#BUT MAKING THE SHIP NOT SHIP? BURNING THE SAILS? BLOWING HOLES THROUGH IT? WATCHING IT SINK INTO THE OCEAN? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

babbushka · 4 years ago

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Fathoms Below

Pirate Captain!Kylo Ren x Reader

17.2k ; CW: Graphic descriptions of violence, death, murder, sword fighting, blood & injury, mention of corpses, possessive behavior, NSFW (PIV, oral sex [F receiving] fingering, rough sex, praise kink)

Available on AO3

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He can still remember it, all these years later.

He can remember the very first voyage, bright eyed and bushy-tailed, flush of excitement high on the bridge of his nose. As Kylo’s crew sails the Silencer through the calm waters of the Atlantic, he cannot help but remember. The crew know better than to question him now, lest they fancy a trip off the plank, so as the deep blue waters of the ocean split beneath the bow of his ship, Kylo climbs up to the bowsprit and straddles the long wooden post, letting out a deep breath.

The horizon is unchanging, as she ever is. Kylo squints into the orange of the setting sun, watching as the waves catch and sparkle in the froth that it makes as it breaks against the wooden hull of the vessel he has commandeered now for longer than he has lived ashore.

“Where are you?” He asks out into the waves, casts his voice as far as it will go, desperate beyond measure, sick with the want of seeing you again, as he remembers.

Oh, I bid farewell to the port and the land

And I paddle away from brave England's white sands

To search for my long ago forgotten friends

To search for the place I hear all sailers end

As the souls of the dead fill the space of my mind

I'll search without sleeping 'til peace I can find

I fear not the weather, I fear not the sea

I remember the fallen, do they think of me?

When their bones in the ocean forever will be…

He had been naught but nineteen, when the maiden voyage of HMS Finalizer sets sail. A crew of nearly three hundred men hoisted the sails of the warship, led by the decrepit Captain Snoke as they embark on a crusade of sorts in the warmer waters away from Liverpool. The old man, a battle-worn scoundrel with a sunken in face and long white beard has given this young boy his first chance of the open seas, and said boy has taken it. On his first voyage ever, the young skipper leaves behind the world of the land to instead live out his days on the sea.

And what a magical world it is! A world of adventure, loyalty and trust, of code and honor – unlike the petty realm of government and policy which he has so quickly abandoned, the realm of his mother and uncle; no, a desk job was never in the cards for him, not for him. He longed for the sea, and now he has her. Much like a sponge that lives on the bottom of the depths, he soaks up knowledge and skill as fast as he can, they will not regret the day they brought him aboard. For weeks he studies and practices and learns the ropes, learns the nature of the Finalizer and how to care for her.

He meets a band of older gentlemen, who take him under his wing. Vicrul was the navigator, he taught the young boy how to read the stars with just his eyes and his compass. Cardo was the boatswain, and he taught the young boy how to seal the ropes so the braids wouldn’t rot, how to swab the deck until the floorboards shone. Ushar was the master gunner, who taught the boy how to load and fire the cannons, taught him to be grateful he wasn’t a powder monkey scampering through the rigging. Trudgen was the carpenter and taught the boy how to repair the holes which inevitably would find their way into the hull of their ship, taught the boy how to repair just about anything he could think of. Kuruk, the surgeon, taught the boy how to fix everything that Trugden could not.

And Ap'lek, why he might be the most important of the gentlemen of all, for Ap’lek was a musician and could play nearly any instrument placed in his lap. It is with Ap’lek that the boy spends much of his time, learning the melodies and harmonies of the sea, for it is by song which the whole ship works, and the ship does not work without it.

It is a song that they are singing now, the young boy in line with a row of far stronger and taller men. The salty spray of the sea splashes onto his face, as the skipper’s muscles are put to good use on the long-haul, as he and his brothers call out in time to the songs that the shanty master belts out with his strong lungs. That had been the one question Captain Snoke had asked of him,

“I’m fast, and strong, Captain, and am an excellent climber – ” He had boasted proudly, puffed his chest up to mask the lank of his limbs.

“Aye,” The old man had cut him off, glanced him up and down, “But can ye sing?”

Even if he hadn’t he would have lied, he supposes.

And even if he hadn’t, he would have learned soon enough. As he hoists himself up the ropes, as he feels the breeze and the sun in his hair, he thinks he might fancy being a shanty master himself one day. The work is hard, the work is brutal, but the songs make it worth it, they pass the time and fill everyone with a spirit that pushes the ship forward.

He had sailed halfway through the Atlantic fighting the enemy, blowing holes in the hull of their ships where he knew they had not a Trugden nor an Ushar to defend themselves, and in those few weeks he felt he had already outgrown this ship. Lying awake at night, he wished for a chance to one day commandeer his own, how he would be a far better captain than the likes of Snoke. If there was one thing he learned all on his own, it was that he would do anything to be rid of Snoke.

Oh, if only he had watched his words.

The storm comes as storms often do – a whipped up frenzy of wind and wave, Poseidon’s fury crashing down around them. Startled awake, his vision shorts out as the ship is illuminated by bright cracks of lightning as the sea churns inky black below. It crept up to them at night, with no warning save for the pressure in the air. That pressure, and the creaking groaning planks of the ship, the rocking of her belly.

By the time the storm was noticed by the rest of the crew, it was too late. Lightning strikes the staffs and catches the sails on fire, alarm bells ring, men shout and shout and shout and pray.

“All hands on deck!” Cardo’s booming voice rises above the thunder, above the shouts of concern that pour from the hammocks high in the rigging where the boys all sleep.

Down down down the shrouds they rush, shrouds which the wind whips and flings about in a panic. The integrity of the Finalizer is tested now, for they have survived cannons, but gunpowder is no match for the fury of the sea. The young boy feels a spike of adrenaline in his chest, this is the first storm he has ever seen, and he has a sickening feeling that it might be his last.

Heave and ho, the winds send the ship headed towards rocks hidden underneath the waves, a gash too large torn through the starboard side, water flooding in. He does not know which way to go – to pump the water out, to hoist the sails, to put the fires out; there is chaos, and he does not know where to begin. Men rush past him as the ship tils and lurches from one side to the next, chests and barrels and piles of supplies sliding dangerously to and fro, knocking crewmen over the sides before the swelling crashing deadly waves have a chance to sweep them off their feet.

Waves some twenty, thirty feel tall curl in on themselves and smash down onto the deck, and now those shouts turn to screams, as they realize, as they all realize there is no saving this vessel. Lightning strikes, and he is pushed, urged towards a small boat, and he does not know how if they cannot survive on the big ship, how a little one would be of much help.

“To the rowboats -- !” Someone calls, the boy does not know who, not in this frenzy. His vision is shaking, as he runs and runs from one side of the ship to another, trying to stay level, trying to stay upright as the Finalizer nearly capsizes.

“There’s no time!” Ushar growls, the pipe he holds clenched between his teeth nearly splitting in two, as lightning strikes once more, as flaming bits of sail flutter around and land on the flesh of men.

“Captain – where is the captain?” The boy demands, because surely Snoke must know what to do, Snoke is the only one who can give orders – except when he sees Snoke, he sees him frantically rowing out in the distance, far greater distance that he should have been able to row in the storm like this. The boy is thrown against the rail of the ship with another lurch from the waves, and he panics, “What is he doing?”

“Don’t be daft son, he’s leaving us to die.” Vicrul sneers, water sloshing in a grand arc behind him, lightning illuminating the mouth of gold teeth he sports, his mouth turned into a grimace.

That was the first time in the young boy’s life, where he truly felt fear. Snoke must have sensed the storm coming, and instead of raising the alarms, he had snuck out like a snake in the night. And in doing so, his captain had condemned them all.

“Will we?” The boy asks with terror in his wide brown eyes, as Kuruk and Ap’lek can only stare at one another (years later, sitting here on the bowsprit, he realizes that they were trying to find a way to say I love you before it was too late).

He does not get an answer, before the cold smack of water carries him off and away, as the body of the ship splits in two, as lightning and thunder sear into his brain. Someone shouts for him, but he cannot hear them, all he can hear is the rushing thrumming sound of the ocean.

-------------------

Beneath the waves, it is calm.

More than calm, it is quiet. He cannot remember a time where it had ever been so quiet. Up above the waterline, he knows it must be hell, but down here in the embrace of the sea, there is naught he can do but listen to the quiet and feel the burn in his lungs. The world around him is black from the lack of the sun, but the flashes of lightning way above him send shimmers of rich emerald greens all around.

The currents are too strong, there is no fighting them. With the burn in his lungs only growing, growing more desperate for air that will not come, The boy sinks sinks sinks, a chest of cannon balls pinned to his stomach, sending him deeper.

He thinks of his mother, he thinks of the look on her face when he told her he would follow in his father’s footsteps for a life on the sea.

He thinks of his father, of the smuggler’s word he had given to come back home.

It looks like neither of the men in Leia’s life would be making good on their promises of return, he thinks.

An impossibly darker blackness creeps up through the corners of his vision, and he feels empty, so empty. The lightning a thousand feet up ahead crackles through the water, as he begins to slip away. A last burst of breath bubbles out of his mouth, the water is cold as his back hits the soft sand of the ocean’s floor.

He stares straight up and takes one final look at the watery world above him, and he resigns himself to his fate – when the last flash of lightning backlights a figure bolting towards him, arms outstretched, fingers spread in a frantic push to grab him.

With the last of his strength, though his body is crushed, he lifts one hand out to meet them.

-------------------

He rests at the bottom of the ocean, as your fingers twine through his. Your hair is long and it flows around your face, a face which he cannot see and yet somehow can see perfectly. Your eyes glow white, so brightly that it illuminates the space like the lightning, but instead of a mere flash, it is a steady glow, much like a lighthouse on a craggy shore.

However it is not your eyes which captivate him, it is your body. For one, he has never seen a naked woman’s breasts before, and so the sight of your chest uncovered is a sight he fixates on, but only for a moment as he realizes very quickly that in the place where your legs should be, is a great and glorious tail.

It is long and glittering as the light from your eyes reflects off the scales, and he has a hard time believing that this is real, that you are real, especially when you open your mouth and speak aloud to him under the water, asking, “What is your name?”

The burn in his lungs is no more, he realizes, and when he breathes in, water does not fill the empty spaces inside of him.

“Am I dead?” He whispers, finding with relative ease that he can sit up, there on the ocean floor.

He looks around himself, sees the fallen sailors with whom he had just been singing not two hours ago, sees the debris of the ship which has sunk in large shattered pieces, nestled all around. The flag of Great Britain tattered and torn, mocking them all as the current creates an illusion that it is waving.

You smile curiously at him, settling yourself around him, your tail draped over his lap as you check him for injury.

“No, would you like to be?” You reply, and he’s not so sure he believes you, for such a thing as this cannot be possible, not in a million years, it cannot be.

“No – I – ” He stutters, watches as bubbles dance up to the surface.

“Your name, sailor.” You ask again with a gentle smile, and he hesitates.

His name, what was his name? He had one of course, but…but was that really his name? No, it wasn’t, he reasons. That was a name he had been given, one laden with expectation and pressure that he never wished to inherit. Even aboard the ship, he was not called by his name – although his nickname wasn’t much better. He makes a decision then, a decision he had longed to make when he was alive.

Because surely he was dead, and if he were a dead man, then at least he would die the man he wanted to be, as opposed to the man the world told him he had to become.

“Kylo Ren.” The name leaves his lips with a certainty that he did not know he possessed, especially for saying the name out loud for the first time. He had called himself Kylo in secret for years, and somehow, it felt good to have that secret come to light, even if it were too late.

“Kylo Ren.” You repeat, and he finds that it sounds even better coming from your lips, the sound almost intoxicating, your voice and cadence of speaking music to his ears. “’Tis a strong name, that one. How many years do you have under your sails, Kylo?”

“I – this is my first time.” Kylo admits, and your white glowing eyes widen, a hand on your chest in surprise.

“First time out at sea and already caught in my storm? You’re either very lucky, or very unlucky.” You shake your head, your hair following in a rippling motion, floating in the water.

“You’re beautiful.” Kylo says, as he feels his heart opening up, as he feels the burn of his lungs returning, the chill of the water a contrast on his skin once more.

“I know.” You grin, too many teeth in your mouth, and it is then that Kylo’s mind begins to catch up with him.

“Did you say your storm?” He asks, air bubbling out of his mouth, air that he didn’t know he possessed, air that he knows now that you’ve given him.

Kylo doesn’t know how, but he knows he is not dead, he knows that you have done something, you wield some power of the deep. He knows that you have saved him.

“Lucky, I think.” You laugh, the sound more melodic than any of Ap’lek’s songs could ever be, the sound filling filling filling Kylo with air. “Yes, I daresay you’re lucky.”

“I – are you an angel?” Kylo frowns, as he feels the chest of cannon balls slip away from his legs, feeling regaining in his limbs once more. The water rushes and thrums around him, but he doesn’t feel afraid, not as you take him by the hand and lead him slowly up to the surface.

“An angel? No, no I’m something far more sinister.” Your scales shimmer and glimmer and glitter in the moonlight, the waves are calm once more as you swim with him up up up.

“You’re so beautiful.” Kylo says, because he can’t think of anything else to say, and this pleases you, and he finds that he would very much like to spend the rest of his life making you happy.

Through the surface of the water Kylo’s face breaks, and all at once lungs fill with real air, salty briny moonlit air, and he gulps it down, coughs and splutters water. Kylo’s limbs are sore, he’s freezing cold, he feels sick – and all of this lets him know he is well and truly alive.

You’re watching him intently, watching him carefully, your eyes no longer glowing now that your face is out of the water. Guiding him to a rowboat which sits empty atop the water, you help him into it.

He doesn’t want to let go of your hand.

“Promise me something, and I won’t drown you.” You tease, although Kylo cannot tell that you are teasing, he’s too in shock of how he is here – of why he is here and his fellow brothers remain at the bottom of the ocean.

“Anything.” The word tumbles easily, quickly, and you tsk against the roof of your mouth, shaking your head.

“’Anything’ is a dangerous word to be said to a mermaid.” You whisper, but Kylo doesn’t care.

“I’ll do anything.” He insists, feeling in his heart, in his very core, that he wants to be with you forever. He’d sell his soul, to be with you forever.

So when you smile sadly at him, and give his palms a tight squeeze, before you slip your hands away and begin to sink back down into the water, until Kylo cannot see your beautiful breasts or your too-sharp teeth, until all that can be seen of you are your eyes which begin to glow once more, he panics with confusion.

“Grow up, big and strong, live long.” Your voice swirls around inside his head, and he rushes to the side of the rowboat to reach for you, even after you have submerged yourself fully, he still reaches, “Come find me when you have commanded the respect of the ocean upon a ship of your own. Find me, and tell me you’ll do anything for me then.”

-------------------

Plot a course to the night to a place I once knew

To a place where my hope died along with my crew

So I swallow my grief and face life's final test

To find promise of peace and the solace of rest

As the songs of the dead fill the space of my ears

Their laughter like children, their beckoning cheers

My heart longs to join them, sing songs of the sea

I remember the fallen, do they think of me?

When their bones in the ocean forever will be

-------------------

The black sails of the Silencer are puffed full with wind, full speed ahead as they exit Port Royal. Sitting atop the bowsprit, Kylo stares into the glittering ocean, the horizon casting golden rays of light through the deep blue sea. His crew is merry, the weather is pleasant, and yet still a sour feeling lingers in his stomach.

Where were you? Surely now was the time, was it not? Kylo had grown, oh how he had grown, both in size and stature indeed. But more than that, he had done as you asked – as he had always wanted to do. There were no man so fearsome as that of Captain Ren, no ship that saw the sails of the Silencer and won the battle which soon followed.

His chests were filled with gold, which he sold for a pretty penny to the highest bidder, and often reserved himself a chest or two to simply fill his tub with and bathe in the riches. His barrels were filled with rum and food, his crew never having gone hungry, not even for one meal. His wardrobe was filled with expensive silks and linens, donning himself in clothes fit for a leader, but ensuring his crew were dressed as lavishly – these reasons and more are why year after year his crew elected him Captain.

