Draugvan

Isn't. That. Glitters. All. Gold.
Original poster
DONATING MEMBER
Posting Speed
A Few Posts a Week, One Post a Week, Slow As Molasses
My Usual Online Time
Four hours behind West Coast USA
Writing Levels
Adept, Advanced, Adaptable
Genders You Prefer Playing
Male, Androgynous, Primarily Prefer Male
Playing Style- Passive or Aggressive
Primarily aggressive
Favorite Genres
Fantasy, Libertine, Medieval, Science Fiction, Drama, Psychological
Genre You DON'T Like
Romance, Yaoi, YA, Horror
Recent Changes:
This series is no longer in production.

Chav Butler
– A Black Butler fanfiction

Starring:
jason_statham_ipw9l0r431.jpeg
Jason Statham
-as-
Himself
“I am simply one fucked-off butler”


And
ciel phantomhive final.jpg
Ciel Phantomhive
“You thought you were winning. You really are clueless, aren’t you?”


Featuring:
Tanaka final.jpg
Tanaka
"Oh! Oh! Oh!"

Mei Rin Final.jpg Baldroy final.jpg Finney final.jpg
Mei Rin “I’m sohrry Mahster!! I was loohking the othhr way!!”
Baldroy “We’ll be serving my special recipe tonight – flame grilled!”
Finney “I think this man ate too much tomato sauce, now he’s tired…”

"Hoheo tarania rondero tarel." The foreign words spill out of Ciel's mouth just as he thought them.

A mere thought that now carried an echo in a place that seemed far removed from the chambers in which he had been laying moments before. Yet the echo was distorted as it called back, like something was in the darkness with him.

After a spell of silence in the warm dark Ciel was about to utter once again the strange words that bid his tongue ‘Move’, when he was stifled by a sound of pouring sand, and then shifting gravel, until the thing that was there with Ciel had fully cleared its throat. A coarse hack and a prolonged sigh anticipated the next words.

What are you doing here?” inquired a voice. It sounded like salt, yet carried a melodic ebb and flow beneath the gristle.

“I need power to help me get my revenge,” Ciel admitted without hesitation. His motivation was certain, “Someone set light to the manor house and my parents have burned to death in a fire. Some men kidnapped me and they have been tormenting me for days. Beatings…a branding…throwing water at me…the constant laughing. I can’t take it, I need these men to go! I will find who is responsible for putting me in this situation set them to order!”

“Revenge-” restated the disembodied voice “A good choice. I can certainly accommodate that. But there’s just one thing I need from you first.”

“And what’s that?”

“A Contract,” the voice instanced with nary a change in tone. Yet Ciel had the uneasy feeling of being evaluated and scouted meticulously for his reaction.

With his family burned and the institution sifted to ash and rubble, Ciel was the sole remaining heir to the Phantomhive legacy. He could not discount the strange occurrences that had taken place before the fire, though right now they seemed like only a dream. The Phantomhive stewardship was an important position under the Queen to monitor and police England’s underworld. So it was Ciel’s duty to uphold this mantle, to protect the honour and reputation of his household and late parents, and he would see it all the way through to his revenge. Simply put, it was an outcome he couldn’t refuse.

“A Contract – but what do you get out of it?” spoke Ciel.

The darkness shifted in a sound of sliding stones. Feeling more claustrophobic, the voice whispered warning right into Ciel’s ear.

“Some peace and fucking quiet.”
Ciel awoke breathless and parched in a cell with other rags of boys and girls. They lay strewn about the marble floor in a manner of disregard that spoke of torture. Ciel himself slumped back against cold iron bars in poor repair.

At the moment there seemed to be no change to the dim-lit basement and to the half-drunk men cajoling around a ritual table in the centre of the room. Cigar smoke wafted over to bring tears to his eyes as Ciel tried to blink the smoke away.

A rapturous sound at the basement door brought attention to the stairway upward. A faint hissing let tell of candles on the other side blowing out. One…two…eight…nine…ten. All men were accounted for. So who was this then that knocks so flippantly?

Another knock at the basement door like the darkness trying to get in. The darkness was impatient tonight.

