Mythological One Shots bi me

Joan of Arc (5 short stories)

The Hundred Years War

During the Hundred Years War, Jehan D'Arc was busy handing the English their helmets on a plate. Meanwhile, her sister, Evette, grew up to be a beautiful woman and wanted to become a knight and live up to the glory of her sister.

But she was so beautiful that her parents refused to let her wear armour and cut her hair as though she were a boy.

So she called a squire who didn't want to be a knight and offered to take his place. Evette cut her hair short and dressed in boy's clothing. She read the bible, page by page, and she cleaned herself, before giving the squire her clothes.

He wouldn't pass as her for very long, but it would be long enough for her to escape from her parents.

She wanted to be respected by men, the way most women weren't. Evette wanted them to love her.

One day when Evette was bathing in a river, a knight clad in bloodstained armour came to wash his armour clean.

He unbuckled the breastplate and took off his shirt, revealing all of the scars he had gained in battle.

Evette had heard him coming and was hiding behind a rock in the river. She cursed her luck, enjoying the view, but not wanting to be discovered. She said to herself, "God, he's so handsome!"

But sound carries well over water, and he heard her. He was so surprised that he overbalanced and fell in. Evette rolled her eyes and went to drag him back out. Oh, come on! She couldn't find someone who was both good scenery and had a dose of good sense.

She swam up to him slowly. She looked at him, blushing, and he said, "Hi, my name is Louis. Sorry you had to see me like this."

Evette looked him up and down slowly. "No problem"

Louis blushed. "Are you a woman?"

"Of course, I'm a woman! Short hair doesn't change the rest of me!" Evette snapped. "Are you a knight?"

"Yes," he replied. "I'm part of the French Cavalry. 9th regiment. Are you Joan D'Arc's sister? You have the same face."

"Yes, though I'm a bit more feminine than her, and she's better with a sword. I'm more of an archer, myself."

"Let's get you out of my river and into some actual clothes. Or not, only if you want to."

Evette stepped out of the river, ignoring his splutter and scrambled to look away. God, men had such fragile sensibilities!

Evette tucked her shirt into her trousers and picked up her boots. "You can look now."

Louis stared at her, "My god, you look even more like a man in clothes than without them."

Evette raised an eyebrow and folded her arms defensively. "Obviously. Did you need more proof?"

She grabbed her bag, quiver and bow and her hunting knife and said, "Sir Louis, I bid you farewell. Don't show your face to me ever again. I hate to think that you would exploit my secret. I know what my sister faced for dressing as a man, and you, of all people, like me as a girl. You see the beauty in me that I have to hide away. Whatever happens, my gender has to remain private. Your captain is my sister, and I will not be used against her. I am not a witch and not subject to the sins of the flesh just yet. Farewell."

Louis's mouth dropped open and he swallowed hard. "Farewell, beautiful squire. May we meet again on the battlefield, under less hostile terms. Your secret is safe with me."

He was about to tell her that he loved her, but she was already riding away.

Joan of Arc viva la France

I try, but I can't cut through the metal breastplate. My sword is heavy, I have to let go of it because I can't lift it any more. I try to fire an arrow through a chink in the armour, and blood spurts out, drenching me. My opponent will soon bleed to death. I pick up the sword and drive it through his heart.

I am Joan of Arc.

Victory to the French. The English cowards bleed in my work of terror. I do this at the bidding of God, not at the command of Men.

The Daydream

I dare not touch the rare artefact, it's the sword in the stone of King Arthur. Shall I pull the sword out of the stone, this ancient relic that Merlin speaks of? Of course, I can't pull it out. I'm an archeologist out on a dig in the Cornish countryside. I've stumbled upon a well and behind the well is that sword in the stone. That's the real Excalibur with the ruby pommel and the tan leather grip and inscription on the blade written in runes. It's King Arthur's writing. It translates into thou who shall pull out the sword will be made king.

How can I be king? I've got boobs and I'm 28 years old and not to mention I'm an archeologist. As I touch the sword, the sword glows white. I wisk away into another dimension. I have a breastplate and I can barely see with this helmet on. Let me take off this helmet. I see myself in the reflection.

What the fuck was that?

I've become Joan of Arc! I'm literally in battle in Agincourt. C'est quoi ce bordel? I'm speaking French, whatever that means in French! Jesus Christ, I'm going to die a martyr and be burned at the stake. Yikes!

I woke up in my French class listening to Edith Piaf looking at my French textbook. Sacrebleu. Shit. Not another daydream in my head. I hide, sinking deeper into my chair, hoping that the teacher doesn't look up at me.

Joan and Napolean

Why am I feeling this way? Why do I want to let you bind my breasts and make me put on armour and grab a sword and fight the English? It just feels right yet so wrong. I feel like, if you bound my breasts, there's something innately intimate about it. It feels kind of weird. I'd rather bind my breasts than let you bind them for me knowing that you're so close to me you might get more than what you've asked for. And that would be embarrassing, don't you think, Emperor of France? 

The Dance Between Joan and Napoleon

I feel like I'm losing myself, fighting with you in battle and time. Playing against you like how we normally act around each other when we're not fighting. The fact that I'm restricted with my breast bindings and by time, it doesn't make any sense that we're fighting against each other, Emperor of France.

The gashes that I cut into the flesh of knights are how I fight for my secret - my womanhood. You also fight for our secret - the fight for freedom! And yet, you come after me with your musket and put the gun up against my throat. I blush and I push back with the hilt of my sword. You push the musket down my breastplate suggestively as if to reveal my secret. I try to block you with my sword, but you're too strong. You fire your musket at me. The bullet misses me as I snake around you. You are strong but I am faster. Your back is exposed and I'm ready to strike.

This is stupid. I shake my head as I plunge my sword into your back.