Disclaimer: I do NOT own Claymore or Devil May Cry, and anything associated with the two. The rest, however, is a different story. Enjoy.


Claymore Girls

1

"And here we are with Galatea Prideux, the founder of the designer brand 'Claymore Girls'.

Claps surrounded the television studio, as well as cheers and hollers.

A faint smile crept on the said woman's lips. Her long legs were crossed as she sat across the interviewer, a series of television cameras of different angles capturing the two women as they conversed. The late night talk show simply called 'Handling Helen' was infamous for its juicy celebrity news and even more controversial host; its high ratings on the French charts were much deserved.

A firm, yet feminine voice filled the air, and some women in the audience shamelessly undressed the interviewee with their eyes. Galatea noticed, causing her to widen her sly smile.

"Yes, yes. It's nice to be on your show, Helen." Galatea clasped her hands together, placing them atop her thigh. "It's also nice to see you without a wine glass in your hands."

A short laughter erupted in the background and Helen was being a good sport about it. "Oh, I downed some vodka right before you came in so don't worry, I won't remember any of this tomorrow." The short haired blonde smiled mock-flirtatiously, comically adjusting herself on her seat and fixing her blondish strands.

Another slight laughter crept and Galatea joined as well. "That's good. That makes the both of us. I'm just kidding."

Helen's reaction was of a feigned disappointment. "So rumor has it that you're scouting models yourself for this season's Claymore Girls clothing line. This winter must be exhausting, considering you were right in the middle of the whole Trish Devlin, Lady Val Jean controversy."

Avoiding the host's bait, Galatea nonchalantly responded to the first topic. "Yeah, I'm looking forward on debuting this season's line on the runway these upcoming weeks." She smirked charismatically to one of the cameras, her lips curling up in a rehearsed grin. "Be sure to keep an eye out on our newest products."


"You were great out there, Miss Prideux."

Galatea looked up. A reflection of a red headed vixen stared rather seductively at her. The studio restroom was neat and tidy; the smell of flowery soap softly invading her nostrils. Cold water dripped from her face from when she washed it, and she dried herself with a paper towel she grabbed from the wall dispenser. She placed her palms on the sink, not turning around, and addressed the flame headed woman behind her through the mirror.

"Thank you." A bored smile crossed her lips. Her white buttoned up shirt sagged lazily against her torso, clinging onto her curves and draping on her slenderness. She feigned disinterest, barely. High class French girls were so predictable, so power hungry. She knew of their tactics and agendas, but she had motives of her own. "Miss Beaumont, it's a pleasure to officially meet you."

The red haired woman leaned against a booth, not caring about tarnishing her simply elegant black dress that didn't deserve to be worn on such an occasion. Then again, she was a famous model that was steadily getting more and more movie gigs, Galatea noted, and assumed that she was the next to be interviewed by Helen.

A heavy Australian accent speaking French lingered as the model slash actress spoke. "Ah, le plaisir est pour moi." Her tongue delicately pronounced each soft word, a sensual sort of velvety voice dripped to hit Galatea's senses.

Galatea slowly turned around, her long strands catching the air for a second as they twirled. Her ghostly smile dared the other woman to oppose her very being. Just see what happens. "It's a shame your Nicolo Ambrosio dress is getting a little… crumpled." The tall woman walked forward that their bodies were just an inch away from each other. Galatea's milky white hands reached to grab the rather expensive designer garments, and straightened the other tall woman's torso area, her seemingly dainty fingers 'accidentally' brushing against the model's breasts as she did so. Galatea's silverish eyes uncaringly looked down at the other's green orbs. The other woman was only an inch shorter than Galatea, and she lunged her luscious model material lips against the taller woman's. Galatea wasn't surprised by the attack, and she returned the kiss in mild entertainment. Miss Beaumont was getting bold, and she slipped a tongue between Galatea's lips, entering the warmth of it. The swirling tongues wrestled as they swapped saliva, and Galatea broke their bodily connection as she felt probing hands caress her lower regions.

A low chuckle escaped her lips as she forcefully gripped Miss Beaumont's wrists. The woman flinched from the force exerted, and uttered in confusion. "What's wrong?"