Ciel swallowed deep as he felt a rising ache in his right eye. He could not see out of it, yet he could imgaine the polished wood grain on the other side of that door. The torture must have been quite severe to create such hallucinations.

The darkness knocked one final impatient knock, before the door burst upon the dumbstruck, superstitious men in a rain of splinters. Then out from the darkness of a ruined doorframe a demon manifested in the form that would be most suitable to a young Earl Phantomhive.

A clean, shaved head, low care for easy maintenance; a simple pressed black shirt, to cover marks of hard labour, blood, and cleaning; and a sharp, grey suit of rolled cotton reminiscent of river sand, appropriate for mixing with the upper crust and the dregs alike; finally, one wicked grin set below the iridescent eyes of a hunter.

The demon made simple work of the men with effortless ease, discarding their remains within the space of a breath.

“Who the bloody hell are you?!” called Ciel in wild-eyed exclaimation.

“I believe we just made a Contract – isn’t that right?” prompted the demon. It raised a hand to bear a mark of an overlapping pentagram and upside-down triangle. To drive the point home further it offered Ciel a used bedpan to inspect his own eye, on which there was the same mark in bright blue.

“Blood in hell, and blimey blast this rotten fate! I demand to know what is happening!” Ciel cursed.

“We made a Contract. Now I am your demon, and you are my Master. That is my end to uphold, and when you have found your revenge I will collect my price from you,” the demon smiled “but tell me what this outfit is about? I could move more freely without it.”

A thought called back to Ciel’s funny dream. But of course this would be reality. As the last few days had shown, it was not in his future to have any solace.

“I am the son of an Earl. Yet I am still a child, so as far as the world is concerned I will need a manservant to escort me and to protect my flank. Thus, you are my butler,” Ciel found his footing.

A look of unrestrained angst, malice, and disbelief rapped the demon across the nose.

“I’m a fucking butler?!”

“Yes,” confirmed Ciel “and you shall answer to the name Jason Statham. Now get me out of here. I want out of this place at once!”
“We’ve arrived on the manor grounds; we’ll be among the gardens shortly,” announced Jason at the reins of a finely horse-drawn carriage.

From his sheltered coop Ciel traced a lazy eye along weathered stone walls and wrought iron gate as they dawdled back out of view toward London. Errant shale rocked the ride to Ciel’s dismay as the double doors drew ever closer, taking him away from thoughts on the last six months.

“Tanaka, thank you for attending to our arrival. The back is loaded with trunks and other good stuff. I’ll keep the Master busy while you do all the hard work, ye?”
scoffed Jason as he preened his stony blazer.

“I heard that,”
chided Ciel, stepping down from a finely too-high carriage with a lurch and scuff on the ground.

A scowl flashed across Ciel’s face when Jason failed to offer support, but it was gone before the dust settled. Ciel wouldn't let him have the satisfaction.

One look over Jason’s shoulder presented his parents’ manor, plaster still bone-white through the foundations on account of being rebuilt following the terrible fire. Six months and paid labour could erase much of the evidence, but a shadow lingered over the estate that showed in the smallest crevices. A fitting ground for his grim employment.

While Tanaka ambled to the task, Jason took in Ciel with a measuring eye and cooperative tone.

“Ciel, we’re only starting to make a presence here. The manners your Aunt Scarlet taught you will be invaluable, but don’t forget the importance of keeping your head down,”
Jason offered, albeit to a wholly indifferent response. “I’m going to prepare the main living quarters. Send Tanaka if you need me.”

Jason trotted ten steps up cobble stairs toward heavy oak doors which, judging by the uneven stained lacquer, had been recycled from the cinders. The doors pressed open on oiled hinges, framing a clean, though sombre and lifeless hall.

A quiet patch of wall tiptoed alongside as Jason entered, rhyming softly.

“I wanted to personally commemorate his Lord Phantomhive on his emergent succession to the Queen’s right-hand...”

However this spiel was prematurely cut off as Jason pounced on the intruder with unnatural speed, eliciting a pained exclamation that perfectly summarised the 10 inches of cold steel driven through the abdomen.

The scream called Ciel to observe Jason easily hunched over a shivering figure. The intruder was a pale China-man clothed in garish silks of mismatched pattern and colour, and who would no doubt be dead in a matter of moments.