In fact, the annual election had just taken place at the docks of Port Royal, where it was a unanimous vote. Kylo should be celebrating, he should be naked in a brothel surrounded by gorgeous men and women – it was the 1660s after all – he should be drinking to his heart’s content and pleasuring himself with life’s greatest fortunes.

Instead, he sits up on the bowsprit, and speaks to the sea with a melancholic eye. A single eye, for that’s all he has left, the other blinded in a battle he fought many a year ago. His crew takes notice to this, and as they perform their mid-morning duties, a few of them gossip among themselves, as pirates are often wont to do.

“He’s up there again?” A nimble fingered lad named Mitaka, not more than fifteen years of age, speaks up as he braids rope with the efficacy of a man with decades of practice. He had just joined the Silencer’s crew, had practically begged Kylo to take him aboard back in Port Royal, and though the Captain had a reputation for being volatile and coarse, he never turned away a face in need.

“Aye, with the telescope, same as every day.” His hammock-neighbor, Thannison, pipes up from his spot not too far across the deck, on his hands and knees scrubbing away.

“What’s he lookin’ for d’ya reckon?” Mitaka wonders aloud with the sort of curious nature that only someone young as he could still possess.

Thannison looks around, checks over his shoulder and then casts a glance up to the Captain himself, to Kylo who is unmoving, sitting far and away high above them all.

“A mermaid.” He whispers, and even though he is careful, the breeze still carries his voice, the word reaching the ears of the Silencer’s navigator, an ex-General of the Royal Navy.

“A myth, more like.” Hux scoffs with a roll of his eye, drawing the attention of Victoria the First Mate, a woman stronger than half the men aboard the ship combined.

“Don’t let the Captain hear ye talkin’ that way, what he’s lookin’ for ain’t none of our business.” She stands at the helm, not that there’s much work to be done now on such calm waters. They’re traveling windward to their great advantage, and the skies do their part in keeping the seas steady.

“But it is, isn’t it? We’re his crew, we sail his ship, don’t you think it’s our business what we’re lookin’ for?” Hux mutters, where he is reviewing charts over yonder portside.

“I said – ” Victoria storms over with her thick soled boots, storms straight through the freshly scrubbed floor poor Thannison had just polished, to shove a menacing blade of her short dagger in the direction of Hux’s narrowed eyes, “Don’t. Let. The Captain. Hear.”

Little displays of animosity like this were not rare among the crew, as pirates generally weren’t the most easy-to-get-along-with types, but Mitaka watches with a curious eye as Victoria walks away, down through a hatch in the deck, no doubt to retire to her rooms for the afternoon.

“You’d think she’d be in better spirits, what with seein’ her wife ‘n all.” He offers up, makin’ just about everyone within earshot chuckle.

“We could have been in port for a month, and Victoria would miss Gwen the moment they part.” Thannison replies, and this at least, Mitaka can understand.

“Does the Captain miss his mermaid?” He asks, eager to learn everything, eager to know, “Is she even real?”

“He says she is, but no man nor lass has ever seen her, and certainly never come back alive. They say she saved him on the night the Finalizer sank – that he was the only one she saved.” Hux throws a wary glance up to Kylo, who remains unchanged up on the bowsprit.

“Why?” Mitaka wonders aloud softly.

“No one knows.” Hux replies just as softly, for this truly is the one question which hangs on everyone’s mind, the one question that only Kylo would know, but even he is at a loss for the answers. “But as long as I’ve been aboard this ship, he has been looking for her. Now, no more questions, don’t you have rope to braid?”

“Aye sir!” Mitaka busies himself with his tasks once more, and Kylo, high up above them all, is grateful for it.

-------------------

Of course he knows the rumors that spread, the worries that he is going mad. Much like a man chasing an elusive ship, or a hunt for treasure that didn’t exist, those who knew Kylo knew him to be a man fixated on the impossible. They say he has been on the sea too long, that twenty years should be his limit. Others say he is a drunk, and that his stories of a finned woman with long hair and glowing eyes can only be the result of a blackout.

No one says any of this to his face, for they would be run clean through with his saber if they did, but he knows, oh how he knows they say it.

Kylo often wonders if maybe they’re right, if maybe all this is for naught. If perhaps, ‘twas a delusional vision of a boy clinging to death, an overactive imagination. He supposes he will soon find out, for if there were ever come a time where he was Ready, it would be now.

He has sunk a hundred ships, he has slain more than twice that number of men with his own sword. He has sailed to the very corners of the ocean, has made friend and foe in every port known to privateer. The world knows his name, even if they cannot catch his ship. But none of that would matter, if you did not think so.

-------------------

The sunlight glimmers on the water, and Kylo’s eye is drawn to a shifting movement in the waves at once. In an instant, his heart rate picks up, for he’s certain he’s just seen a flipper, certain of it!

Standing up and steadying himself on the long wooden beam, holding onto the ropes which are tied down to the wooden mast for balance, Kylo sheds himself of his hat, his coat, his saber and gun, before he sprints down the length of the bowsprit, until there is no wood beneath his feet, and he is swan diving into the ocean below.

On deck, all activity ceases, as the entire crew races to the bow to try and see where Kylo had gone. His hat and coat and loose artifacts fall into the hands of the men and women that make up Kylo’s ship, and they all clutch to them tightly, for they know how much Kylo cares about his clothes.

“Captain?” Hux shouts, cups his hands around his mouth and booms with exasperation, “Captain Ren – oh god dammit, Kylo!”

“What in the blazes does that boy think he’s doin’?” A gruff voice sounds from further back, and everyone’s eye turns to the young boy who is shedding his clothes too, looking for all intents and purposes that he’s going to do something rash.

“We have to go after him!” Mitaka’s face is bleak with worry, thinking that Kylo might have fallen over or been knocked down by the winds, that he must be injured or drowned.

But the First Mate knows better, and with a shake of her head and a resigned sigh at Kylo’s theatrics, she whistles for attention and all stand still to listen.

“He’ll come back, let him go.” Victoria puts a firm hand on Mitaka’s chest to prevent him from jumping overboard too. Everyone listens to her, Mitaka included, although he cannot stop staring out at the sea, watching for Kylo.

Since that fateful night, Kylo had trained himself how to hold his breath and how to swim well, skills which serve him now more than ever, as he chases what he thinks to be your tail. His legs propel him, muscular thick thighs that work double time, as his rippling biceps cut through the water, his body built but streamlined.

Where are you where are you where are you?

It’s all he can think, until he cannot think of anything but air, and he kicks towards the surface as seagulls caw above him, the sun blinding in a blaze of orange. With a deep sigh, he allows himself to float, his arms and legs spread out like a starfish on a rock, the sun warming his skin.

“If I am not ready now, will I ever be?” He asks aloud, wondering, hoping that you can hear him.

-------------------

When he returns to his ship, he is met with not a single questioning glance, and for this he is grateful. His pride is hurt, his ego wounded, he cannot understand what he’s done wrong to make you keep him waiting this way. Slinking into his quarters, he strips down out of his wet clothes before even checking to make sure the room is empty, and draws his sword when a creak from the grand chair in the corner alerts him.

“What were ye thinkin’ this time? Hm?” Victoria leans forward, her elbow on her knees. “That you saw her again?”

Victoria was the first person to ever give Kylo a chance, when he washed ashore at the port, a scared starving boy alone in a rowboat. With that chance, he built an empire of piracy unlike that had ever been seen, and he brought her along with him to share in the riches. She was probably the only one who could ever speak to him the way that she speaks to him now.

“As a matter o’fact, yes.” Kylo bares his gold teeth at her in a menacing sneer, and she only rolls her eyes and throws a warm dry robe into his arms. Kylo puts it on without hesitation, not really wanting to expose himself to a woman he considers more of his sister than the one he has by blood. “This is about where she was the last time, where it happened.”

Bundled up in his robe, Kylo pours Victoria a glass of rum, and she accepts it with a sigh as he lays down in his bed with a groan. She takes a sip and watches him carefully, cautiously.

“Twenty years is a long time, Kylo.” She says, and Kylo lets out a long, heavy sigh and rubs the tension from his forehead.

“Believe me, I know.” He mutters, voice deep, tired. He sounds tired, feels tired. “We stayed at port too long, I fear that’s how we missed her.”

“You know I do not doubt you that this woman once saved you. But have you thought about the possibility that something might have happened to her in all this time? That maybe she is simply not out there anymore, unable to wait for you?” Victoria speaks softly, not wanting to get Kylo angry, but wanting him to face the facts. “I worry for you sometimes Kylo, perhaps you might think of setting your sails on a different prize – ”

“She is not a prize.” Kylo snaps, leveling his First Mate with a deadly glare, the kind of glare that should send shivers of fear down a normal person’s spine. But then, Kylo deflates, and he casts his eye toward the porthole window, hoping for those flippers to surface once more as he whispers, “She is something far more precious, something that cannot be owned. If ye be so inclined to know, I spoke to her two nights ago.”

“You did?” Victoria’s eyebrows shoot up, eyes blinking in shock.

“Aye, in a dream. And she called to me, called me here, so here is where I have sailed.” Kylo spits back, and this only makes her expression soften once more. “And when we are reunited once more, you’ll all see.”

“For your own sake Kylo, I hope so.” She pats his ankle, before swinging back the rum and leaving his quarters for him to sulk.

-------------------

He is nearly asleep, when he hears it. The whisper, the ghost of his name, drifting to his ears through that porthole window left slightly ajar. He likes to sleep in this way, likes to breathe in the salty crisp air of night, likes to listen to the gentle lap of the waves. The ship is calm, in the middle of the night, the crew asleep in their hammocks or rooms below deck. There is nothing but the creak of the wooden decks, the flutter of the sails, and the steady rocking that has Kylo this close to dreaming, when he hears it.

“Kylo Ren…” The sound makes his eyes snap open, makes his heart beat fast in his chest. He thinks he’s hearing things, maybe conjuring them up in his own mind, but no, there it is again -- “Kylo Ren...”

Out of his bed at once, he throws on clothing. Clothing he has reserved specifically for this moment, clothing he has purchased just for you. With stockings slipped up onto his legs, Kylo steps into his black breeches and tucks in a loose-fitting white linen shirt, securing his waist with a crimson sash. The very same crimson adorns his brocade waistcoat, which he buttons up so quickly and with such shaky fingers, that he has to redo it twice. He has three golden earrings in each of his ears, and two golden bands on each finger.

He doesn’t have the time to wonder if you’ll find the appearance pleasing, as he brushes through his long black hair and ties it back with a crimson ribbon, because your voice is growing louder and more clear, and he is compelled to answer it.

Buckling his boots, Kylo ascends from the suite he calls home and finds at once, a pair of white glowing eyes not far from the starboard side of the Silencer.

“It’s you!” He whispers, nearly chokes on his spit as he does it, rushing to the rail and practically falling over the edge.

He holds his breath, waiting, hoping, and then yes! Yes it is you, you flick your tail happily in the moonlight, your scales shimmering and glittering the way he has so often dreamed about. You disappear beneath the inky waves then, and when Kylo is about to protest, your beautiful body is propelled out of the water, you do an elegant flip, spraying him with seafoam playfully upon impact once again with the waves.

“I’m coming – just a moment, I’m coming!” For the first time in decades, a grin has split across Kylo’s surly face, his gold teeth reflecting the same way your scales do, and he jumps overboard, dives down into the water for the second time, knowing this time, you’re really there.

The sound of your laughter fills the spaces between the scars of his flesh, makes him whole, for the first time since he was a young boy. Your arms encircle him when he swims swims swims as fast as he can to reach you, and you surprise him by being faster – your tail propelling you forward more quickly than his mere legs ever could. Your reunion sings through the ocean, and he cannot take his palms away from your cheeks, he cannot look away from your glowing eyes, he does not want to, not now, not after so long.

You hug him then, floating on your back so he can be propped up atop your breast, and not accidentally pushed under the water. The two of you embrace in every sense of the word, and Kylo is thankful for the sea, for masking the tears of relief he feels.

When he leans his head in towards you, you do not deny him the kiss he so desperately seeks, and this kiss – though it is not Kylo’s first – fills him with a sense of completeness that has him groaning into your mouth. You smile against his lips, you let him wind a hand into your hair, another groping at your breast. The surface of the water is calm, there are no waves now to rock you both, and so you can indulge in one another like this lazily.

There is so much Kylo wants to ask you, so much he has to say, but in this moment, your union transcends language, as your minds meld together, a gate of sorts opening, letting the floodwaters free. He slides his tongue against yours and sighs into your mouth, clutches at you tightly, out in the open sea. If this were to take place inside his cabin, he knows the inside of the windows would be fogged from the heat that he can feel curling around your bodies.

“Kylo Ren.” You break the kiss at last, if only to give Kylo a chance to breathe, but you do not go far. You rest your forehead against his and he strains to look at you in the dark, through the closeness. “I have heard of the stories, how they echoed across the sea.”

“You’re here, it’s you, you’re real and you’re here.” Pride wells up in Kylo’s chest, his ego inflamed, knowing the tales of his legacy have reached you. That is all he has ever wanted, and it is indescribable the way he feels knowing that in this he has succeeded.

“Of course I am, I told you I would be when you were ready for me, didn’t I?” You pet back the long dark locks that curl and cling to his wet cheeks, a thumb soothing across his lips as you lean in for another chaste kiss.

“You never told me your name.” Kylo says, because it is something he has wondered for twenty years, a question he has had burning inside his soul for just as long.

“My name? Hmm I have had many.” Chuckling, you duck your head, bashful. No one has ever asked you for your name, not once. “Names that have been given to me, names I have been called, many names. But tell me, what do you call me in your mind? When you lie awake at night and think of me, what slips past your lips?”

This sends a shiver of desire down Kylo’s spine, the way that you lean in and speak into his mouth, the way you smudge the words against his lips, your wet lashes dragging and brushing against his cheek. He’s halfway hard as it is, the thick line of his cock pressing through the layers of his soaking wet clothes, and all he can do about it is sigh, as he gropes at your breast once more.

“The only sounds I utter are the groans of pleasure which come from the very thought of you.” Kylo’s voice rumbles through his chest and into yours, and you grin, ducking your head, bashful.

“You’re charming. You may call me (Y/N).” You whisper to him like it is some secret, something that neither the moon nor the stars is privy to hear.

“Will you come aboard my ship (Y/N)?” He tests the name out on his tongue, and your scales shimmer with the way it sounds. That makes his pride swell further, makes his cock harder, but not so hard that he loses the clarity of mind to ask, “Can you?”

Your smile falters, but not by much. That beautiful tail breaks the surface once more, shimmering, ethereal before him. Kylo is mesmerized, he has always been mesmerized by you, but you being here in front of him, mesmerizing him now, is far better than the way he has lost himself in his dreams.

“I cannot, not like this. If my scales dry, then I die. So, in the water I must remain.” You explain, and Kylo tries not to let his heart break.

“I see.” He refuses to accept this, even though he understands why it must be so. He refuses, he has not come this far to leave you now.

Noticing his apparent distress, you hug him closer, kiss at his cheek, the corner of his mouth.

“There is…a way.” You start, licking your lips nervously, your voice hushed in the night.

“Tell it to me, I want to help you, the way you helped me.” Kylo replies at once, a sense of urgency in his voice, thinly veiled desperation.

You turn your gaze away from him, your eyes like two beams of starlight, shooting out into the black abyss. Kylo had nearly forgotten that the two of you were floating in the open ocean just next to his ship, until you illuminated the world beyond.

“There is a cave ahead, beyond the craggy rocks.” You say ominously, half-afraid he’ll take you up on the offer, “Only a creature on two legs can reach it, for it is up above the water’s edge.”

“What secrets does it hide? What must I bring back for you?” He takes you up on it immediately, knowing that whatever he has been training for, whatever he has been doing with his life, all that he has learned, has led him to this moment for you.

