary delivered a blunt thrust into her abdomen with his knee. At first, the whole world was spinning, and then, everything faded to darkness. As her vision slowly returned, she spotted the strange man hovering over her with a worried expression. Noticing that she had awakened, he smiled once more.
"Where the hell am I?" she rasped, endeavoring to sit upright. Her warm body shivered at his touch as he combed through her long hair. There was an unmistakable gentleness about the man. She hadn't seen such a kind face in what seemed like an eternity.
"Rachel Baldwin; that is your name, correct?"
She just stared up at him as if entranced. Was she dead? Who was this strange man? Was he even a human being?
"It's a Hebrew name, you know," he continued, leaning over to whisper in her ear, "and it means lamb. It's such a lovely name, too. You are blessed to have been given it."
Shuffling up against the headboard of the bed, Rachel choked, "Who are you anyway?"
"Ah, how thoughtless of me. My name is Graham Jones, and I'm a freelance missionary under the right-wing diocese of the Church." he replied in a calm manner, smiling back at her. His eyes widened suddenly as he noticed the rosy hue that overshadowed her battered visage.
Smiles like those could make any girl jittery, even a cold-hearted bitch like Rachel. She shook her head and focused her sights on something less interesting. When his hand moved from her hair to her cheek, her heart rumbled with the thunder of an approaching storm.
What did they call that again?
Fandom: Castlevania
Rating: R (For some really harsh language.)
Prompt: Stranger
Word Count: 681
Summary: (Graham/Rachel) She picked the wrong missionary to beat up on. After having her ass handed to her, Rachel starts to admire her new adversary.
"If you don't have any fucking money, then get out!" The bartender screamed, pushing Rachel backwards into the floor. Her dark, curly hair was scattered across her face as she staggered to her feet. Tears stung her eyes as she reached for one of two guns strapped around her torso, hidden well within the jacket she wore. With a subtle click, the long barrel of St. Timothy was staring down the reluctant bartender's forehead.
"I've been out of work for three months now," Rachel started in a deep, throaty voice, "and you seem to have forgotten how I saved your ass from that band of werewolves four months prior. You've been giving me shit ever since I lost my position at the Church."
The man stumbled back and hit the shelves of liquor behind him, signaling a dead end. He knew Rachel well enough; she was a troubled youth with a flair for anything risky or explosive, much like her temper. Although she'd rescued countless citizens from the recent attacks, she never stuck around afterward to receive any kindness. That sort of thing didn't suit her, the unsung hero-type.
A smooth voice echoed from the entrance of the pub suddenly, "Now, now, I don't see any need for such violence."
"It's that missionary! He's the one who healed the mayor's daughter!" someone shouted from the corner of the room, rising from their seat to greet the man garbed in white. A multitude of others joined in, surrounding the stranger.
Rachel called over her shoulder, "This ain't any of your business, Holy Man. I suggest you leave before things get ugly. I've got a score to settle with this ungrateful bastard..."
Money crashed onto the bar counter, startling the owner. The missionary behind Rachel spoke again, "That should be more than enough to pay for her bill."
His pale hands alighted upon Rachel's quivering arm, urging her to abandon her anger. Instead of heeding his warning, she whirled around and turned the gun onto him. She scoffed at his self-righteous attitude, "I don't need your salvation or any other garbage you're selling."
"You seem to have gone astray," the man murmured and pressed his temple against the barrel of the gun, "and as a servant of the Church it is my duty to help you find your way again. So, forgive me for what I am about to do."
What happened then was a blur. Rachel doubled over as her adversary delivered a blunt thrust into her abdomen with his knee. At first, the whole world was spinning, and then, everything faded to darkness. As her vision slowly returned, she spotted the strange man hovering over her with a worried expression. Noticing that she had awakened, he smiled once more.
"Where the hell am I?" she rasped, endeavoring to sit upright. Her warm body shivered at his touch as he combed through her long hair. There was an unmistakable gentleness about the man. She hadn't seen such a kind face in what seemed like an eternity.
"Rachel Baldwin; that is your name, correct?"
She just stared up at him as if entranced. Was she dead? Who was this strange man? Was he even a human being?
"It's a Hebrew name, you know," he continued, leaning over to whisper in her ear, "and it means lamb. It's such a lovely name, too. You are blessed to have been given it."
Shuffling up against the headboard of the bed, Rachel choked, "Who are you anyway?"
"Ah, how thoughtless of me. My name is Graham Jones, and I'm a freelance missionary under the right-wing diocese of the Church." he replied in a calm manner, smiling back at her. His eyes widened suddenly as he noticed the rosy hue that overshadowed her battered visage.
Smiles like those could make any girl jittery, even a cold-hearted bitch like Rachel. She shook her head and focused her sights on something less interesting. When his hand moved from her hair to her cheek, her heart rumbled with the thunder of an approaching storm.
What did they call that again?