“You idiot, that was Lao!”

Jason looked over the figure until he recognised the smart-cheeked sod seen often in Scarlet’s company. A snake who enjoyed misdirection and story-telling, much to the confusion of everyone involved.

Jason moved gracefully to standing, throwing Lao’s ashen body unceremoniously to the cut-stone floor.

“Well he’s dead now – get over it. I think we’re better off because I never liked him anyway,”
rasped the bald-headed demon. “Now…I’ve got work to do.”

Then Jason took off purposefully, leaving Lao’s tepid mangle to congeal just inside the entrance way.​
Charred oak doors lever closed with nary a whistle, coming shut to the sound of a well-maintained copper latch. Stainless steel was easier to clean, yet the old copper trim gave character to the salvaged fittings.

Jason pursed over the letter in his hand as he sauntered across the entry hall. Thick caramel paper, even texture, and a gaudy wax seal imprint with the crest of Windsor.

Quite a spectacle, which Jason crudely stuffed into his back pocket in order to tend to Ciel, who was waiting aloof at a small side table in the medium-sized conservatory. It seemed that as the tea stepped over time, so too did Ciel’s scowl.

“What took you so long?” demanded the Lord Phantomhive.

“Easy there…it was the postmaster at the door. No need to snap every time he comes around…” teased Jason with a self-satisfied smirk as he investigated the kettle.

“Quit being so risible. Its not appropriate for a butler. Can’t you do anything right?” pouted Ciel.

He looked away in disdain, fingers drumming impatiently while Jason served the morning tea. Taking a wary sip Ciel was taken aside by the accordant floral notes and subtle twist of orange. Saccharine notes played delicately through the mix. This brew was well crafted and well rested. Ciel would never say, but perhaps patience could sometimes be a virtue.

“Colour me surprised. This is actually pretty good, Jason.”

“What kind of Brit would I be if I couldn’t brew a decent cup of tea?? God Bless the Queen… ….ah! That reminds me we have marching orders from the old bag herself,” said Jason retrieving the letter before reading. Ciel winced at Jason’s horrid lack of class.

The letter noted the work district had seen a rash of toxoplasmosis of late. Nonetheless autopsies of a number of respected citizens showed no signs of infection. Scotland Yard suspected serial murder owing to the frequency of cases like this - one each week - however, they were unable to attribute a suspect or motive. The letter warned of malady and advised the use of fumigating instruments during the investigation.

“Its never easy is it?” whined Ciel.

Jason’s sarcasm was cut off half-wit by a wretched cacophony stemming from the storeroom. Jason fled over at once with a look of indignation in his eyes, and a face that demanded answers.

Housekeeper Mei Rin dazed abashedly amidst a shattering of broken dishes, half of a cabinet still weighing on her back and threating to fall.

“Mahster-! Mahster-! Mahster! Its all my folt. Pleese don’t look at me wit those glarrin eys! Oh, I do deserve whatever I get…yes I do…” she squawked.

Storekeeper Baldroy fidgeted off to one side with grim purpose.

“Now, calm down Mei Rin, its just ceramic init? If we get it hot enough it will come back together. A philosopher told me that, and I ain’t one to argue with reason. Get out of the way-!” Baldroy spun to attention holding a cast-iron dragon with a maw already smoking with anticipation.

Groundskeeper Finney whimpered in pitched tones near a dolly topped with sudsy water and dishcloths.

“I thought it would be faster to move the china this way,” the lad cried “neither Mei Rin or I can reach the top shelf so…I wanted to help Baldroy in the kitchen---!!” he choked out with a another pitiful sob.

Jason merely took in the scene: private serving staff, hand-picked by Jason himself, undone by the simple task of stacking plates.

"And here I thought more staff would make things easier. Some sick joke this is." He drew all three by the ear and outside. “I can’t believe I have to say this, but – grow some fucking common sense and stick to what you were hired for. Got it? Now get off with you!” he shooed.

Everyone replied in the affirmative.

“Yeeeees Mahster, if that’s what I deserve…” Mei Rin edged away blushing.

“Roder todger, commander!” hailed Baldroy enthusiastically.