“A golden medallion strung on a black cord.” Your eyes glow brighter with each word you speak, and Kylo finds himself getting pulled into your story with bated breath. “Decades ago, long ‘fore even you were born, ‘twas stolen from me by a man with a long white beard. He snuck upon me whilst I was asleep one day, tore it from ‘round my throat. I got my revenge on him -- killed him for it, sunk his ship in my storm, but the medallion was no longer in his possession when he drowned. I demanded to know what he had done with it, and with his dying breath he taunted and teased how I’d never reach it.”

“Until now.” Kylo assumes, because you are regarding him with such hope that he knows he cannot let you down. You saved his life, the very least he can do is repay you in this small way.

You crowd his space, your hands on his cheeks once again, your lips brushing against his own.

“I’ll go with you, I can show you the way.” You whisper, kissing him, thankful, hopeful, elated in a way that makes Kylo’s heart beat beat beat loud in his chest.

“When?” He demands, a voice commanding and fit for a Captain.

“Now.” You grin, taking him by the hand in a way that Kylo has memorized in his sleep, and leading him back to the side of his ship where he might climb up the notches in the hull to reach the deck once again.

“Now?” He blinks, having hoped that he could perhaps spend some time with you in his nice warm bed…he would have found a way around your hydration needs, he would have --

“We must go before the dawn breaks, the waters are dangerous when It wakes.” You interrupt his internal monologue, and there is something chilling about the way that your voice catches. “Take the rowboat, you’ll need your strength.”

-------------------

Kylo rows the small vessel through the blackness of night, the clouds having covered the pale shine of the moon. It is no matter, because your eyes glow in a beacon of their own, as you swim beside him. Keeping in time with his pace, your fin lazily pushes you forward, and in the quiet, Kylo decides on which of his millions of questions he wants to ask you first.

“Do you live here?” He settles on. He means both the cove you lead him to and the waters around Port Royal, wondering why in all the time he has spent here, he has never seen you.

“Yes…and no. The ocean in her entirety is my home, I swim from place to place as I please, and sleep wherever my head rests.” You explain, your voice calm and thoughtful. Kylo commits your answer to memory, wanting to absorb every piece of knowledge about you that he can as you continue, “Sometimes that’s a port such as this, sometimes it’s an anchor on a ship, other times it’s on my back, floating in the sunshine. Although I’ve been nearly harpooned that way, so I don’t do it often.”

The humor in your voice at the harpoon mention is lost on Kylo, and he nearly stops rowing as he processes your words, as he dares not to get his hopes up. He does not, however stop rowing, because your earlier comment of a Thing in the waters makes him want to complete this mission as quickly as possible.

“When you say the anchor of a ship, you don’t mean…?” Still, he has to know.

You’re quiet then for a moment, and he knows his suspicions are confirmed, by the very hesitation in your voice.

“I check on you, now and again.” You admit, making him feel both absolutely fucking elated that he has been right all along, and devastated that you have been so close and somehow, somehow always just out of reach. “I always have, wanting to make sure you were safe.”

“And you never said anything?” Kylo doesn’t restrain the question, trying not to let his temper get the better of him.

He thinks of all the ridicule he could have been spared, all the doubt, all the sleepless nights of worry that he was losing his mind, if only you had said something. But then again, he reasons, he wouldn’t be the person he is today, had he not gotten into those fist fights for standing up for his dignity, and then maybe you never would have deemed him ready.

“I couldn’t interfere, that wouldn’t be fair to you.” You explain, proving his reasoning to be correct. You don’t sound apologetic, nor regretful for it as you say, “I wanted you to become a person of your own right, your own making, free of influence from anyone, even myself.”

That hits him hard, square in the chest. And at first he doesn’t know why, but then he realizes…you’re the only person he has ever known to want that for him. He thinks back through all the people in his life; his mother wanted him to be a politician, his uncle wanted him to be a educator. His father was gone, and Snoke…well.

Snoke only found him useful to meet his own ends, and much like the rest of the world, cast him aside when he had had enough. Even the gentlemen with whom he had spent most of his time before that fateful night had hoped he would one day grow up like them.

Kylo cannot be angry with you now, he knows, not that he was ever really angry with you to begin with. How could he, when you are the only thing in the world who has never had any expectation of him, other for him to be himself?

“I spoke to you, night after night I spoke to you.” Kylo whispers into the dark, thinking of all the nights he had spent up on the bowsprit, above a masthead carved in your image, speaking to the wooden mermaid wishing wishing wishing instead he were speaking to you.

Your tail cuts through the water as you swim alongside him in the rowboat, and you whisper just as softly, “I heard you.”

-------------------

The rest of the short journey is done in silence, mostly so that Kylo can prepare himself mentally for whatever awaits him. It looks sinister, a gaping maw protruding from the water, like a mouth with craggy and jagged teeth of rock. The light from your eyes shines into the opening of the cave, but it only shines so far before the dark of the dark swallows it whole.

“Do you see it? The cave?” You ask him softly, drawing his attention from his own thoughts to the massive structure before you both.

“Just up ahead, yes. It’s dark, but I can see it.” He answers, taking in a deep breath. He had never been particularly afraid of the dark, or of the unknown, but there is a distinct sinister energy that crackles through the air that Kylo can feel; it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

“You must leave the boat behind now, do not be afraid, the water is warm, and I am here with you.” You assure him, offering him a hand that like moth to a flame, he is compelled to take.

He finds that the water is not deep here, he can wade through it and it only reaches his knees. You lay low, your free hand trailing along the soft sand as your tail swishes through the water, moving forward with him as he leaves the rowboat behind.

“You’re coming with me?” He frowns, unsure if he wants you in as much danger as you warn there may be.

But then again, he should know better than to question you in something like this, particularly when your eyes glow brighter and they shine across the sea, as you nod. Swimming beside him, neither in front nor behind him, you assert yourself as his equal in this regard, heading into the dark unknown together.

“As far as I can go, I am coming with you.” Your eyes glow, and he somehow, feels safe.

The water grows cold, the closer to the cave you and Kylo get. Kylo’s legs can feel the chill, can feel the change in the temperature. There is a humming from within, a rumbling sound that he cannot identify, and so in response, he trains his eye and his ear to be on high alert. The only other noises are the intermittent drip drip drips of water from the roof of the cave landing in the pools below – pools, because the deeper into the cave, the more shallow it becomes, until there is no more depth for you to stay submerged in.

Kylo looks at you, and you blink, the light from your eyes blipping momentarily. You turn your gaze towards the chasm before you, your eyes a lantern of their own for Kylo to see by. He doesn’t want to part from you, but he knows that when he returns, you will never have to part again.

“You must not dawdle, it must be fast.” You murmur softly, not looking at him, looking instead at the chasm, your voice taking on a strange quality that he cannot place. It sounds too familiar, like the way it had all garbled under the water when you saved him from drowning. The hair on the back of his neck does not go down. “Get in, grab the medallion – and only the medallion -- and get out.”

“Why?” He can’t help but ask, the pet-name slipping out of his mouth before he can think to ask if it’s alright, “Darling, what will I find in that cave?”

You still do not look at him, your gaze unwavering, unchanging. It is more unsettling than the rumbling, but Kylo doesn’t bring any attention to it. The medallion is in there, and you want it. You want it, and so Kylo will bring it to you.

“I do not know. Only, I have never seen anyone come back out, once they have gone inside.” You eventually say, quickly following up with, “You need not go, if you don’t think you are ready.”

There is no thought in his mind that Kylo would risk death for you, not know. In many ways, he has spent the last two decades living on borrowed time. In many ways, he has been a dead man walking for half of his life. If he were to die in this cave, it would be a death long overdue, Kylo knows.

“I have trained for twenty years to be ready. There is nothing more I could do to prepare me, if I fail now, I will have failed another twenty years ahead.” Kylo dismisses the idea of turning back now as quickly as you have offered it, pulling his sword out of its sheath which is strapped to his hip.

The metal glints from the light of your eyes, for they have finally turned to face him, the full effect of their glow making him feel as thought it were day, as if time had stood still in a moment of lightning.

“You are strong, you will not fail.” You speak with reassurance, and with those parting words, he steps out of the shallow water and onto the slippery rock floor of the cave, his descent into the chasm begun.

-------------------

The deeper into the cave Kylo goes, the colder it becomes.

Soon he is out of the scope of your powerful eyes, and has nothing but the feeling of his fingers brushing against the cave wall to guide him. His eye does its best to adjust, and he curses himself internally, for maybe if he had both his pupils, he could see better in the pitch black. His footing is careful, the floor is slippery. Even though his boots are meant to withstand such slide, he still takes caution to not step somewhere which will twist his ankle, which will buckle his knee, which will make him fall to depths he cannot see.

His ears are trained still, and he halts at every moment in which he hears something that could be a threat, pausing just for a second or two to ensure that he need not his sword nor his fists to protect himself. Every time, he decides he is safe. He does not let his guard down, but Kylo moves through the cave with a bit more confidence; clearly if something were to kill him, or present itself as a challenge at least, it would have done so by now.

And what’s more – light, up ahead! A gap in the ceiling allows the moonlight to shine through, the clouds which have covered it having moved along on their path across the sea. Never before has Kylo felt so grateful for the moon in all his years, and as he steps into the light that it shines, his eye widens at the sight before him.

Gold, mountains of it. Piles taller than he stands, and oh does he stand tall. Glittering twinkling gold, but wait, no, not just gold, jewels too, diamonds and rubies and emeralds, pearls and strings of precious beads. It surrounds him, overwhelms him, blinds him with how brightly gold it shines. Where could it be, the medallion? Kylo tries to think, tries to strategize. It couldn’t be thrown in among the piles, no, whomever had stolen it from his precious mermaid would have known how important it is.

And so Kylo ignores the riches around him altogether, knowing that time is of the essence. He is careful to step around the piles, around and around them all, forcing himself to stay on task. The medallion, he is here for your medallion. He wishes he had asked for more of a detailed explanation, because he soon realizes that fuck, there are possibly a thousand medallions here.

Taking a moment, he sighs, turns in a circle, careful of his footing. It has to be somewhere obvious, he decides. Pirates are not that smart, and they certainly have a flair for the dramatics. Whomever stole it would want all to see it, would want all to know just how –

There! Up upon a pedestal made of rock, that must be it! A large circular disc of gold laced through a black chord rests propped up in direct line of the moonlight. It glows softly, ever so slightly, a golden pulsating light that draws Kylo towards it.

“There you are.” He whispers, his eye growing wide, filling with the golden light. There is a symbol, possibly writing in a language Kylo does not recognize, etched into it, that glows and glows and glows brighter as Kylo comes nearer.

He reaches a hand out but then quickly yanks it back. It could be a trap, what would he do if it is a trap? He chews at the inside of his cheek, hesitates for a moment. Looking up and all around for any signs of anything that could come crashing down, or shooting out at him from the sides, he waits.

Until he is certain that no such thing will happen, at which point he can wait no longer.

Holding his breath, his hand stretches up, fingers extended as far as they can go, for the rock pedestal is taller than he is even on his toes, and he does not exhale until he can feel the black cord nestled in his grip, and he pulls the medallion down.

…Nothing happens.

Suspicious, Kylo decides not to tempt fate. He has managed to escape death a second time, or at least, he will if he is able to return to you. Now that the medallion is in his hands, it glows so bright that the entire cave illuminates, and he can hear the faint echo of music, the very same music that has haunted his dreams. Your music, he realizes, and his heart beats knowing that he has done what you asked.

He is so pleased with himself, that as he climbs back down from the pedestal and passes through the piles and towers of gold and jewels, something catches the corner of his eye. A tiara, made entirely of gold and pearls, rests innocuously at his feet. It is carved into the shape of seashells, carved so well that if Kylo did not know of the wonders of goldsmiths, he would have assumed someone dipped the shells themselves in the soft metals.

“Well hello.” He bends down to inspect it, to get a closer look. Small golden chains with pearls beaded around it twinkle in the beam of light from the medallion.

The longer he stares at it, the more he notices; a tiny starfish here, a proud seahorse there, the mix of clam shells and snail shells, tusk shells and those spiraled ones which remind Kylo of the narwhals of the north – they are arranged so delicately, so carefully, that before Kylo can even think too much about it, he is reaching for it.

“You will look beautiful atop my darling’s head.” He is convinced of this, and he cannot see the harm in taking it, he is on his way out, he has obtained what he came for, there should be no issue here.

Oh, how wrong he is.

The moment his fingers touch the tiara, a sharp gust of wind bellows through the cave. It hurls towards him in a fury, in a rage, and even as he drops the tiara and lets it fall back onto the pile, it does not cease. The clouds return to cover the moon, or is it the ceiling of the cave itself is closing? He does not know, but he brandishes his sword in the low light, only the medallion’s incandescence giving him enough to see by.

The rushing wind draws the warmth from his bones, until he is chilled cold, frozen, fingers hurting as they clench around the hilt of his sword. He looks all around, ready to take on whatever may attack him, until the deep dark chuckle of his nightmares sounds around him, bounces against the walls in a way that Kylo cannot tell which direction to brace.

“Ickle Ben Solo, my how you’ve grown.” The voice muses, and Kylo freezes at the sound.

The impossible sound.

With clenched teeth, Kylo slowly turns, the hair on the back of his neck raising once more, the vein in his jaw throbbing with rage.

Captain Snoke, exactly as Kylo remembers him, stands in the middle of the cave. Face sunken in, long white beard, remorseless eyes squinting at him. The only difference from years ago and now, is that now, Kylo has grown taller, and when Snoke looks at him, he is forced to look up.

He knows this must be a trick of the cave, because all at once it hits him that the reason you conjured that storm was to kill him – him, the man with the white beard who snatched the medallion from your pretty neck. You had killed him, and yet here he is. Snoke is between Kylo and the exit, the just beyond where Kylo knows he will see the glow of your eyes once more.

This Snoke cannot be real, and so Kylo knows somewhere in the back of his mind that he could simply push his way past him and make way to you…but this is a chance Kylo will not pass up, and so with the medallion clutched in his hand he swings his saber and levels it directly at Snoke’s throat.

“Draw your sword.” The words snarl out of him in a grimace, as the rage of nearly three hundred fallen crew members sing through him.

At once, Snoke’s sword is conjured up out of thin air, and parrying Kylo’s away, shoving with a force much stronger than Kylo would have expected.

“I am but an old man, I cannae do nothin’ ta harm ye now.” Snoke taunts and teases, and Kylo spits at his feet, unable to hold back any longer.

“You lying cheating conniving bastard – I’ll kill you!” He lunges forward, poised to attack, his sword coming up to clang immediately and clash with Snoke’s.

It is regrettable, he thinks, that Snoke was the one who taught him how to fight, because the man can anticipate his moves. However, he only taught Kylo the basics, and in this regard, Kylo finds himself feeling lucky, feeling emboldened to push back harder, meaner, as he swings his sword, making sparks fly.

He manages to make a combination of moves which catch Snoke off-guard enough that he stumbles backwards, and this angers the old man, whose jaw clenches all his own.

“If it’s a fight yer after,” He sounds strange, his voice echoing throughout the cave as he backs away, “It’s a fight you’ll get.”

Kylo will not let him get away, not the way he had last time, not the way he had snuck out in the night when he knew no one could catch him. He immediately runs after Snoke, chases him down down down back the way he came, further and further from the entrance.

As he runs, he realizes that there are things moving around him, and he nearly trips as a hand encloses around his ankle.

Out from the piles of gold slither the bodies of men who had been trapped, ensnared by the cave, men who had died unpleasant, undignified deaths. Kylo cannot be bothered with them, he must get to Snoke – he will get to Snoke, so he slices his sword through the limbs of the men who have fallen, failed on a quest of their own. He hacks away at them without care, does not look back when they collapse and clutch at their bleeding wrists.