"I'm in the mood of being the hunter, not the hunted." A second passed as the two stood still, and Galatea released her strong grip, leaving white hand prints on the delicate wrists where blood did not circulate.

"Oh, shut up, you sexy bitch." The persistent hand snaked itself once more towards Galatea's inner thighs, and silver eyes glinted callously as she shoved the redheaded woman to the floor. The shocked model looked up at her credulously as she sprawled on the floor helplessly; appalled that anybody would treat someone of her status in such an unforgiving manner.

"You whore. I said I wasn't in the mood to be fucked. I was supposed to fuck you." Galatea's tall stature looked down at the fallen woman as she straightened her buttoned up shirt. "Your breasts are asymmetric. Your right boob is a millimeter higher than the left, and your ears aren't aligned with your eyes. Half a millimeter off. Maybe you should talk to your plastic surgeon about that, and maybe you'll be landing more modeling gigs rather than acting gigs."

An astonished face engrossed the woman's face, only to be replaced with blatant anger as she spat her words. "Screw you, Galatea Prideux."

The tall woman walked off from the restroom, the door barely shutting as a shriek squeezed out of the closing gap.

"You fucking woman user!"


Huff.

Huff. Huff.

One-two jab. One-two hook. One-two jab. One-two hook.

A torrent of jabs and hooks connected with the suspended punching bag, the heavy sands inside securing it to not flail every time the training target was punched. A lithe woman maneuvered herself around the bag, her arms firmly flexed in front of her face as a basic defensive tactic. A black sports bra wrapped itself around her shapely yet constricted breasts. Her abs clenched as she stretched out her punches and relaxed as she retracted her toned arms back to her torso. She was ripped, yet her body didn't forsake its obvious feminine features. Miria huffed as sweat was caught on her eye lashes, her forehead, chest and everything else perspiring from her training she started hours ago.

A towel collided with her unsuspecting face harshly, and she caught it as it dropped due to gravity. "Hey, what was that for?" She exhaled audibly, huffing and puffing as her chest rose and fell.

Mirrors replaced bland walls all around her, and she turned around to face Deneve, who sported a similar bra and some sporty looking shorts that clung tightly to her curves. She was carrying her duffel bag and a white towel hung from her neck. "It's closing time, Miria. Pack up your shit and get rest for tomorrow's training. Your fight's in two days so rest is as crucial as your sculpting of your body."

"Sheesh, you don't have to smack me with a towel going sixty miles per hour." She wiped the saltiness off her face and pushed back the wet hairs that clung to her face with the cloth. A small laugh came from Deneve, a woman around the same age as Miria.

"Oops, I guess I don't know my strength." She scoffed again. The really short haired woman walked all around the training room, the floors cushioned for protection, and started putting the punching bags to the corners of the room. She closed all the doors inside the building, and stretched her legs as she waited for Miria to cool down.

The longer haired woman was doing breathing exercises, her rapid heartbeat slowly but surely calming down. She walked all around the cushioned floors, preventing her body to abruptly come to rest after a rigorous work out. She walked towards the water dispenser in one corner of the room, and drank a sip from the paper cup, looking at Deneve.

"So how's…. the gym doing?" A huff. "Are they still…. Gonna buy it off from you?" Never had water felt so refreshing.

Deneve was on the other side of the room, scratching her head in dismay at their topic. It was bound to be talked about anyway, so why not now? The boyish haired woman sighed. "In two months, they're gonna buy it from me. What can I do, Miria? This place is going bankrupt. Fuck, I'm actually thinking about just going back to school and getting a decent paying job." She unzipped her bag and placed her well used towel inside.

Miria finally felt her heart rate lowering, and she sighed in sympathy towards her long time friend. She felt sorry for her friend's situation. The gym was her passion, boxing. She bought the property with her long earned money, but people weren't as interested in the sport as they used to. No customers meant no money. No money meant no profit, and no profit meant no business for Deneve.