“Aye aye!” echoed Finney, already packed, stamped and posted to the fairies.

“Fuck in a handbasket…” mused Jason quietly.​


v – Contraction

Featuring:
BB - Undertaker.jpg
Undertaker
"Life's too short to frown"
The work district stunk of sweat, piss and tar. While Ciel was understandably unhappy about this, it was Jason's demonic sensibility that made his mouth twist in displeasure. The more shaven man projected an almost playful air as each new smell wafted around the corners of London. Sweat, piss, tar yes - but further blood, loss and death. And pestilence. The workmen moved sluggishly, pale bodies packed and sweaty trying to complete the day's tasks despite crippling fever and malaise. Their sorry sighs carried a wistful death rattle to Jason's cherry ears.

"Could you be any more conspicuous?" Ciel stabbed with a side-long look. "Scotland Yard won't let us past the linemen with you grinning like a loon. Hold it together. Its...not right."

Jason straightened his back and let out a long sigh. He played a delicate game with Ciel, which could be hard to bear at times. But seeing the young Lord now with his features contorted in distaste just so helped to curb one's appetite. Jason pulled his coat together and maintained a proper decorum, though his eyes would sparkle oft times when the pair passed under shadows.

With the aid of a constable the two visited homes of the respected dead - eight in turn. As anticipated the next of kin were famously unhelpful, though many suffered just as the dreary workmen did. The reaper took no favourites.

It was Inspector Lestrade who prompted that the 'victims' had had their funeral rites and autopsies given by the same Undertaker. In dire times shadowed workers like the Undertaker preferred to stay close by just in case of unexpected visitors. It just so happened that this one had set-up shop nearby in a recently unoccupied house which another shadowed worker had cleaned out, and the ghastly merchant was outside hawking coffins with a familiar sinful glee.

"Undertaker," called Ciel, "we have business from Scotland Yard. Let's talk in private."

"Absolutely," shrilled the unkempt Undertaker, who ushered them swiftly inside.

Outside, the house displayed a cool, decrepit exterior. Inside, it was equally decrepit, but inviting. Thick layers of tar blackened the first floor windows. Stuffy aromatic candles in a ring in the sitting room provided little solace from the embracing dark. The Undertaker leaned back on a well-made coffin twirling his long grey hair.

"How can I help you today, 'Detectives'?" cooed the Undertaker.

The tone in which he said 'Detectives' struck Ciel as a pejorative, or perhaps a challenge. Either way it made him scowl. While Ciel recovered himself, Jason set to business explaining the case making sure to bad-mouth the Yard constables in no uncertain terms.

"Oh I get plenty of visits from the lads at Scotland Yard. With their stiff faces and pristine moustaches, trousers starched to gleaming. Its no wonder they haven't made any headway! They take everything too seriously...need to loosen up a little. You know, laughter makes light work, and a heavy heart will weigh you down!" the Undertaker piped cryptically. "What will it be? Demand answers...or perhaps...coerce them, with a little deviant conversation?" then he added "I've heard silver is worth more than iron..."

"What the bloody hell is this supposed to be, then?!" spat Ciel. "I've got no business for your tilted nonsense!"

"Easy, Ciel," Jason broke in. "I can handle this."

The Undertaker eyed the two with a particularly sinful smile, all the while wiggling his brow at their domestic.

"Ciel, wait outside. I don't want you to hear what happens next."

When he was sure Ciel was outside and not listening, Jason removed his grey jacket and rolled up his sleeves so they wouldn't get in the way of his hands as he pantomimed. Jason began:

"The poor maid Yana was very diligent with her housework - every table dusted, every candle stick rubbed to a phosphorescent shine. One night her Lord indicated to her that his second-stair rumpus door was broken and in need of fixing. Of course she made haste and arrived at the second-floor rumpus somewhat flustered and trailing hair out of her headband. The Lord followed to supervise.

Inspecting the door she noticed the lock was damaged. It would take some doing, so she settled onto her knees. The Lord said to her "I want it sitting right, and shining." So she set to task.