They swarm around him, and Kylo can do nothing but kill them as they come crawling out from the depths of the cave, scores of them moaning and groaning, dying all over again. Kylo kicks their teeth in, stabs them through the heart, shoves them away from him even as they claw and cling to him, tearing his clothes, ripping at his shirt and his breeches, trying to grab the sword out of his hand.

Their long blackened fingernails scratch at his flesh, and he has to resist the urge not to be sick with the decay he finds in their faces as he punches and hacks his way through them.

It is suffocating, but Kylo grabs at the medallion almost on accident, and he does not know how, but a pulse of light shocks out of it and knocks them all away. The golden pulse from the medallion, from the symbol which now has morphed and changed into something else entirely, is protecting him, and he does not waste the time it allows him.

Snoke’s laughter guides him, and Kylo chases until there is nowhere left to run. On a tall bridge of rock, Kylo and Snoke find themselves engaged in battle, meeting one another sword for sword, grunts and groans of effort spilling out of their lips.

“This is for Vicrul,” Kylo shouts, as he pushes forward, forces Snoke backwards. The old man’s eyes widen before he frowns, realizing the bridge is becoming more and more narrow, “And this is for Cardo!”

Snoke fights back, their swords locked, shooting sparks all around as they meet clash for clash. Snoke’s footwork is light, he is fast for a man of such age. He manages to slice Kylo’s arm, slicing straight through the fabric. Kylo bleeds, and that pain only eggs him on, a lesson he had learned many a year ago – the pain fueling his rage.

“For Trudgen, and Ushar!” Kylo’s voice is loud, grows louder and louder as the blood rushes down his forearm, staining his shirt and dripping around his clenched fist, staining the metal of his sword as they meet time and time again, as Kylo gains the advantage.

“Ben wait –" Snoke calls him by that name again, and Kylo can only growl loudly with the rage of it all, for how dare Kylo disrespect him now?

“For Kuruk and Ap’lek.” Kylo continues, before managing to fling Snoke’s sword away from his hand, managing to send it flying all the way down a deep trench, water rushing through the cave below them.

Kylo can hear it when it hits against the rocks a thousand feet away, and suddenly gets the strongest urge to hear that sound again, although with Snoke’s head instead of his sword. Like the coward he is, Snoke backs himself up as far as he can go, until he is teetering on the precipe of the edge, on the very last foothold he has.

Kylo lunges after him, letting out a shout of rage as he runs his old captain through with his sword, cutting out the bitter shriveled blackened heart. Kylo holds it in his hand, squeezes any possible remains of life left there and drops it.

Snoke’s eyes widen, almost in shock, for even in death he had not been so injured.

He does not bleed the way Kylo is, but that does not mean that he cannot hurt.

“And this, Captain,” Kylo’s face shakes with rage, as he grabs Snoke by the throat and hoists him high up off his feet, dangling his body right over the trench, “Is for me.”

Snoke opens his mouth to say something, but whatever it is is lost in the scream that spills from his lips as Kylo not only drops him, no not something so careless as that – he throws Snoke down the trench, the glow of the medallion giving Kylo the ability to watch him fall.

He is reminded then, of how it felt to sink to the bottom of the ocean thanks to his carelessness, his cowardice. He hopes that Snoke receives no such mercy, as the one you had shown him that day.

You! He must get back to you, he must –

There is another rumble, from beyond the cave. Kylo startles, as the bridge beneath him begins to shake, and he realizes that the bridge is beginning to collapse.

No, not just the bridge, but the entire cave.

Without another moment’s hesitation, Kylo runs, his boots carrying him as fast as he can go, the medallion glowing and pulsating, music guiding him through the dark, slipping and skidding on the wet rock, Kylo runs. He is chased by large rocks which fall from the ceiling, falling onto his head and only just barely missing. If one were to pin him down, it would surely kill him.

He doesn’t realize how deep into the cave he had gone, until he can finally see the white light of your eyes, and your scream for him to hurry, after what feels like an age of running, his limbs burning, legs and lungs sore from the speed of it all.

“Kylo!” You rejoice, joy thrilling through your body as you reach for him, arms extended and a great big grin on your face.

“I did it, darling my darling I did it!” Kylo shouts at you from the mouth of the cave, outrunning its demise, outrunning his death once more.

“My handsome man, I knew you could do it, I knew you could!” You reach reach reach for his hands, and the second he grabs you, you yank him to your chest and your powerful tail propels you forward faster than his legs could ever run, as you carry him to safety once again, laughing all the while, “I knew you could!”

-------------------

When at last before my ghostly shipmates I stand

I shed a small tear for my home upon land

Though their eyes speak of depths filled with struggle and strife

Their smiles below say I don't owe them my life

As the souls of the dead fill the space of my eyes

And my boat listed over and tried to capsize

I'm this far from drowning, this far from the sea,

I remember the living do they think of me,

When my bones in the ocean forever will be

-------------------

The rowboat reaches the side of the ship, and it rocks for a moment as you hoist yourself inside of it. Your body takes up much of the space, or rather, your tail does, and Kylo cannot stop looking looking looking at you, the thrill of victory, of success, coursing through his veins. There is just one problem – he cannot lift the rowboat from down here.

Thankfully, a lantern sticks over the side of the ship, followed soon thereafter by an inquiring head, belonging to Kylo’s First Mate. He is conflicted at once – he wants to revel in the satisfaction of being correct all these years, but he wants to protect you more, and he is unsure of what Victoria will do now that you are so close.

“You are real!” Victoria says in a loud-whisper, smacking a hand over her mouth for a moment or two.

You wave up to her, a knowing smile on your face, and Kylo’s cheek burn. He is embarrassed, because now you know he has told everyone of importance about you, that he has bragged about you, that he has sang your praises. Giving his hand a tight squeeze, your fin slaps against the rowboat, and that is signal enough that Victoria needs, to send down the ropes.

Once the rowboat is hitched and lifted up out of the water, you slip the medallion around your neck, and immediately it glows a bright gold, brighter even than the white of your eyes, which now fade to the beautiful natural color of your irises.

Kylo is still unsure though, still not certain how this will help you, even as the medallion glows and glows.

“What does it do -- ?” Victoria has the same thoughts as Kylo, the same questions, but both of their thoughts are interrupted by the golden light which glows larger and larger, encompasses your body.

You rise up into the air, and Kylo is hesitant to let go. He knows he must, so he does, and instantly regrets not being able to hold your palm against his own. He steps onto the deck of the boat where it is sturdy and safe, and watches as some otherworldly magic you wield spins around your tail.

Suddenly, there is a great flash of light, and your fin begins to morph and split into two legs, two human legs; thighs and knees and calves and ankles and even feet and toes. Kylo cannot believe it, Victoria blinks and has to shield her eyes from the brightness of it all, but it is not long after that the glow fades, and you are gently lowered by your magic onto the deck.

Kylo’s arms are there for you at once, your naked body bracing itself in his embrace. Although there is no one on the deck who is awake aside from the three of you, he still wishes to shield your body from sight, a protective possessive simmer bubbling up in his chest. It also does not help that it has been a long time since you stood upon human legs, and he does not want to risk you falling, not now, not ever. He will never let harm come to you again, not as commander of the seas.

“Incredible,” He whispers, kissing your face, holding you tight while you get your footing, “You’re beautiful.”

“You keep saying that.” You laugh, your hair spilling over one shoulder as your arms loop around Kylo’s neck. You smile at him so radiantly, that it could have been high noon for all Kylo knew.

“It is the truth, I will continue to say it until the day I die.” He leans in to kiss you once more.

When his mouth opens for yours and he begins to hum against your tongue, Victoria clears her throat rather loudly, and scratches the side of her face awkwardly. You break apart only enough for him to shoot her a harsh glare for ruining the moment, but Victoria only rolls her eyes.

“Show her your cabin, Captain.” She says with no hint of subtlety, “I daresay she will be eager to see it.”

Kylo looks at you, and your pupils grow wide wide wide in the dark, and he knows you are eager indeed.

-------------------

Kylo has never given much thought to his quarters, not until this very moment. Of course he knew what he had and he knew the degree to which his nice things were nice, but he never had wondered what you might think of them – or if they would be of any consequence to you at all.

It was a long room right at the very port of the Silencer, a vast open area split off into smaller sections by way of furniture arrangement. The floors were all covered with handwoven Persian rugs, the windows draped with fine linens. Up against the windows at the far back of the room was his large mahogany work table and chairs with plush velvet cushions, where he held meeting with the higher members of the crew. Along the wall were various chests and bureaus which housed his clothing, all carved with intricate designs and all having brass handles and clasps. Towards the front was his bathing area, a grand tub and all sorts of implements to improve his hygiene – he abhorred the idea that a pirate need be a filthy man.

And finally, off to the other wall, sat a grand canopy bed, with curtains which could be pulled shut to prevent any light from seeping through, should he want to sleep in on one particular morning or another. The bed frame was gold, inlaid with jewels, carved and decorated to tell the tale of a mermaid saving a young boy.

He waits for you to make the first move. He wants you, desperately, terribly, but he will not push, will not do anything which you do not explicitly ask for. He does not want to pressure you in any way. He has waited for you for twenty years, he could wait longer if you asked – as long as you are here, he doesn’t care.

But he doesn’t have to wait, for you have already laid yourself down in his bed, your arms spread out as your legs rub against the soft blankets, one finger beckoning him to join you. It does not take anything more for him to shed his clothes and do just that.

Kylo’s skin is still slightly wet from the cave, but if there is a chill that washes over him from being so exposed, he doesn’t pay it any attention. You are watching him curiously, your eyes trailing up and down his body as he steps towards you, climbs his way up the bed.

Immediately, your arms open for him, and he settles himself above you, kisses at the warmth of your throat as your hands find their way into his hair.

“Do you prefer me this way?” You muse playfully, rubbing your foot against the back of his calf, making him shiver shudder gasp with anticipation, continuing, “With legs, like you have?”

Kylo continues to kiss your neck, to worry his lips along the muscles there, grazing the gold-capped edges of his teeth up and down, making you shudder in return. He cannot describe the thrill that fills him with, knowing he affects you so.

“I prefer you either way, although I will admit, there is so much we can do like this.” He whispers, finding some way to broach the subject, the subject of his desire, his lust for you. God he wants to fuck you, wants it so badly that one of his hands wanders down to your lower stomach, asking with a silent hesitation for permission.

You grin and nod, and Kylo sucks in a breath, lets his fingers dip down lower, until they are brushing through the hair that has replaced your scales, pushing between your folds, your legs falling open and welcoming him. At once, you hum out a longing moan, a sound that Kylo has to chase, simply has to. He crooks two inside your pussy, revels slowly, softly, in the way that your body reacts.

“Aye, now the question becomes, do you have the stamina to do everything I want?” You chuckle as his lips part from the sensation of how wet you are, wet in every sense of the word. Kylo has large hands and thick fingers, but somehow your cunt takes him with ease, welcomes him and sucks him deeper.

Pulling back ever so slightly, Kylo looks up at you, his fingers busying themselves with working you open, pushing and rubbing through your folds, your pussy dripping around his knuckles. It makes his mouth water, makes him have to swallow hard, especially when your pupils darken and grow wide with lust of your own.

“You’ve – you mean to say you have experience?” He doesn’t know why this shocks him, Kylo certainly was no virgin.

“I’m nine hundred years old, I daresay I have more experience than everyone on your ship, O Captain.” You laugh, and something about the laughter bubbles anger inside him, makes his face harden.

He knows he’s a hypocrite, he knows. He’s fucked women all over the world, taken his pleasures from helping hands on more than one occasion. He knows that you must have done the same, so why does he get so possessive? Why does he get so immediately blood-thirsty? He has to fight the desire to rip heads off of necks, to hunt down those who did not deserve you – hell he almost stops fingering you from the sheer rage that stings the back of his throat like bile.

“Ohh does that make you jealous? That others have had a taste of me?” You notice, cupping his cheeks and kissing him sweetly, legs curling around his waist, voice deceptively calm as you whisper into his mouth, “Don’t be, you should know I killed them all right after.”

That makes his cock twitch, appeals to the primal side of his brain which had already begun to plot. You simply grin, turned on further by the way he is so ready to kill for you.

“Good.” He very nearly snarls, thrusting another finger to join the two that have already found comfort in your pussy, deciding that he would show you just how much better he could make you feel, than all those others combined.

With three fingers in, and his thumb on your clit, Kylo kisses you passionately, swallows down the mewls of pleasure and little hiccuped gasps that he elicits from your throat. His eyes are pinched shut because you are too beautiful, it hurts him to look into your gaze the same way that he has always been warned not to stare into the sun. But he doesn’t need his eye to see you when he can feel the way your body undulates and rocks underneath him, the pulsating warmth of your flesh sending goosebumps of pleasure rippling down his spine.

When he’s decided that you’re good and ready, when you’re stretched out enough to accommodate him, he sucks those fingers into his mouth to chance the taste of you. It is beyond that which Kylo could have ever dreamed, and spit strings off his rings when he hoists your leg up enough to properly thrust his cock through those warm plush folds.

“Fuck,” Kylo grunts unexpectedly, as the angle allows him to shove his way through with ease, the fingering having relaxed you enough to take him. But only just enough, it would seem, for despite the attention, you still are tight, and Kylo is sure that he could die like this and die a happy man.

Kylo’s body sings at the contact, at the vice-like hold your cunt has on his thick throbbing cock, and he pushes it deeper deeper deeper still inside you, not stopping until he bottoms out completely, not stopping until he has stuffed you full of his hot hard length, not stopping until your mouth drops open with surprise.

Smirking, Kylo positions himself in a way that he can support his weight and pull back, hips pistoning hard and fast all at once, making the bed creak louder than the rocking ship. He has decided he will never fuck again, if he cannot fuck you – he is ruined for anyone else, ruined in the way you push your pelvis up to meet him thrust for thrust, giving him as good as you get.

“Kylo – oh yes, yes! Take me, give me everything Kylo, give it to me.” You gasp, one of your hands digging into the scarred meat of his back, the flexing muscle of his shoulders moving under your palm.

The praise makes him moan, a deep rumbling purr in his chest that you exploit, a litany of yesyesKyloyou’resogoodgoodgood dropping from your lips, spurring him on, making his pride and cock throb, his hips rolling against yours, balls smacking harsh on your flesh as he clamps his teeth down onto your shoulder.

“Stars above, oh God – you’re beautiful, so beautiful.” He chants, feeling and savoring the way his cock spears through the tight wet velvet heat of your pussy, better than anything he has ever felt, clenching around him perfectly, fluttering and pulsing against his engorged veins and swollen head.

Your back arches underneath him, pushing your breasts with perked swollen nipples right into his face as he bends himself down to meet them, desperate to latch his tongue to your chest and suck. You moan moan moan, and he does not hold back the grunts of his own, the low noises from the back of his throat that muffle against your flesh as he suckles and licks the salty sweat off your skin, cock never once breaking in its rhythm.

“Fuck, fuck that’s good.” You pant, your body bouncing on the mattress, letting yourself go, letting yourself be moved this way and that for Kylo to pleasure you as he sees fit. Your eyes roll back into your head, your teeth bite at your lower lip, and Kylo can hear the way your pulse flutters from his spot on your breast.

“You like my cock?” He laves his tongue over your nipples one at a time, pinches at them with his lips, eager and ecstatic that he is making you feel this way.

“Yes!” You sigh loudly, no regard whatsoever for his crew – he doesn’t care either, in fact your volume makes him grow bold, grow demanding.

“Tell me how much.” He orders, shifting your positions so that he can take one of your legs and stretch it up up up over his shoulder, ankle resting near his ear, fucking into you hard and fast, so fast that his own voice shakes, “I want to hear you say it, say how much you like getting fucked by my big cock.”

You laugh, not at him but in sheer simple bliss, arms thrown over your head, hands tangling in the sheets. The moonlight shines on your body as he fucks into you, listens to the squelch of your cunt as it drips and drools on his cock, your tongue doing its best to stay in your mouth as you take the pounding he gives you.