"I told you I'll help you out, girl." Her tone was a matter of factly. No bullshit. Miria walked towards her duffel bag, which was lying on a side of the room, and reached a baggy, boyish white shirt. It's a post workout outfit. It didn't have to look glamorous as it clung onto her sweat. "If I win the match, half of my prize money goes to you, and that's that." Her friend was having financial problems, and Miria not need to be a rocket scientist to connect the dots.

Deneve's face beamed with hope, but she knew that would be too much for her friend to offer her. "No, that's not fair for you. That money you'll get is your hard earned, and I'll just feel like a pathetic mooch if I undeservedly take some."

Miria let out a small, hasty laugh. Her friend was hard-headed as usual. She wasn't surprised that Deneve would reject her offer, but unfortunately, Miria was just as hard-headed, if not worse. "Shut up with that pride of yours." She joked harmlessly, owning a girlish tone as she teased. An innocent smile plastered her face, and her spikyish locks were put on a semi-neat ponytail as she spoke. "You're getting half of my money, and that's final."

Deneve gave up. "Fine. Now finish up so I can close." She offered a lopsided smirk, her collected demeanor never unnoticeable. "So, you got plans for tonight, kiddo?"

"Ew, don't call me that. We're the same age."

Indeed, the two twenty year olds walked away from Deneve's Chop Shop, an oddly named boxing gym in the grimier parts of downtown Paris, after Deneve turned off all the lights and locked the main door. It was nighttime in the big city, and it was alive. The two walked alongside a sidewalk, light pollution all around them as taxis and regular cars drove about, and building lights illuminated the dark skies. Noise from all around erupted as night people chattered about, electronic billboards spewed advertisement after advertisement, and music from near restaurants mildly flooded ears passing by.

"I'm going home and do just like you said: rest. What about you?" Miria slightly shivered from the night breeze.

"Same. Though I want to check out that new club soon, what's it called.. Vienna?" Deneve pulled out her gray hoodie, zipping the sweater with the duffel bag strap inside it.

"Yep, that's the new one."

"Like we need another gay bar. There's a strip near here where it's a gay club after gay club." Deneve pulled out a cigarette against the cold air and lit it. Her hooded head was elucidated for a second as a spark of light engulfed the tip of the tobacco stick, burning brighter as she inhaled the cancerous smoke deeply. A group of trashy looking girls looking like they're hitting a club attempted to bum some cigs from Deneve, only to be rudely rejected with a 'get the fuck outta here.'

"Dykes!" A scantily clad teenager, probably around eighteen or nineteen, exclaimed loudly before walking away with her group of partiers.

"Fucking little kid sluts!" Deneve exhaled, and for a moment her hood hid her eyes.

Miria arched a brow, mildly amused from her friend's crude antics. Deneve smoked from time to time, only when she's stressed. Miria noted that. "It's seems counter-productive to be smoking after working out, but to hell with it." One wouldn't hurt, would it?

Deneve, sensing her cue, reached out her pack to Miria, a menthol stick lazily hanging between her lips.

Miria placed the stick between her mouth, took Deneve's lighter and sparked up the cigarette. The two looked up, and exhaled a minty vanilla scented smoke as they walked away from the busy city that never sleeps.

A giant screen against a towering building flashed images and videos of tall, skinny models walking down the runway. Some were almost fully exposed except for the delicious looking lingerie and gaudy looking headpieces that clung, while some had realistic looking wings ranging from angels' to butterflies' adorning the model's bare backs. The next batch of models looked more exotic, with darker skin and hair, and they walked fiercely on their heels, placing one long leg after the other as they strode elegantly on the runway, wearing oddly shaped dresses. Odd, yet symmetric. Some were asymmetric, yet they didn't look odd at all. Sensual electro music played as the models did what they do, and the well known logo 'Claymore Girls' materialized after the one minute show that dripped sex, sexiness, and womanly beauty ended, only to start again.

How degrading. Miria inhaled a puff as she looked away in mild disgust at the billboard.


Metallic clinking was heard in the hotel room, and the two women in their lingerie giggled on the bed as Galatea was entrapped with cuffs connected to her bed poles. The view was magnificent in the one hundred thirteenth floor, and the giant glass wall was what divided Galatea's suite and the outside air. The city lights painted the panorama with different neon lights, the orbs and lines of luminosity a feast for the visual senses.