First she ran a finger along the wood to ascertain the extent of the damage, and taking the handle in her delicate fingers to check its mobility. Second she poked two fingers gingerly inside the hole to manage sensitive ends. Third, with the nibs of her fingers and thumb she carefully twisted the little nuts until the handle popped off.

The Lord spoke up "You made nice work of my handle, but I'm not satisfied yet. Its not enough to get it off, you have to get it back on again." This, Yana knew, would be more difficult. She called up to her Lord "I'm going to need two hands for this, could you hold my hair out of my face?" To which he obliged, standing behind her with a fistful of hair, standing stiff, as Lords do."

The Undertaker muffled a whimper. Jason continued:

"At this point Yana moved in reverse order - holding the handle tight in one hand, she worked one of the Lord's little nuts. Then with a few fingers made a perimeter check of his hole, peeking inside to be sure of the sensitive ends. She spun the handle upright and managed the other little nut. Now the Lord's handle was rigid as anything. With a stern look at the greasy knob she spat on it! And pulling out a rag she varnished it dutifully, head rocking back and forth, brow dripping with exertion."

At this point Jason was on his knees miming vigorously. He concluded:

"When she teased the knob finally, it came clear into the rumpus. The Lord was satisfied."

The Undertaker exploded with rambunctious laughter.
Waiting outisde Ciel boggled at howls of joy, rather than pain, that grew from the ramshackle dwelling. He returned inside to check on the situation and shot Jason a stern look himself.

"My Goodness," shrilled the Undertaker, "you've given me the gift of true laughter. I can never thank you rightly for that."

"Will you cooperate with our investigation Undertaker?" asked Ciel from beneath a level gaze.

"Why yes, of course. The 'respected citizens' as you call them all came from the work district, where we now stand. Not a one of them died of toxoplasmosis, that's for sure. You would smell it a mile off - the meat stinks to high heaven, it does - even over the smell of tar on their clothes. They didn't strike me as exceptional specimens. Naturally I see a lot of customers who've had their head caved or their inside moved outside. I wouldn't give these 'respected citizens' a second look. And that's everything I know."

Ciel could barely restrain his impatience.

"That's all you have?! We got that much from Scotland Yard. What the fuck was so difficult you couldn't tell us that much?!"

"Easy now, lad, its just a bit of fun is all. Tell you what, to make up for this I'll give you free autopsies anytime you like. Be it...someone else's or...your own," he added with a twinkling grin.

The pair left the Undertaker, somewhat underwhelmed.

"Well that was pointless," pouted Ciel.

"Not entirely," rasped Jason. "He said our victims weren't bludgeoned or stabbed to death. That doesn't rule out serial murder, and allows us to explore alternative avenues."

At that moment a crowd of sickly passers-by swelled and the pair could hear the sound of a woman shrieking. The two rushed into the commotion, followed shortly by the Undertaker. A wightly woman drew against a stained wall holding her rotund belly in both hands and crying into the heavens for the health of her baby. It appeared she was going into labour.

The Undertaker snorted indiscretely.

"Aw her, now she's got toxoplasmosis. The whole lot of them do!"

Ciel grabbed the Undertaker roughly.

"Don't just stand there and whine. Do something!"

"Don't look at me! I don't bury babies. I wouldn't know the first thing. But there's a doctor down the way, and I can take you to him."


COMING NEXT

vi -
Admission

"A craftsman is only as good as his materials."
 
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Draugvan

Isn't. That. Glitters. All. Gold.
Original poster
DONATING MEMBER
Posting Speed
A Few Posts a Week, One Post a Week, Slow As Molasses
My Usual Online Time
Four hours behind West Coast USA
Writing Levels
Adept, Advanced, Adaptable
Genders You Prefer Playing
Male, Androgynous, Primarily Prefer Male
Playing Style- Passive or Aggressive
Primarily aggressive
Favorite Genres
Fantasy, Libertine, Medieval, Science Fiction, Drama, Psychological
Genre You DON'T Like
Romance, Yaoi, YA, Horror
Edited i - Signature in response to watching Book of Circus. There was more origin information throughout Book of Circus that was not covered in Seasons 1 and 2.
 