“Kylo! It’s so big, I – oh fuck, oh! I’m so full!” You moan and whine, voice high and loud and music to his ears, as you hiccup and giggle out of your mind, especially when his thumb falls on your swollen clit, begging for attention.

The dark curling possessive feeling floods through him then, wanting you like this all the time, wanting you happy and pleased, wanting to be the man which gives it to you. The medallion practically smacks against your chest, and he grabs a hold of it in his hand so that your pretty skin won’t be marked by bruises that he does not give you.

“I’ll fill you up, fill you right to the fucking brim,” Kylo growls -- seethes, “I’ll knock you up and pamper you and make you come every day, coming on my cock and fingers and tongue – ”

It is then that he stops entirely, his hips halting at once, brain tripping up over his own words. You give him a whine and a light smack to his shoulder, protesting that he has stopped, especially when he pulls out. Before you can question him verbally though, he’s shuffling down the bed as fast as he can, pulling your folds apart with his golden clad thumbs and burying his face in place of his cock, his tongue stroking and sucking and thrusting through you.

“Oh!” You gasp happily, pleased with this attention, and Kylo’s arms wind underneath your thighs, your knees squeezing the sides of his head as he eats you out.

Kylo eats your pussy like a starving man confronted with his first meal – he is sloppy, he is aggressive, he is desperate. His nose prods up against your clit and rubs and bumps as he sucks you down, as he swallows the slick that pools on his tongue. You taste like the ocean but also like something otherworldly, and Kylo thinks that this is already replacing his most favorite of rums, the wine of your body far more addicting.

Keening each time you yank on his hair, Kylo kisses and makes out with your pussy, tears welling up in his eyes from the sheer overstimulation of his scalp and his cock, which ruts against the sheets. The laundry boys will kill him, he just had the sheets washed not two days ago, but he doesn’t care.

A grosser part of him thinks he will never have his sheets washed again, but as he drinks down your slick and moans and pants into your pussy, he thinks no, he wants nothing but the cleanest bed for you to be fucked on. You deserve nothing but the best, and his hands clench into fists as he groans out the sheer desire to give it to you.

In the back of his head, Kylo knows that this cannot last forever, and a sharp pang of sorrow hits his heart, because he cannot think of anything more important than this – eating, drinking, sleeping, no, nothing compares to the way you sob on his tongue, sob with pleasure that has been denied to you for so long.

His brain cannot make up its mind, whether he wants to bury his face as far between your legs as it can go, or his cock, and he wishes there were some way he could fuck you and taste you at the same time.

“Kylo, I’m going to come.” You warn with a shuddering moan, and that makes up his mind for him, for he wants to come alongside you, wants to come inside you, together.

So, regretfully he pulls away from your pretty pussy and gives your clit one last kiss, and pushes the head of his cock back into you, resuming the thrusting pace he had built, feeling how his cock has to work hard to shove itself into you, your cunt tight tight tight.

“Will – can – where -- ?” He feels like a fool for the loss of his words, but you, even blissed out the way that you are, you understand what he’s trying to ask.

“Come in me, handsome, fill me up like you promised.” You order, and though he has proven himself to be stronger than any man alive, he is weak for the tone of your voice.

That heating warming desperate coil of pleasure winds winds winds up in his stomach, until it is shooting out of his cock in throbbing pulsing ropes of hot come, spreading through your cunt, dumping his load as your body comes and shudders and shakes around him, your thighs trembling, toes curling, back arching clean off the mattress. He pants and gasps for breath as he curses long and low in his chest, pumping the last few thrusts of his hips against yours until his arms give out and he collapses down on top of you.

The medallion glows gold, sends a pulse of light across the ocean – you are grinning so wide and so beautifully that Kylo knows whatever has just happened between the two of you, is only the beginning.

-------------------

Now that I'm staring down at the darkest abyss

I'm not sure what I want but I don't think it's this

As my comrades call to stand fast and forge on

I make sail for the dawn 'til the darkness has gone

As the souls of the dead live for'er in my mind

As I live all the years that they left me behind

I'll stay on the shore but still gaze at the sea

I remember the fallen and they think of me

For our souls in the ocean together will be

-------------------

The sweat cools on the both of your bodies for a long while, and still, somehow, Kylo feels like he is in a dream.

The Silencer creaks and groans gently in the night as he traces patterns across your back, little looping nothings that have you humming softly. Your legs are twined through his, braided like the rope which hoists his sails, and he wonders if you can hear how fast his heart is beating, even in the calm. You must, you have to be, for you are tucked up against his broad chest, your cheek nestled into one of his pecs, your arm curled around his thick waist.

What he wouldn’t give to have both eyes again, to be able to see you the way he wishes he could.

It is surreal to think that you are here, after so long. After twenty years of the world thinking him crazy, not only has he proved them all wrong, but he has proven himself to you. You wear the medallion around your neck, the very same medallion which was stolen from you so long ago, by the very captain that once tried to steal Kylo’s life.

Now he was gone, and you are here, and he has just fucked you through nearly to sunrise, and he thinks if he had but a small glass of something to drink, he could have the strength to fuck you some more.

“I have never felt more complete, than I do in this moment.” He confesses, looks down at you. You meet his gaze, and your irises grow huge in the low light. He leans in to kiss your forehead, his hand rubbing your back up and down, “I cannot believe at long last I have found you.”

You sigh happily, so happily in fact, that the scales on your hip begin to shimmer and glow, and Kylo thinks he would kill Snoke a thousand times over, if it meant he could have you so calm, so at ease.

“I thought about you all the while, heard stories about you across the deep. I am so proud of the man, the terror you have become, my Kylo, handsome Kylo.” You whisper, kissing the spot underneath his chin, where his scar drags across his throat.

Suddenly, he grows panicked, his arms tighten around your body, because he does not know the extent to your visit, he does not know if you only are granting him this one night. He holds you tightly and you hum with a question in your tone, making Kylo’s cheeks grow red hot with embarrassment and shame.

“You cannot go again, you cannot leave me. Please don’t – I’ll do anything, anything to stay together.” He clings to you, like the boy he once was, drowning and dying alone out at sea, the very sea which he now commands, which he now holds in an iron grip.

“’Anything’ is a dangerous word to be said to a mermaid.” You tease him the very same way you had teased him then, but this time Kylo knows what he’s asking for, and oh how he has waited so long to ask it.

“I meant it before, and I mean it now, I will not be apart from you again.” There is that deep baritone that has sent fear into the hearts of a thousand ships, and you grin at the sound of it, pulling your bodies flush together.

“You won’t have to, handsome.” Licking your lips, you allow him to tilt your chin up.

“Let me kiss you?” He asks, and he asks it so sweetly that you don’t even have the time to answer, you’re already nuzzling your nose against his, already rubbing at his lips with yours.

The kiss, much like the ones from seemingly an eon ago – or was it only a few hours? – begins as a chaste nothing and works its way into being something passionate, something heated. It is in this kiss, that Kylo knows now wherever you go, so too he will follow, even if that’s to the very edge of the Earth, down to the very pits of the deep.

As he closes his eyes and kisses you once more, his hands cradle your head and holds you tight to his body. He worries you’ll burst into seafoam or stars, worries that now that he isn’t looking at you, you’ll disappear. His pulse jumps because of it, pounds in his throat so strongly that he thinks he might be ill – but you’re here still, he knows it, he feels the press of your lips against his own.

Kylo opens his mouth, and you slip your tongue through, making him melt and groan deep in the back of his throat, his hands clutching at your naked body, your scales shimmering in the moonlight that pours in through his cabin window. This medallion, the one which has granted you your legs once again, glows golden. He can see the burn of the symbol behind his eyelid, as you push yourself to straddle his waist, to pin him down to the mattress.

“Fuck!” He feels the white hot brand of the medallion then suddenly, and his shouts of pain are swallowed down your throat, you shush and soothe him with your otherworldly touch, even as something hot hot hot courses through his veins.

You have done something to him, something that he doesn’t know, doesn’t dare to ask. He trusts you, wholly and completely he trusts you – you have never given him reason to doubt, so he doesn’t, not even now.

You kiss and kiss and kiss and he doesn’t realize the ship is sinking, doesn’t realize that twenty foot waves have spilled over the side of the Silencer. He doesn’t hear the alarm bells or the shouts of his crew, he doesn’t care about anything else besides you. No, he sucks the air from your breath until there’s salt water in his lungs, but he doesn’t choke, he doesn’t splutter, he lets himself be pulled down down down, your hands in his hair, his arms around your waist as your legs disappear.

There is music then, music all around, inside his body and out, and he wonders if this is the ballad of the sea, of the souls you have claimed, the souls he has stolen at the hand of his sword. Kylo can feel them, their presence, in the in-between, calling and reaching out to him in a tearful melody, but knows he will not be joining them. Kuruk, Ushar, Ap’lek and Trudgen, Cardo and Vicrul’s faces all ghostly images of their younger selves, so young and fit that Kylo nearly doesn’t recognize them.

He regards them with a mournful eye but they shake their heads, not a single one of them angry. They don’t want him to join, Kylo realizes, they don’t feel betrayed that Kylo has lived while they have died. He makes them a promise, sends out the thought through the sea, that he’ll live out the years they had stolen as best as he can, and this is enough for them to stop haunting his dreams. To the tune of the music they dance and sing off into the ether, freed from the shackles of the in-between, finally free once more.

And then he realizes the music is coming from you, a siren song that fills his ears and his eyes and his very heart, it is the most beautiful thing he has ever heard, and he is filled with an euphoria unlike that he had ever known, because he realizes he gets to listen to it forever. Kylo had once asked if you were an angel, and you had said no – now he knows better, he knows what you are; you are heaven herself.

“We’ll be together forever like this.” He hears you say, your voice distorted and watery as your teeth grow sharp, as your hair grows long, flows about your head in a death defying halo. “Not a single man alive could harm you now. You’ll remain like this forever, just as you are, with me by your side.”

Kylo should be afraid, he knows this, he knows he should – but how can he be when you’re holding his hands and kissing his palms? How can he be when he opens his eyes and he finally breathes, a sucking sharp gasp of the ocean that fills him up?

He cannot explain it, but he is transformed into something, something otherworldly just the same way that you are. He looks the same, but he can feel it inside his body and inside his mind, as the medallion glows and so too does the brand on his chest, marked forever by a mermaid’s kiss.

But instead of that kiss sending him to the Locker or a watery grave, he keeps his lungs open and he remains unafraid, as you smile with too many teeth in your mouth, you laugh and you cheer and you sing so very loud. And when he blinks he sees you crystal clear through both of his eyes, you grasp for his hands and he knows now he can’t die, his ship sails under the water manned by his crew, who too look completely unchanged.

You swim above the ship and perch yourself atop the masthead, the breaking light of dawn shines down through the waves, making the watery world feel like an elixir of life, of immortal dreams come true. Kylo chases you, with strong limbs he climbs up up up the rigging of the ship to join you, and as he climbs, so too does the ship rise, until the Silencer breaks through the surface once more.

The crew rejoices, they dance in circles around the bilge pump and throw their hats in the air, the sunrise golden and beautiful as your fin smacks happily against the wood of the ship, laughter at the antics on deck. Kylo sets you in his lap there high above the water’s edge, and seagulls fly and call from the disturbance of the ship ascending from the depths.

“I love you.” He says it, says the words that he has been practicing inside his mind for decades, the words he has rehearsed in front of the mirror. He never thought he would have a chance to say them to you out loud. “I have loved you from the very first moment I saw you.”

It hits him then, the realization that Kylo will be able to say them to you forever.

“Why do you think I rescued you?” You beam at him, and he laughs, elated, that his feelings are returned.

Looping your arms around his neck, you kiss Kylo, salty and briny and bright. Kylo holds you in his lap tightly so that you don’t fall, one of his hands on your cheek, adoring, caressing. He leans his forehead against yours, and the medallion glows, and when he meets your grin it’s with a smile of his own, because he has given you his soul fathoms below.

I remember the fallen and they think of me,

For our souls in the ocean together will be.

-----------------

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wistfulcynic · 4 years ago

Text

The Thief of Time

HAPPY BIRTHDAY @optomisticgirl!! You are one of the loveliest and most supportive people in the fandom, a loving cat mom and brutal murderer who would die for a fictional plant and has the t-shirt to prove it. I am so, so honoured to have you as a friend ❤️❤️.

This fic came about because B sent me this post and I immediately said "Yep, Killian would be a wizard or an artificer." And B, unrepentant evildoer and witch!Emma's foremost fan, planted seeds in my head that would not stop growing. This is the result.

SUMMARY: Killian Jones, pirate-turned-artificer, has suffered blow after blow from life and all he wants is to go back to the past and make things right. If only he could get his bloody time machine to work.

Emma Swan, witch, has the ability to See through time and space and the responsibility to stand down any threats to either of them. When an artificer from 300 years ago in another realm devises a machine that could blow a hole straight through the multiverse, it’s her job to stop him.

What they find when they meet is an improbable connection, an understanding that bridges the distance between them. A distance that is in all practical ways insurmountable—by everything but love.

(And one very determined pirate-turned-artificer.)

Words: <9k Rating: T Tags: magic au, witch!Emma, artificer!Killian, angst, Killian Jones is a sad boi, a dash of hurt/comfort, time travel, realm travel, HEA

AO3

The Thief of Time:

Once upon a time there was an artificer.

He wasn’t much of an artificer, it must be said. Artificing, as everyone knows, requires patience, perseverance, and attention to detail, and while Killian Jones possessed a rock-solid stubbornness that stood in well for perseverance as well as a fine eye for detail, patience—at least when it came to tedious, laborious tasks—was not among his strengths.

This is perhaps why, on the particular bright morning when his life changed forever, Killian could be found in his workshop surrounded by shards of glass and a puddle of pale brown liquid oozing through his floorboards that until a moment before had been a bottle of rum. Until Killian, in a surge of frustration at yet another failure, had flung it furiously at the wall.

The rum bottle had been a more or less innocent bystander, a casualty of proximity, a stand-in for the machine that sat on a rickety table in the centre of the hut that served as Killian’s workshop—a machine that continued nonchalantly failing to function even after the rum bottle had met its tragic fate.

It was almost, thought Killian, as though the device didn’t care how many bottles came to an untimely end, it still had no intention of ever working.

He held out his hand with fingers curled like talons and let it hover menacingly over the machine before tightening it into a fist and shaking it. “I should bloody well smash you to bits,” he growled. “I should—”

He had no real idea of what he should do, beyond demolishing the bloody thing, heaving its carcass into the sea, and abandoning this foolhardy plan for good and all. It hardly mattered, though, as the machine made no reply—not so much as a tick of motion to indicate that it cared in the slightest about its own fate. Killian gritted his teeth and with effort reined in his temper. He reached for another rum bottle—there were always plenty standing by—and groped for a moment before he remembered he had the awl attachment connected to his brace and grabbed the bottle with his hand instead.

The bottle was stoppered with a tenuous scrap of cork; this Killian gripped between his teeth and dislodged with an expert twist of his neck, then spat it at the machine and watched as it struck the hammered copper facing with a satisfying thunk. He took the bottle to the porch of his hut—‘porch’ being the word with which he flattered the platform of weatherbeaten boards raised on hunks of driftwood—collapsed into the hammock strung across the corner of it and stared out to sea with the rum bottle cradled in his lap.

Tropical sun beat down on the shack and on the swaying palms that shaded it, and on the stretch of white beach that curved beyond it, and on the azure water glistening beneath the blazing sky. A tumbledown shack on a lonely atoll was not, so Killian had been given to understand, generally the sort of place in which most artificers chose to set up shop. They preferred tiny rooms atop winding staircases in tall university towers, so he was told, or for the more eccentric among them perhaps an derelict castle or even a dark forest hut. Somewhere close and damp and chill, where they could work by artful firelight draped in hooded cloaks and tuck the secrets of their craft safely away amongst the shadows.

Killian cared very little for such things, however, as he was not most artificers. He wasn’t, as has already been remarked, much of an artificer at all. A sailor by blood, a naval man by training, and a pirate by circumstance, this was Killian Jones. And now an artificer, by desperate last resort.