"Are you giving up, Ga-la-tea?" One of the women slid a finger down Galatea's abdomen teasingly as she crouched on all fours, facing the trapped woman with a predatory gleam in her orbs. Luciela was her name, Galatea hoped she got that right. The other one was named Riful, and she wondered what race the two were. Those were indeed odd sounding names, almost otherworldly.

Galatea struggled her arms and legs, but to no avail. The three were all wearing nothing but undergarments, but instead of lingerie, Galatea's hips were hugged by tight white briefs, her breasts were cupped with a lacy black bra.

Riful giggled cutely. Galatea guessed their ages, and they were probably around her age, if not older. An accent dripped like honey when Riful spoke, yet Galatea couldn't guess where it was from, even if her life depended on it. "My, you may be a fashionista, but you can't even match your own underwear." Another giggle but this time, it sounded a tad sadistic.

Luciela giggled equally as evil as Riful, and the two crawled on all fours closer to their bound victim.

"This isn't funny anymore. Set me free. Now." A twitch betrayed one of Galatea's brows for a mere second.

"Not likely." Riful smiled delicately at Galatea, causing the taller woman's brow to twitch some more.

The two lingerie-clad women stretched their arms out and caressed Galatea's torso up and down with their palms after they thoughtlessly discarded her of her bra, and Galatea trashed harder this time. The two stopped their assaults and Luciela got off the bed, picking up her clothes that were carelessly thrown on the tiled floors. Riful clicked on her tongue thrice, as if patronizing Galatea's hopeless attempts, and placed her well rounded buttocks on top of Galatea's crotch. The dark haired woman sat gracefully, facing Galatea's side, her legs closed and folded. She turned her torso slightly to face the vulnerable woman underneath her, and she laughed as Galatea snarled and glared.

"We'll be leaving now, with a few of your change of course." Riful chimed as she watched Luciela jack the bills from Galatea's purse.

"Fucking bitches." The blonde cursed. She decided not to thrust her pelvis to rid of the bothersome woman on top of her, as that would only probably end in failure.

Riful finally relented, and she bent over suggestively, giving Galatea a very nice view, as she picked up her forgotten outfit from the floor. The two chuckled as they walked off into the door, and Luciela threw a key between Galatea's spread legs on the bed. The said captive couldn't reach it of course, due to her current position, and she barked a low bark as the two turned to give her air kisses before opening and closing the door, leaving the tied woman by herself.

"Absolutely amazing." She darted a look at her wallet, and she noticed they took her credit card as well. I'll be sure to cancel that card then. Now, how shall I get myself out of this rut, this time?

Galatea thrashed again before jumping as her telephone loudly rang. The deafening sound rang six more times until Galatea's recorded voice answered her voice mail. After the beep, a very angry Irene left a message.

"Why are you not ready yet? If you do not meet up with me in the lobby within five minutes, I will personally go up there and drag you out myself. Do you think those two no-name models are going to have a chance in landing a gig on this season's line after bedding with you? You are terribly wrong. Hurry up and get down here, because I am in no mood to reschedule another meeting." Click. Galatea sighed. She must thank Irene for her aggressive business-as-always attitude.

Five minutes have passed, and Galatea heard rapping against her hotel door.

"Come in!" The long haired blonde's husky voice echoed against the silence, and a creak of the door, followed by a palm slapping a forehead as Irene witnessed the spectacle before her.

"Quick, unlock these god-forsaken cuffs. The key's between by legs."

Irene sighed in an unhidden annoyance, unlocking each cuff with a 'click' of the key. "You really know how to make women hate you, don't you?" The silver haired lady, being Galatea's co-founder, outwardly showed her frustration. "Haven't you learned from those two Americans you were in a scandal with-"

"Trish and Lady?"

Irene didn't appreciate getting rudely interrupted. "Yes, those two Americans. You should know by now not to mess with more.. well known women." The vice president of the company, wearing a maroon three piece power suit, straightened her outfit and glared at Galatea, who was still topless on the bed. Irene wasn't surprised anymore by the circumstances her eccentric, promiscuous president would find herself in. Galatea may be a playgirl, but she knew how to run a business. A multi-mass business.