Last edited:

Draugvan

Isn't. That. Glitters. All. Gold.
Original poster
DONATING MEMBER
Posting Speed
A Few Posts a Week, One Post a Week, Slow As Molasses
My Usual Online Time
Four hours behind West Coast USA
Writing Levels
Adept, Advanced, Adaptable
Genders You Prefer Playing
Male, Androgynous, Primarily Prefer Male
Playing Style- Passive or Aggressive
Primarily aggressive
Favorite Genres
Fantasy, Libertine, Medieval, Science Fiction, Drama, Psychological
Genre You DON'T Like
Romance, Yaoi, YA, Horror
Added ii - Anything But This as a chapter, wherein the prologue is completed.
Fixed a bbcode bug :3
 

Draugvan

Isn't. That. Glitters. All. Gold.
Original poster
DONATING MEMBER
Posting Speed
A Few Posts a Week, One Post a Week, Slow As Molasses
My Usual Online Time
Four hours behind West Coast USA
Writing Levels
Adept, Advanced, Adaptable
Genders You Prefer Playing
Male, Androgynous, Primarily Prefer Male
Playing Style- Passive or Aggressive
Primarily aggressive
Favorite Genres
Fantasy, Libertine, Medieval, Science Fiction, Drama, Psychological
Genre You DON'T Like
Romance, Yaoi, YA, Horror
Added iii - Acclaim as a chapter, wherein some dickhead gets what's coming to him.
 
Last edited:

Draugvan

Isn't. That. Glitters. All. Gold.
Original poster
DONATING MEMBER
Posting Speed
A Few Posts a Week, One Post a Week, Slow As Molasses
My Usual Online Time
Four hours behind West Coast USA
Writing Levels
Adept, Advanced, Adaptable
Genders You Prefer Playing
Male, Androgynous, Primarily Prefer Male
Playing Style- Passive or Aggressive
Primarily aggressive
Favorite Genres
Fantasy, Libertine, Medieval, Science Fiction, Drama, Psychological
Genre You DON'T Like
Romance, Yaoi, YA, Horror
Added iv - Comradery as a chapter, wherein earl grey is gratuitously described.
 

Draugvan

Isn't. That. Glitters. All. Gold.
Original poster
DONATING MEMBER
Posting Speed
A Few Posts a Week, One Post a Week, Slow As Molasses
My Usual Online Time
Four hours behind West Coast USA
Writing Levels
Adept, Advanced, Adaptable
Genders You Prefer Playing
Male, Androgynous, Primarily Prefer Male
Playing Style- Passive or Aggressive
Primarily aggressive
Favorite Genres
Fantasy, Libertine, Medieval, Science Fiction, Drama, Psychological
Genre You DON'T Like
Romance, Yaoi, YA, Horror
Edited iv - Comradery to rewrite the Queen's letter. The new text reads smoother and better reflects the plot arc.
 

Draugvan

Isn't. That. Glitters. All. Gold.
Original poster
DONATING MEMBER
Posting Speed
A Few Posts a Week, One Post a Week, Slow As Molasses
My Usual Online Time
Four hours behind West Coast USA
Writing Levels
Adept, Advanced, Adaptable
Genders You Prefer Playing
Male, Androgynous, Primarily Prefer Male
Playing Style- Passive or Aggressive
Primarily aggressive
Favorite Genres
Fantasy, Libertine, Medieval, Science Fiction, Drama, Psychological
Genre You DON'T Like
Romance, Yaoi, YA, Horror
For fuck sake, I just remembered about the cat thing :/. To make it easy on myself, he can like dogs. He'd never finish the first story otherwise.
 
Last edited:

Draugvan

Isn't. That. Glitters. All. Gold.
Original poster
DONATING MEMBER
Posting Speed
A Few Posts a Week, One Post a Week, Slow As Molasses
My Usual Online Time
Four hours behind West Coast USA
Writing Levels
Adept, Advanced, Adaptable
Genders You Prefer Playing
Male, Androgynous, Primarily Prefer Male
Playing Style- Passive or Aggressive
Primarily aggressive
Favorite Genres
Fantasy, Libertine, Medieval, Science Fiction, Drama, Psychological
Genre You DON'T Like
Romance, Yaoi, YA, Horror
Added v - Contraction as a chapter, wherein Jason talks naughty.
 
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