He took a long swig from his bottle and glared at the sea, at the ship that bobbed gently on the waves, anchored just to the left in the atoll’s curving bay. If he had any sense he’d end this foolishness, he thought with a bitter twist of his lip. He’d take his ship and find himself a crew, sail off and vent his frustrations on royal cargo vessels and navy frigates rather than haphazardly assembled collections of wood and scrap metal that would certainly never do more than than sit there smugly not working, taunting him, and—

Click.

Killian froze, with every muscle in his body. He waited. And waited. And—

Click.

Again. Killian exhaled slowly, cursing the faint vibrations of his breath in the air. He waited. And waited. And—

Click.

It was working.

—

A week later and Killian’s temper once again was hanging by the barest thread; the click of the device that had at first spurred him on now plucked at the frayed edges of his nerves and rattled inside his head each time he tried to focus. It was clicking, the mechanism was turning over, he had everything he’d thought he needed but still an element was missing, something vital that he couldn’t put his finger on, that hovered just at the edge of his perception like some fey spirit sent to taunt him.

Maybe you should just give up.

Killian spun around at the sound of the voice, a woman’s voice, with a wry tone and an unfamiliar accent. His eyes scanned the empty room. “Who’s there?” he called out, though it was plain to see no one was there. He was alone.

Quite alone.

He knew he was alone, of course, though the tingle between his shoulder blades did not concur, and remained even when he turned his attention back to his work. The sensation of being watched by unseen eyes is frequently a distracting one, but Killian stubbornly disregarded it and focused on his task. The sensation persisted.

He worked doggedly for several minutes, then set down his tools. “Lass,” he said to the room at large, “it’s bad form to stare.”

He swore he heard a chuckle.

“I do understand how it can be difficult for women to take their eyes off a devilishly handsome rapscallion such as myself,” Killian continued, “but I’m trying to work here so if you wouldn’t mind…”

He turned back to his workbench and as he did his elbow struck the edge of it, knocking over his latest rum bottle and sending a shooting pain up his arm. He squeezed his eyes shut and spat a stream of vicious curses and very nearly stabbed himself with the awl before recalling that he had no hand with which to cradle the afflicted elbow and rub away the pain. When it finally subsided and he opened his eyes once more, the sight that met them had him swearing a new and even bluer streak.

His device now sat bathed in a pool of rum, with sparks shooting from behind its copper face and very ominously not clicking. With a snarl Killian slammed his fist down on the table and ground it into the wood. He’d have to mop up the rum and wait at least a day or two to be certain whatever had seeped into the mechanism was completely dried before attempting to open it again to determine whether he could repair the damage. If he couldn’t he’d have to start over.

Or you could just give up.

“Are you responsible for this?” he demanded of the voice. “At long bloody last I was on the right track, and now—now—” He slammed his fist into his workbench again, sending rum droplets flying.

Look, don’t get cranky, mister. I’m just trying to stop you doing something stupid.

“Oh?” Killian snarled. “Is that what you’re doing? You’re a bit bloody late.”

What?

“I’ve done many a stupider thing than this, unhindered by any disembodied voices. You couldn’t have stopped me doing any of them?”

I—

“Where were you, for example, when I lost my brother in a cursed land, travelled back from that land, and then in a fit of rage burned the only method I had of returning there?” he demanded. “Where were you when I threw away my naval career, stole my brother’s ship, and led her crew into piracy? Where were you when I ravaged the land of my birth? Where were you when I fell in love with—” he broke off with a choking sound, then sat with his forearms resting on his knees, staring at his hand and at the leather brace where its twin should be. “I don’t know why I’m even saying this aloud,” he murmured, “you’re not truly here.” He ran his hand over his face then through his hair. “Perhaps I’m finally going mad. It’s an occupational hazard, or so I’ve been told.”

A breeze rustled through the shack, gentle and soothing. It whispered across his skin in what could only be called a caress. Despite himself, Killian felt comforted.

I’m sorry for what you’ve suffered. The voice’s compassion was undoubtedly genuine. But I couldn’t have prevented those things. They were not my business to See.

“And this is?” Killian demanded.

Yes.

He shook his head. “Who are you?”

There was no reply. The soothing breeze was gone, leaving the late afternoon air heavier and more still in its absence. His neck no longer tingled. He was alone. Again.

Always.

Killian pressed his fingers to his eyes and sighed, then grabbed a fresh bottle of rum—plus a second, upon further consideration—and headed out of the shack. Headed to the rowboat and the Jolly Roger, and, with any luck, a drunken stupor that would last until he could work on the device again.

“Hear this, lass,” he murmured as he paused in the doorway. “I will be back. I’m not giving up.”

We’ll see about that, whispered the voice, once he was gone.

—

Three days later and Killian’s hangover throbbed between his eyes, but his device was dry and in a less disastrous state than he’d feared. He tapped the magical stone that powered the mechanism until it sparked sharply in response, reconnected a few fine filaments of copper, snapped the gears back into place and held his breath.

Click.

Killian exhaled. It was still working.

Sort of.

He sat at his workbench and glared at the device, as though intensity alone could help him see what was missing in it. When it did not, he reached into his satchel with a long-suffering sigh, and withdrew a book.

He really should have gone to the books first. That’s what the other artificers had advised. Research before experimentation, a solid foundation of scholarship on which to build. In another life another Killian would have listened too, would have loved the prospect of hours, days, weeks spent in a library, absorbing the wondrous knowledge that it held. But that eager boy had long been lost, and the man who remained had spent too many years in wasted endeavours, hunting elusive magic beans and fairy wands, anything he heard of that he thought might aid his quest. When every lead he could scrounge all came to nothing he’d had no choice but to alter his course, and no bloody time to start from the beginning and do the thing properly. He’d already wasted so much time.

But perhaps, he conceded now, that had been a mistake.

The book had a weighty heft that testified its age, as did the brilliance of the jewelled ink on its vellum pages. Modern books with their rag-paper and plant inks were lighter, more fragile, less vibrant. Cheaper to produce of course, and more accessible, but the earnest, bespectacled scholar that still lived in Killian’s heart found them far more difficult to love. This book had been scribed centuries ago, by the hand of a monk whose name had long since vanished into time but whose skill was evident in the carefully crafted words and illustrations, the diagrams of fantastical devices that he had seen only with the eyes of his mind, never in reality.

Killian traced his finger over the lines of an engraving, squinting through his headache and the glaring sunshine to make out the tiny words that labelled it. With painstaking strokes he massaged his temples and let himself fall into the book, lost in study for the first time in many a year.

The hours sifted away like sand through his fingers, until a soft breeze ruffled through his hair and he became aware of that telltale tingle at the nape of his neck.

“Lass,” he said wryly, “has no one ever told you it’s rude to read over a person’s shoulder?”

It’s the only way I can find out what you’re up to.

“And just what prescisely makes that any of your concern?”

It just is. I can See it.

Though he could not have said how, Killian was certain she didn’t mean the sort of seeing one did with one’s eyes.

“So tell me then, what do you make of my choice of reading material?” he inquired.

Seems a bit dry.

He chuckled. “It is at that. But useful.”

You’re still planning to go ahead with it, then?

“I am. As I told you before, I don’t intend to give up.” A sharp smile flashed through his memory, the smell of sea salt on skin and in wind-whipped chestnut curls. His fist clenched. “I can’t.”

The breeze swirled up around him, wrapped itself about his shoulders in the gentlest embrace, and for a moment—just a moment—Killian let go. Let himself be comforted. Let himself relax. Tears prickled behind his eyes and his tired heart sighed. He swallowed hard.

You won’t find what you seek in this book, said the voice. Not what you really seek.

“Perhaps not. But it’s all I have left.”

Without warning the soft breeze stiffened, whipping up with force behind it and sending a half-full rum bottle teetering dangerously—but if Killian was prepared for anything these days it was betrayal. He caught the bottle before it could fall and set it safely aside, away from his device and his book and anything else that had the potential to be harmed by it.

“Nice try,” he sneered. The wind huffed a frustrated sigh.

This isn’t over.

“Why are you so determined to see me fail?” he demanded, but the words fell flat in the still and empty air—the absent prickle on the back of Killian’s neck informed him that she was gone again. “It’s not like I need any extra assistance in that area,” he grumbled. “I can fail perfectly well on my own, thank you very much.”

He bent to pick up the rum—a drink to soothe the ache in his heart—when his gaze caught on a diagram he hadn’t spotted before. He frowned and leaned closer, the rum forgotten, and began to read again. Soon he was absorbed once more, his eyes voracious as they scanned the pages. He made notes in the margins as he read, and tiny drawings and equations, and muttered half-formed thoughts to accompany the scratching of his pen. The clicks from his device soothed him now with their regular beat, and the tingle between his shoulder blades, when it returned, did not so much as register in his mind... though it lingered there as he worked, as the afternoon waned, until the sun began to sink below the horizon and Killian packed up his notes and his book and not his rum, and made his way back to his ship.

—

The next day found him in his workshop early, his mood uncharacteristically bright. He’d awoken that morning without a hangover for the first time in far longer than he cared to remember; the resulting clear head and sharp senses made the bright sunlight less oppressive in his perception, less like its exuberance was a judgement on his choices. Even his shack appeared cheerier than he recalled it, quaint rather than run-down, its slight slump to the left charming and not at all ominous. Killian was dangerously close to whistling a merry tune as he approached it, with his satchel slung over his shoulder and heavy with books.

He had brand new ideas to test.

His workshop itself consisted of the shack’s lone room and a single, long table that sat at the centre of it. On the table was his device, looking right at home there in the sense that it too was rickety, haphazardly constructed, and pitched to the left. Killian had told himself that the appearance of the thing didn’t matter so long as it functioned, but after it failed for so long to do even that he had begun to treat its exterior as a sort of whipping boy for his frustrations. The wooden casing bore deep gouges from his hook and other implements he’d attached to his brace; the copper facing was tarnished and dented. Hairline fractures criss-crossed the glass that covered the three small dials on the front and the long copper pole that was meant to be attached to the rear casing sat forlornly in a corner, looking as though it would dearly love the ability to rust, just as a way to express its feelings on the situation.

Looking at his device for the first time with clear eyes, Killian found that he felt rather bad. He really had made a dreadful hash of it. And although Killian Jones was frequently reckless, sometimes rash, and from time to time even a bit unhinged, he had never before been incompetent. Making a firm mental note to pick up some new materials the next time he made a supply run, he hefted the satchel onto his worktable, seated himself on the bench before it, and removed a book from the bag.

If he’d had two hands, he would have rubbed them together in glee.

Whatcha reading?

She appeared so suddenly that the prickle on his neck didn’t even have time to warn him. “I’m certain you can see the title for yourself, from wherever you are,” he replied.

Arithmetical Principles of the Mechanics of Time? Not very snappy.

“Never judge a book by its title, love.”

I thought that was by its cover.

“Title’s on the cover, isn’t it?”

So it is.

The voice sounded amused, and Killian chuckled to himself as he settled in to read. The tingle on the back of his neck remained as the unseen woman read along with him. He could feel her presence there, her eyes on him and on the book as he made his customary notes in the margins: quick diagrams and calculations and questions he would need to answer before he could proceed.

He was astonished to discover how engrossing the book was and how easy it was to lose himself in its pages, just as he had done the day before. How long had it been before then, since he’d allowed himself the luxury of a full day spent reading? Years, certainly. Time and tides, as the saying goes, wait for no man, and nor do rival pirate captains or deep-sea hellbeasts—they certainly do not wait for a man to finish his chapter before launching their attacks. Lazy days like this one took him back to his time in the naval academy, the long afternoons in the library there, the wonder he’d felt at all the knowledge contained in the books that surrounded him. An entire realm at his fingertips, just waiting for him to explore.

He had explored it in actuality years later on his ship, sailing her to the edge of the maps and beyond, but that first exposure to all the wonders the world held still shone as a jewel in his memory. For a young boy who until that moment had known only abandonment, drudgery, and abuse, the discovery that the world was far, far larger than he could ever have dreamt had been an invaluable treasure.

You love books.

Killian started; the voice sounded different now. It no longer echoed in his head, instead it seemed to come from somewhere to his right. He turned, and as he did perceived a shimmering in the hazy air, one that disappeared the moment he looked directly at it.

“I did,” he replied. “Once.” His mouth quirked in a wry smile. “Are you in my head, then, lass? Reading my thoughts?”

Of course not. It’s just obvious from your face.

“You’re familiar with the expression I’m wearing then, I take it? Perhaps because you’re inclined to wear it yourself?”

It was a shot in the dark, but it seemed to hit its mark. The shimmer grew more solid.

I—I’ve always loved to read. When I was a child it was all I had.

Something in the tone, a wistfulness perhaps, struck a chord in Killian. “You were alone, as child,” he said. “The books were your refuge.”

Yes.

Silence stretched for a moment, then he spoke again. “When I first arrived at the naval academy I could barely read,” he said slowly. “I was twelve years old. Where I come from literacy is a privilege of the wealthy, which my family was certainly not, but my mother’s father had been educated and he taught her to read and write. He was the younger son of a nobleman, disowned when he fell in love with a village girl. My mother in turn taught my father and also my elder brother. She had started to teach me as well but she grew ill and I was still so young, and then…” He trailed off, choked by the decades-old memory that still had the power to wound.

Then she died.

The voice was soft, so soft, and it settled around his shoulders like a blanket. He nodded. “Aye. She did.” He pressed his fingers to his eyes, just briefly, then continued. “After she passed, Liam, my brother, took over with my lessons, but there was never much time for such things. We were cabin boys on a large merchant ship by then, worked most days from dawn to dusk—but in what moments we had, we did try.” He shook his head. “Liam did the best he could, though our resources were so scarce his efforts produced little result. I was years behind the other lads my age at the academy at first, something they found highly entertaining.”

But you didn’t let that stop you.

“I did not,” he agreed. “Instead it spurred me on. In less than a year I had matched them, and in a year surpassed them. It was satisfying to make them eat their words, but in truth that was not my motivation.”

You wanted to know a world beyond the one you lived in.

“I wanted to know a world beyond the one I lived in.” He smiled at her, at the shimmering air in the corner of his eye that he almost fancied formed the shape of a woman. “As, I imagine, did you.”

Mmm.

Killian quirked an eyebrow at the shimmer. “Another orphan, I gather?” he pressed. “Alone in the world, unable to see a way out? Escaping into books for adventure, for a sense of the potential that lay beyond the narrow parameters of your life?”

You read me pretty well for someone who can’t even see me.

“You’re something of an open book, darling. If that metaphor isn’t too on the nose.” And perhaps, he thought, it wasn’t necessary to see someone to know them.

Faint laughter rang through the room. Open books read both ways, Killian Jones, her voice whispered, and then she was gone.

“Touché,” he muttered, as the tingle in his neck faded and a wave of magic pulsed in the air. A sharp snapping noise sounded from the device, followed by an echoing boingggg. Killian’s lips twitched. Softness followed by sabotage was becoming rather a thing with her.

He opened the casing and after a moment’s poking around in the mechanism identified the target of her attack—a small coupling in the box responsible for managing temporal currents. Killian felt himself grin. He was certain his unseen nemesis wouldn’t trouble herself to destroy anything that wasn’t crucial to the functioning of the device. He turned back to his book and flipped to the section on temporal flow.

“Thanks for the tip, love,” he murmured to the empty air.

—

Over the next month Killian worked doggedly on his research, leaving the device untouched and himself unhindered by tingles or voices or shimmery thickenings of the air. He read every book in his rather considerable collection, all the texts he’d… liberated from the universities and private collections of the realm’s best artificers then barely glanced into before he began constructing his device. He took a week off for a supply run, to collect the materials and bric-a-brac he’d need to construct the thing properly along with even more books, which he read eagerly at night on his ship, greedily absorbing the knowledge they contained as he lounged in his bunk.