Rubbing her wrists, Galatea walked to her closet and pondered on what to wear. She shuffled the closet hangers on the horizontal rod they hung to, and she slicked her messy strands back in frustration. "Irene, what happened to my three piece suit?"

"I don't know," Her slightly groggy voice dripped with impatience. "Maybe those two hoochies that scampered off took them." Irene walked towards the massive glass barrier, and stared down at the marvelous city that never lost its pulse. Her reflection also stared down at the city, and Irene's face casted a look of serenity. Her exotic looking features, such as her ears and nose, caught Galatea's interest years ago, and she even offered Irene a spot on becoming one of the most well known models in their day and age. Irene automatically refused, believing her body is not a product, a toy for the masses to play with. Oh, the irony of her being in the position of cultivating new toys. Sharp silver eyes caught a stirring on the glass reflection, and Irene looked at Galatea on the glass window.

"I do apologize for dragging you into this legal battle, Irene." Galatea found a spare designer suit in the edge of her closet rack, and started putting on her silky silver slacks. She then put on a fresh new bra, and a white buttoned up shirt concealed her creamy skin. Her eyes were closed, and she placed one arm after the other in the sleeves of her silver blazer. "But you are also lawyer, and a damn good one at that." Galatea walked towards her fridge, and Irene's silver eyes sternly watched the other woman's reflection bring back two wine glasses and a bottle of a 1996 château lafite rothschild pauillac. She walked towards the equally tall woman, and the two stood side by side as Galatea poured Irene a glass of wine.

Irene took a sip, the two looking down at the vast cosmopolitan scenery. "The limo's waiting outside."

Galatea took a sip, her other hand gracefully holding the delicate bottle. "Right. Let them wait for a little bit more. This is a matter of straight forward business. They won't go anywhere, and they deserve to be kept in suspense, if they're trying to take money from us anyway."

"You are indeed something else, Galatea."


The five star restaurant hummed a soft, bassa nova jingle, and well known people devoured to their hearts' content. Stylish looking waiters and waitresses smiled and served professionally, and a man with a black bow tie, a regular buttoned up shirt, an apron and black pants approached their table with their tray of filled wine glasses.

"White wine?"

"Thank you… David." That was the waiter's name, the elderly woman in red dully noted.

"Let's get this over with." Galatea lazily sipped the wine in her lips, a bored expression on her face was matched equally by Irene's. The tall woman's arm hanged behind the chair's crown with her legs crossed, and her three inch heel swayed in the air. The suits across Galatea and Irene wondered how Galatea can make a sloppy position look elegant, but quickly brush it off.

Irene clasped her hands together and placed them on the table before clearing her throat. "So what are your demands?"

The woman in the red suit, a stiff looking lawyer, cleared her throat as well and sipped her wine. She looked straight into Galatea's eyes, her tone professional and sharp. "Devlin, my client, is charging you, Galatea Prideux, with sexual harassment. His client, Ms. Val Jean," She addressed to the man sitting next to her. "is also filing a lawsuit for sexual harassment."

The mentioned man, dressed in his worker black suit, tugged his collar before straightening out the file of papers he pulled from his briefcase. He placed the copies inside a simple black binder and handed them to Galatea, who smiled in annoyance from the whole ridiculousness. She would not rape, molest, or even lay a delicate finger on any unwilling women, but of course, she had no proof. She quickly yanked the binder from the middle aged man in a rude manner, and her smile stitched upwards as he tried to hide his glare.

"This whole thing is garbage, and I assure you two," She smiled callously at the lawyers before her. "justice will rear its rightful head on you. You will get no money from us, you greedy scum of the earth." Wasting no more words, Irene and Galatea stood, leaving behind two dumbfounded employees at their tracks.

"We will see you in court next week, Miss Prideux." The lady lawyer raised her voice for the two to hear as they exited the restaurant.

"Well." Irene carried her briefcase effortlessly after putting the binder inside it. "That was quicker than expected."