Every day he thought about the voice, and about the very real woman he now felt certain was behind it. She wasn’t just a voice in his head, a symptom of madness or loneliness, or both. She existed, he had felt her, though he had never seen her face. He’d felt her presence and the connection between them—a peculiar sort of connection to be sure, but no less genuine for it.

The thought of speaking to her again helped spur him on.

Once he was back his workshop armed with resources in the form of both knowledge and supplies, he threw himself into a flurry of activity. He constructed shelves for his books, so he would not have to lug them to and from his ship every day. He built a sturdier workbench, with drawers to hold his tools, and a new, robust and polished casing and face for his device.

This was close work, requiring dexterity and concentration and the careful application of several magical items that had previously seemed to go out of their way to thwart him. As it turned out, Killian reflected wryly, he had simply been using them wrong. He still made mistakes, of course, and his lack of hand still proved a challenge. But gradually he found that he lost his temper less and less, that as he grew more knowledgeable and skilled he did not give in so easily or so frequently to despair.

He had almost entirely stopped drinking.

He spent a full week tweaking and refining the temporal current regulator in his device, until he was satisfied that not only near impervious to any further sabotage but also featured a clever adjustment of his own devising. Take that, Other Artificers.

He had done it. He knew he had. He had built his device and built it well. It would work now, and not because he threatened it or stumbled by happenstance upon the proper configuration. It would work because he knew what he was doing, and this time he’d done it right.

Killian Jones, artificer.

—

The stage was set.

The device was ready. More than ready. Its polished wood casing gleamed in the playful caress of the afternoon sunlight, which shimmered also off its copper facing and the smooth glass of its dials. The copper tube came up from where it was attached to the rear of the device and curved over the top of it, ending in a wide opening directly over Killian’s head. The rhythmic click of the mechanism was smooth and sonorous, each coupling attached and every gear well-oiled.

Click, went the device, tremulous and eager.

Click.

Every last thing was in readiness. Killian had only to flip the switch.

“You don’t want to do that.”

He paused with his finger poised above the small brass switch and smiled. “Back again, lass?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

The floorboards creaked, under boots that were not his. Leather rustled. Killian froze, then spun around. His jaw dropped.

“Bloody hell,” he gasped.

The woman stood in the centre of his workshop with her hands on her hips and lips curved in a wry smirk. Loose golden waves tumbled over her shoulders to frame an exquisite, fine-boned face and eyes that glinted green. She was dressed... well, she was dressed as no woman he’d ever seen before, in tall boots and tight-fitting trousers with no overskirt to cover them, and a leather jacket in the most outrageous shade of red. Killian blinked.

“You’re—I’m—what?” he choked.

“I said, you don’t want to do that,” she repeated. “If you do, you’ll blow a hole in the universe or—or something, I don’t exactly know. But it’s bad, and I can’t allow it to happen.”

Killian shook his head. He blinked again, harder this time, then rubbed his eyes. The woman was still there.

“What?” he shouted.

“Seriously?” snapped the woman. “You heard my voice in your head and didn’t even blink and I know you felt my presence. But now I’ve actually manifested and suddenly you’re at a loss for words? I thought at least I’d get some kind of smartass quip out of you. ‘At last a face to match the voice, lass’ or something.” She shrugged a single shoulder. “I don’t know. Something.”

“That’s—” Killian’s voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again. “That’s your idea of a clever quip?”

She scowled. “Look, I said I don’t know. You’re the smartass.”

“Well you might at least give a man a minute to adjust his premises before you start demanding cleverness from him, when you appear from out of nowhere in his workshop,” retorted Killian. “There is in fact a world of difference between voices in the head and full fledged hallucinations, you know.”

“I’m not a hallucination,” she huffed.

Killian knew that of course, but he still felt on rather shaky ground, metaphysically speaking. “Well what are you then?” he demanded.

“I’m a manifestation,” she replied, as though it were obvious.

“Oh yes of course,” he shot back. “A manifestation, how foolish of me not to have known that.”

She rolled her eyes. He smirked.

“A manifestation of whom, precisely, if I might enquire?” he drawled.

“Emma Swan,” she proclaimed, in a tone one might use to announce the arrival of a queen. “Witch.”

Killian regarded her with his smirk firmly in place, to which he now added a raised eyebrow. “A witch, you say?”

“Yep.”

“Indeed.”

She sauntered over to his workbench, hips swaying in a manner that Killian told himself firmly he did not find enticing, and leaned over, peering at the device. “This looks a lot better than the last time I saw it,” she remarked.

“Yes, well, I’ve been working hard since then.”

“I can tell.” She flashed him a look that had his muscles tensing. “Too bad it’s all for nothing.”

“What the bloody hell is that supposed—”

“Why do you want to travel in time anyway?” she interrupted, turning to face him and crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s a risky business, you know. Loads of people have tried and it never ends well for any of them.”

“That’s rather a bold statement from you, love, considering you are clearly not from this time,” he retorted.

“What makes you say that?”

Killian let his gaze sweep over her. “Red leather jackets aren’t exactly in vogue here,” he said loftily. “I’d be very surprised if they even exist. How did you get it to be that colour?”

“How the hell should I know, I didn’t make it!”

“Fair enough. Still stands out like a sore thumb, though.”

“Well it’s a good thing I’m not staying then.”

“Aren’t you?” Killian felt a twist in his gut at that; he was so enjoying sparring with her. “Shame. I suppose you ought to run along then, and let me get back to my work.”

“Ah, no. That I can’t do.”

“And might I enquire why not?”

Her expression, which had been sparking with the same joy of snarky battle that Killian felt himself, grew solemn. “If you’re successful then the repercussions of your work will echo all the way into my realm, in my time,” she said. “And I can’t allow that to happen.”

“Indeed?” he taunted, before he could prevent himself. “And just how do you propose to stop it?”

Her eyes flashed. “Oh you are so going to regret asking that.”

She raised her hand and twisted it, the merest flick of her wrist that sent a powerful pulse of energy through the room. He felt it throb through his body and he was rocked by its wave. What followed was silence.

Silence. No clicks. Not a one.

Killian spun round in fury and glowered down at Emma Swan, witch, who did not so much as flinch away from him. On the contrary, she appeared quite pleased with herself, and thoroughly unfazed by his very finest pirate snarl.

“I’ve never managed that so successfully cross-realms before,” she remarked.

Killian’s temper snapped. “What the bloody buggering fuck do you think you’re doing?” he roared. Her nonchalance was infuriating.

“I told you,” she reminded him coolly. “I can’t allow you to succeed.”

“I wasn’t succeeding, though, was I?” he hissed. “I’ve been not succeeding for the best part of a year now.”

“I know.” Her smug expression softened into an empathy that set his teeth on edge. “But that was about to change.”

“Oh was it?”

“Yep.”

He knew it was. But she... “And how the bloody hell could you possibly know that?”

“I told you, I’m a witch.”

He scoffed. “Is that supposed to impress me?”

“Well... yeah, I guess it kind of is.” She frowned. “You know what a witch is, right?”

“Of course I do. A witch is a person, most commonly a female, who is possessed of magical or supernatural powers, typically focused on medicine, the body, nature, and the spirit,” Killian recited.

Emma blinked. “That’s… very precise.”

“I’m well versed in defining the various types and levels of magical practitioner,” he informed her. His surge of anger was draining away and he found he lacked both the energy and will to hold on to it. “The Guild is most insistent that registration be precise.”

“Guild?” Her frown deepened. “Registration?”

“Aye. To both.”

“You had to register? With a guild?”

“I did.”

“Register as what?”

“As an artificer, of course. Despite my lack of skill in the discipline, the Guild insisted. Firmly. Fists were involved.”

“I—see.” Her lips twitched. “That seems unethical.”

He barked a laugh. “Welcome to the Enchanted Forest, love.”

Emma’s eyes went wide and her mouth fell open. “Is that where this is?”

“Aye. Though strictly speaking this”—he gestured at the space around them—“is on an atoll in the Far Southern Sea. But the Artificers’ Guild is in the Enchanted Forest, and they care very little for such things as venue or jurisdiction.” He looked at her curiously. “Didn’t you know?”

“Nope.” She shook her head. “I’m not really here, you see.”

Killian had been so caught up first in wonder then in fury that he hadn’t truly looked at her, at least not beyond what was required to note her striking beauty and odd attire. A manifestation, she had called herself, and once he knew what to look for it was plain to see—the faint translucence and hazy outline of her form. Cautiously, he reached out his hand. It went right through her shoulder, with no more resistance than water in a bathtub.

“Huh,” he said. “Curious. So where exactly are you then, Emma Swan, witch, if you’re not here?”

“I’m…” Emma’s brow furrowed and her nose wrinkled. Killian told himself sternly that it was unwise to find a nose adorable when it sat on the face of the corporeal manifestation of a witch from an unspecified realm. “Well, I don’t really know how to describe it,” she said. “I’m on Earth. About three hundred years in your future. Though I suppose this must be Earth too, really.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. I think so? What do you call it? This… place. Bigger than the Enchanted Forest. You… you know there’s a place bigger, right? Beyond the, um, the forest?”

His lip quirked. Her stumbling attempts to explain were also not adorable. “That I do, lass,” he replied. “I spent years sailing the seas of this realm and have travelled to many a land.”

“You’ve travelled the Earth, then,” said Emma. “Or your equivalent of it. What would you call it?”

“Terra, I believe is what you mean.”

“Yes!” She snapped her fingers then pointed the index one at him. “That’s got to be it!”

“So if I understand you, you’re saying you come from Terra as well, but a different version of it, which you call Earth?”

She gave an eager nod. “Yeah, basically. My Earth was called Terra once too, by people who lived in my past, in a different country. But in my language and my time and my country we say Earth.”

“I... see,” said Killian.

“Yeah.” Emma looked a bit sheepish and waved her hand in a vague arc. “It’s a whole thing with multiverses I don’t really understand, if I’m honest. I’m not a wizard, you see.”

“No indeed. Nor I.”

“Well, I mean, you’re not even much of an artificer. Or at least not until recently.”

She was attempting to tease, he could tell. To keep the mood light between them. But all he could hear was the death knell of his last resort, the only hope he had left of honouring his vow. Without warning, the weight of everything he’d been through, a lifetime of struggle and defeat culminating in his attempt to build a time machine that would apparently destroy multiple realms were it allowed to succeed, settled on his shoulders. It was all he could do not to collapse beneath it. He sank down onto the bench and ran his hand down his face.

“No. That I certainly am not.”

He sensed rather than felt Emma sit down beside him—there was barely more than a shift in the air to mark her movement.

“I’m not an artificer, not even now,” he told her, staring at his hand and brace. “All I am is a desperate man looking to right a terrible wrong.”

“A wrong you need to go back in time to fix?” she asked gently.

“Aye.”

“What happened?”

Killian clenched his jaw. He did not wish to discuss Milah. He never actually had, though others besides Emma had tried to make him, insisting he would feel better if he spoke of it. If he gave vent to his anger and his grief. But he could not—the words caught in his throat each time he tried, stopped by the anger that sat hard and curdled in his chest.

“There was… a woman,” he ground out, faintly astonished to hear the words fall from his lips. “I loved her and she me, but she was married to another. A cringing coward of a man who valued his own comfort and meagre security above her happiness and her health.” He breathed slowly through the anger that still rose up at the thought of it. “She tried her best with him, for years she tried, but ultimately she came to realise that he would never change. She saw the remainder of her life stretched out before her, a grim slog through a grey world of misery, and she knew she had to do something, whatever was necessary to change it. For the sake of her own survival.” He risked a glance at Emma. “But she was a woman, thus her options were limited.”

“So she ran away with you,” said Emma. He searched her face for judgment, but there was none.

He nodded. “She ran away with me.”

“You saved her life,” she said harshly. “But you shouldn’t have had to.”

He blinked, startled at her tone, and watched as her face grew tight with anger. “In my land and my time, women have choices,” she hissed. “We have to fight for them every day, but we have them. We can leave marriages and we can have jobs and we can own our own houses and have our own lives. We don’t rely on men unless we choose to.” She looked up to meet his eyes. “I’m guessing that’s not the case here?”

“You guess correctly.” Killian’s voice was choked, his chest drawn tight by the depth of her compassion. Compassion for a woman she’d never met, who had died long before her time. He cleared his throat. “Milah had nowhere to go and no means to go there. I offered her an escape. It was all I could do.”

A moment passed before Emma spoke again.

“What went wrong?” she asked.

His lip curled. “I expect you can guess.”

He could sense the catch in her breath, though it made no sound in the quiet room. “Her husband found you?”

“Aye. Rather a predictable storyline, isn’t it? But there's an unpleasant twist to this tale, I fear.”

“What twist?” she demanded.

Killian swallowed. “Have you heard of the Dark One?”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Well, yes. I’ve read the lore of course, but… are you saying the Dark One is real?”

“Very much so.”

He watched as comprehension dawned in her eyes. “And he—your—Milah’s husband—”

“Had become the Dark One, aye. At the cost of his soul, of course, but for some men that's a small price to pay to punish an errant wife.”

“Wow. I mean—wow.”

“I’m not familiar with that particular expression but it certainly seems to suit the case,” said Killian drily. “Wow indeed.”

“He murdered her, didn’t he?” Emma said, in a voice like the lash of a whip. It was not a question.

“On the deck of my ship,” Killian replied, “as I watched, helpless to prevent it. He tore her heart from her chest and he crushed it to dust.” He held up his brace, catching the sunlight on the curve of his hook. “And then he took my hand.”

Emma exhaled, long and slow. “So that’s why you want to go back. To stop her murder.”

This was also not a question, but he answered it nonetheless. “Aye. I promised to protect her and I failed. I have to make it right.”

“You know you can’t do that, Killian.”

The empathy in her voice, the understanding, the way she said his name… Killian’s anger rose again and he snapped at her. “Well not now that you’ve destroyed my bloody time machine!”

“You couldn’t have anyway.”

“And just how the devil—”

“Look, I told you, I’m not a wizard,” said Emma insistently. She shifted on the bench until she was facing him fully, one leg tucked beneath the other. “I don’t know all the ins and outs of how the universe works, or like, the multiverse or whatever. All I know is that if you turn on that machine it will blow a hole in all of it. Every realm and at every time would be destroyed. It would end the world.”

Killian scowled as his mind sought frantically for a loophole, a counterpoint, a way. His fist was tightly clenched and pressed hard against his thigh, his breathing shallow. “The books said—”

“The books don’t know,” she interrupted in that same insistent tone. “No one’s ever done this before. No one’s ever even come close.”

“And here I thought I wasn’t much of an artificer,” he sneered.

“Like I said before. You weren’t.”

Killian thought of all the reading he’d done, the careful cross-referencing of books that likely had never before been seen by the same pair of eyes. He thought of his temporal current regulator, the refinements he’d made to it. How certain he was that it would work.

He looked over at Emma to find her watching him, with gentle sympathy and not a hint of pity. “You can’t go back, Killian,” she said softly. “The past has already happened. All you can do is go forward.”

“So what you’re telling me is I need to move on,” he snarled. How he loathed that expression.

She nodded. “In more ways than one.”

Cautiously she reached out and placed her hand over his clenched fist, and though he could not feel her touch he felt it, the warmth of her compassion and her strength and her magic, drawn from another realm in another time. He let his hand relax and held it, palm up, beneath hers. He drew a deep, unsteady breath and then released it. Then he drew another.

They sat in silence for some time.

“I can’t recall the last time I considered what Milah would think if she could see what I was doing,” said Killian, finally, in a low voice. “I thought about her all the time, at first. But then… it got to the point where every time thoughts of her came into my head I would drink them straight out of it.”

“Because you knew that if she could see you she wouldn’t like what she saw.”

“Because I knew that if she could see me she wouldn’t like what she saw,” he echoed. “She wouldn’t have wanted me to lose myself in this—obsession. But then I have always been prone to obsession and she knew that better than anyone.”

“Obsession is just another word for intense dedication,” declared Emma, “once you add a bit of healthy perspective to it. It’s sincere devotion to what you value. Maybe all you need is just to shift your focus a bit. Find something new to work on, and another motivation to drive you.”