Their limo was waiting outside the restaurant, and Galatea opened the backseat for Irene. The limo driver was used to Galatea's odd timings of politeness, and opening doors for her coworkers were one of them. Irene scooted to give Galatea space.

"Good evening, Miss Prideux, Miss Monette." The driver tipped his hat slightly as his eyes looked at the two's reflections on the rearview mirror.

"And a good evening to you, Carlo." Galatea crossed her legs and spread her arms on the seats' upper edges. "Drive slowly to the hotel. Irene and I need to fish for new meat."

Carlo chuckled low and pulled the shift stick to drive; his slight Italian accent was recognizable. "As you wish, ma'am."


Deneve chucked the cigarette butt to a trash can, after killing its embers, of course. Her short, blonde hair gave no comfort to the chilly winds, and she pulled on her hood lower to her head. "It's such a pain not having a car." She smirked at her and Miria's inconvenience.

"Well, good thing we don't live that far. And if anybody tries to mug us, we can kick their asses easy." Miria smiled, and huffed at the winter coldness.

Deneve mindlessly kicked a stray tin can on the cement, and it accidentally hit an upcoming black limo that stopped on the red light in front of them. The woman's legs were strong, and an audible clank was heard as it hit the right back seat door. The can rattled to the ground, and an obvious dented spot where black paint should be was visible. The chipped paint clung to the can, and the two walking bystanders stared in awe at what just happened.

"Oops." Deneve's eyes widened, her mouth was agape for a second.

The back seat door opened, and a heeled foot stepped out. Her voice rang into Miria's ears, and she was intrigued by the deepness of it. "Just what the hell did you two do to the car?"

"I don't have money to pay for this, Miria." Deneve wearily whispered to Miria.

Miria, in the same position, agreed. "I don't either."

Galatea, annoyed as she was, walked towards them. "Hey, I'm talking to you-"

"Run!" Miria screamed, sprinting towards the opposite direction.

Deneve caught up in no time, and the two vanished in the shady alleyways of Paris.

Galatea's arm was in the air, as if reaching for something that was long gone, and her brow twitched as she watched the two unknown women's backs getting smaller and smaller until they hid in the nooks and gaps of the countless buildings. "What the hell.." She looked back at the door and frowned at the rather large dent.

Carlo rolled down the right front seat window. "How's it look, ma'am? That was one loud hit."

Galatea sat back onto her chair before closing her door. "It has a large dent. Do not worry, Carlo, the repair's on me."

"Grazie, Madame."

"Did you see who did it?" Irene glanced at Galatea, her hand formed into a lose fist as it supported her leaning head.

"One was wearing a hood so I couldn't see her face, and one was… absolutely gorgeous." Galatea barely realized after her slight frustration vanished.

Carlo rolled up the front window and sensing the two were conversing, he rolled up the black tinted window behind him, giving the two business women privacy as they talked.

Irene smirked in amusement at Galatea's childish epiphany. City lights shone on their faces as they drove and Irene jokingly offered a suggestion. "Shall we drive after them and learn her measurements? Surely they can't be too far."

Galatea gazed idly at her window's moving scenery. She felt a yawn coming on as she inhaled, and she covered her mouth as the day's weariness hit her. "I'll find her. Her hips were curvaceous. Her face was of perfection. Her breasts…" She glanced at Irene, who was intently listening. Maybe this was the model they were desperately looking for?

"Her breasts were on a bind, but I can tell they're so, very symmetrical." A smile unknowingly crept on her lips, and Galatea pondered about the escaped girl as she leaned her head with two fingers against her temple.

The two huffed loudly in a dark alleyway, their forms bended so that their hands connected to their knees for support.


"Oh my god." Miria muttered. "That was so funny."

Deneve laughed with Miria, never mind that they were now farther from their apartments.

Deneve's forearm wiped the sweat off her forehead. "She looks so familiar, but I can't put a finger on it."

"Whoever she is, she seemed like a bitch." The spiky haired boxer exhaled loudly, and the coldness made her breath visible. "One that dresses in fancy clothes."

The two giggled playfully and returned to square one on their quest of plopping lazily onto their beds.