“Something new,” he repeated, then gave a hoarse, choking laugh. “I confess I’ve no idea what that could be.”

“You’ll find something.” The look in her eyes as she watched him was amused, wry, soft, and sad all at once. An odd sensation twisted in his chest. “I wish—” she began, then broke off with a shake of her head.

Killian realised their hands were still clasped. He wished he could close his fingers around hers, truly feel the touch of them against his skin. “What do you wish, love?” he pressed.

She shook her head again. “It’s just—after today I won’t be able to See you anymore. Once you’re no longer a threat you’ll stop appearing in my visions. I just wish I could watch what you do next, that’s all." She flashed him a grin. "I have a feeling it’ll be something epic.”

He laughed and after a moment she joined him, with a tinkling, joyous sound that made his heart feel lighter than perhaps it ever had. Maybe she was right, he thought. Maybe he could do something different. Something not driven by loss or anger or greed. “I don’t know if I can promise epic,” he told her. “But I do promise I'll do something. Something important to me. I promise you, Emma Swan.”

She smiled, gorgeous and heartbreaking. “Good.”

Killian could swear he felt her hand tightening on his, felt it in the echoing squeeze in his chest. He heard her next words before she spoke them.

“I have to go.”

He forced himself to nod. “I know.”

She reached up with her free hand and traced her fingertips across his cheek. “Goodbye, Killian Jones,” she whispered… and then she was gone.

Killian sat alone in his workshop with an empty hand and a silent machine, and a brand new ache in his heart. And for the very first time in a life full of loss, he allowed himself to grieve.

—

Killian didn’t drink.

He wanted to. The rum called to him, a siren’s song of numb oblivion, but that was a pit into which he no longer wished to fall. He had things to do now, crucial things, and they required a clear head.

He took the Jolly Roger and he sailed away, far across the seas to a place he'd sworn he’d never go again. The small port village where Milah had lived, and where she’d died. Whose harbour he’d put at his bow for less than an hour before he’d tipped her body into the depths of the sea.

It was the nearest thing he had to a gravestone.

He stood on the deck with his hand on the railing, staring down into the choppy waves below. His throat ached and his chest felt tight.

“I’m so sorry, Milah,” he whispered. “Sorry that I failed in my promise to protect you. Sorry that when I lost you I lost myself as well. I let myself fall so deeply into despair that I lost sight of who I was—and in doing so I sacrificed the man you loved. I’m sorry I became something you’d have hated me to be.” His throat closed up and he swallowed through it, forced the next words out. “When you died I swore to avenge you, but my love, I think—” he exhaled slowly “—I think I have to let you go.”

A brisk wind swept in off the water and ruffled through his hair as Milah’s fingers used to do. It stroked his cheek with the touch of her lips and whispered with her voice in his ear.

I love you, it said. Go.

Killian let his eyes fall shut as he breathed in the scent of her skin, closed his fist in her curls one final time. When he opened them again he was alone.

Alone, but for the first time in many a year, hopeful.

The past is done, he thought, and can’t be changed. All you can do is move forward.

Somewhere, some time, there was a green-eyed witch with golden curls and a sharp tongue and the softest heart he’d ever known. One who could read him like a book and understand the story it told. And he was an artificer who knew how to build a bloody time machine.

It was time to move on.

—

The afternoon was warm and hazy as it often is in August on the coast of Maine. The air was heavy and humid and buzzing with the hum of bees and midges as they swarmed and bumbled their way through late-summer flowers. Flowers that bloomed in full riotous colour in the remarkable garden of a thoroughly unremarkable grey clapboard house.

A figure approached the garden gate, tall and oddly dressed for this realm. He wore a long and sweeping leather coat over an ornately embroidered waistcoat, tall leather boots and a matching heavy satchel slung across his back. He paused, and regarded the gate with a raised eyebrow and all the deference he could muster.

Killian Jones knew magic when he sensed it.

“May I come in, lass?” he inquired of the air and the gate and the bumblebees, and whomever else might happen to be listening.

The gate swung open.

Killian favoured it with a small bow then sauntered through it, through the bright and fragrant garden and up to the porch steps and the door atop them. It opened as he approached to reveal a woman with long curling hair, a tight white tank top and very short shorts. She placed a hand on her hip and smirked.

“Took you long enough,” she said.

Killian climbed the porch steps and dropped his satchel, hooked a thumb beneath his belt buckle and treated her to his flirtiest grin. “Time is relative, I think you’ll find,” he replied. “Also an illusion. And there are some philosophers who claim that—”

His words were cut off by Emma’s lips, her fingers tight on the lapels of his coat as she pulled him in close. She was solid and real against his chest, her mouth hot and her skin so soft. Killian groaned as he sank his fingers into her hair, as he kissed her back with everything he’d held in his heart since he saw her last.

The kiss was short but rich with feeling, with potential, with hope. When it ended they paused for a moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other’s breath.

Emma spoke first. “You came forward,” she said. “You actually did it.” She laughed, and thumped her fist lightly against his chest. “I can’t believe you actually did it.”

“Aye, well, as it turns out, I’m a hell of an artificer,” he replied, and she laughed again. He pulled her against him, wrapped his arms tight around her and sighed as she tucked her head beneath his chin.

“And the rest of it?” she inquired softly. “Milah, and the Dark One—”

He took a moment to consider how to answer. There were many things he could say, so much he wanted to tell her. But it would wait. They had time. In the end he said simply, “I’ve made my peace. It’s done.”

“Good.” She looked up at him with that glorious smile and his heart sang with happiness. “That’s good.”

—

@ohmightydevviepuu @thisonesatellite @katie-dub @kmomof4 @mariakov81 @stahlop @spartanguard @killianjones-twopointoh @captain-emmajones

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introvertguide · 4 years ago

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The African Queen (1951); AFI #65

The next movie from the AFI list is sadly the last of the group starring the great Humphrey Bogart, The African Queen (1951). It was directed by John Huston and is adapted from a novel by C.S. Forester. It was again the story of some people who are down on their luck and then placed into a highly volatile situation. Huston really liked his down-on-their-luck characters from novels and Bogart was his favorite actor to play the part. It was a successful venture because they were able to tempt the great Katharine Hepburn to join in and create quite a film. The trio of Huston, Hepburn, and Bogart earned quite a few positive mentions for the story and the acting including four Academy Award nomination, but only Bogart walked away with a trophy for Best Actor. The film was partly shot on location in Africa and the cast and crew really had to suffer for their art, so it is a shame that they did not earn more awards. I want to talk more about the the story and the performance, but it would be best to go through the details of the movie first, so...

SPOILER WARNING!!! I DO NOT THINK A LOT OF PEOPLE FROM THE YOUNGER GENERATIONS KNOW MUCH ABOUT THIS STORY SO BE WARNED THAT I AM ABOUT TO SPOIL THE WHOLE THING!!! PLEASE TURN BACK NOW AND WATCH THE FILM FIRST AND THEN COME BACK TO LEARN MORE!!!

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Samuel Sayer (Robert Morley) and his sister Rose (Katharine Hepburn) are British Methodist missionaries in the village of Kungdu in German East Africa at the beginning of the First World War in August 1914. The scene is set with the pair singing poorly with a large group of confused looking Indigenous Africans. Notice how sick that Rose looks and know that Katharine Hepburn was extremely sick with dysentery during this entire church scene. Their post and supplies are delivered by a small steam launch named the African Queen, helmed by the rough-and-ready Canadian mechanic Charlie Allnut (Humphrey Bogart), whose coarse behavior they stiffly tolerate. The native Africans seem to like Charlie quite a bit.

The brother and sister invite Mr. Allnut to tea and his stomach gurgles horribly the whole time. It becomes apparent that the missionaries are being much better cared for then Mr. Allnut and he does not eat well.

When Charlie warns the Sayers that war has broken out between Germany and Britain, they choose to remain in Kungdu, only to witness Schutztruppe (German colonial troops) burn down the village and herd the villagers away to be pressed into service. When Samuel protests, he is struck by an officer, and soon becomes delirious with fever and dies shortly afterward. I am not exactly sure what he dies from, but he gives the most impassioned death bed speech that explains how the two got to Africa. It is kind of funny because Samuel basically says that he was not very smart and would became a missionary and bring along his sister, who was not attractive enough to be married. Charlie returns later the same day after finding his mine destroyed by the Germans and is being pursued for his supplies, which include gelignite. He helps Rose bury her brother, and they set off in the African Queen.

While sailing down river and planning their escape, Charlie mentions to Rose that the British are unable to attack the Germans due to the presence of a large gunboat, the Louisa, patrolling a large lake downriver. Rose comes up with a plan to convert the African Queen into a torpedo boat and sink the Louisa. The whole idea seems a little far fetched because Rose literally looks at the scrap and boxes around her and decides they should create a Kamikaze boat. Charlie points out that navigating the Ulanga River to get to the lake would be suicidal: they would have to pass a German fort and negotiate several dangerous rapids. But Rose is insistent and eventually persuades him to go along with the plan.

Later, Charlie and Rose continue down the river until they find a nice place to stop. The both go overboard to take a nice bath in the river. It is a little awkward when Rose can't get back in the boat wearing only her undergarments. That night, there is a sudden rain storm and Charlie tries to join Rose in her make shift room on the boat and she kicks him out. She soon realizes that he is escaping the rain and allows him in, even propping up an umbrella by his head so he does not get wet.

The next day, the pair runs into some light rapids and Charlie navigates through them thinking the experience will cause Rose to give up on her plan. She actually becomes quite excited and asks if she could steer the next time. Further on down the river, the two stop and Charlie becomes inebriated and drunkenly insults Rose and her plan, for which she retaliates by dumping his entire supply of gin into the river. The relationship has hit a low point and Rose does not wish to talk with Charlie because he is trying to back out of her plan. They finally reconcile when Charlie agrees to continue going down the river to try and blow up the Louisa.

Charlie allows Rose to navigate the river by rudder while he tends the engine, and she is still emboldened after they got through the first set of rapids with minimal flooding in the boat. When they pass the German fortress, the soldiers begin shooting at them, damaging the boiler. Fortunately, the soldiers are unable to cause more severe damage to the boat due to having the sun in their eyes. Charlie manages to reattach a pressure hose just as they are about to enter the second set of rapids. The boat rolls and pitches as it goes down the rapids, leading to more severe flooding on the deck, but they manage to make it through. It must be pointed out that the obvious model boat going down the rapids is adorable.

While celebrating their success, the two find themselves in an embrace and kiss. Embarrassed, they break off, but eventually succumb to their feelings and fall in love. There is some obvious innuendo when Rose is using the bilge pump and Charlie tells her to slow down or she will wear herself out. There is some awkward conversation about flowers and it is then implied that there might have been some physical activity between the two. Rose has been calling her boat mate Mr. Allnut this entire time and Charlie has been calling her Miss, but the two are now on a first name basis. Be prepared to hear "Charlie" and "Rosie" a lot through the end of the film.

As they continue down the river, Charlie entertains Rose with his animal impressions when they are suddenly faced with very severe rapids and a waterfall. This third set of rapids damages the propeller shaft. Rigging up a primitive forge on shore, Charlie straightens the shaft, welds a new blade onto the prop, and they are off again.

There are multiple comparisons to the river and to the growing relationship between the new couple. The river has rapids when the two are arguing. The river changes its name part way down similar to the way the two switch to pet names instead of the more formal monikers they had been using. I am a little confused at the comparison at this point because they are sailing along happily with the new prop and shaft and decide to drop anchor in the reeds. They are immediately attacked by bugs and realize that they can't stop and must anchor in the current or keep going.

Charlie realizes that there is a lot of long grass at the mouth of the river and, as they continue, the going gets more and more difficult. All appears lost when the boat becomes mired in the mud and dense reeds. They try to tow the boat through the muck, only to have Charlie come out of the water covered with leeches. With no supplies left and short of potable water, Rose and a feverish Charlie pass out, both accepting they will soon die. Rose says a quiet prayer. As they sleep, exhausted and beaten, torrential rains far upstream gently raise the river's level and float the African Queen off of the mud and into the lake. Once on the lake, they narrowly avoid being spotted by the Louisa.

Over the next two days, Charlie and Rose convert some oxygen cylinders into torpedoes using gelignite and improvised detonators. They push the torpedoes through holes cut in the bow of the African Queen as improvised spar torpedoes. There is an argument between the two over whether or not the ramming is a two person job, but they decide they will succeed or fail together. The Louisa returns and Charlie and Rose steam the African Queen out onto the lake in darkness, intending to set her on a collision course. A strong storm strikes which causes water to pour into the African Queen through the torpedo holes. Eventually the African Queen capsizes, throwing them both into the water. Charlie loses sight of Rose in the storm.

Charlie is captured and taken aboard the Louisa, where he is interrogated. Believing that Rose has drowned, he makes no attempt to defend himself against accusations of spying and the German captain sentences him to death by hanging. Rose is found and captured and brought aboard the ship just after Charlie's sentence is pronounced. The captain questions her, and Rose proudly confesses the plot to sink the Louisa, deciding they have nothing to lose. The captain sentences her to be executed with Charlie, both as British spies. Charlie asks the German captain to marry them before they are executed. The captain agrees, and after a brief marriage ceremony, there is an explosion and the Louisa quickly capsizes. The ship has struck the overturned submerged hull of the African Queen and detonated the torpedoes. The newly married couple happily swim to safety.

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I enjoyed this movie much more than I did the first time watching the film. On first view, the relationships between the two characters felt very rushed to me and the early technicolor image overlays were not very good. I thought that the model boat in the rapids was laughable and the music was distracting. I have definitely changed my tune and focused on the great aspects of the film: the story, the acting, and the adventure.

This is not normally the order I approach my reviews, but I am going to point out the flaws first so people know what to expect. It can be charming if you know what is coming. Let's start with the score. It is pleasant and adventurous, but it is entirely inappropriate in a lot of scenes. The most dramatically tense music comes when Rose watches Charlie pouring himself a gin. Not when alligators are dropping in the water or when they are going through rapids or even when they are going to be hanged. The score is also very frenetic because it tries (and fails) to mimic the emotions of the characters on screen and the situation is constantly changing. This is definitely one of the poorest soundtracks on the AFI list.

Referring back to the characters changing moods a lot, the tone is all over the place. It goes from lightly romantic to laughing to deathly peril to anger at a moments notice. The adventure aspect is fun and the characters are lovable, but the tone is all over the place. The acting is good and the story is great so the only person left to blame is the director. I think Jon Huston tried to get too much of the source material in the movie and made it a little too compact. It was early days of book adaptations so I can't really blame him, but it is still noticeable. It does add to the fun of the movie because you truly have no clue as to what will happen next.

Finally, as far as gripes, the special effects are extremely dated. The overlays of the actors to a scene behind them do not match well at all and are covered with a green particle effect. It is definitely technology that has been much improved upon over the last 70 years. Also, a little model boat was used to mimic the rapids and the little dolls that are supposed to represent our characters are adorable. It is so pathetic that it is endearing, kind of like an ugly sweater at the holidays or a meal bordering on poisonous baked by children on Mother's Day. You just smile big, say thank, and remember it always for blackmail in the future.

Now for the good. I thought that Katharine Hepburn did a great job as the middle aged maid who had never really experienced love and found it in a creaky old steamboat captain. I also thought that Humphrey Bogart really pulled off the old mechanic that could make anything work in those trying conditions and yet still be bullied by missionaries. The other actors were merely serviceable, but Hepburn and Bogart were the whole story and took up 90% of the screen time. They leads were good and deserved their Oscar nominations. It was especially impressive as they were on location in Africa for some of the filming and were dealing with insects and sickness. It was also a very active part for two middle-aged actors and I think they pulled it off convincingly.

I think what really makes the story is how the river is a constantly changed metaphor for the grow relationship of Charlie and Rosie. There are turbulent times that are shown by rapids. There are smooth times shown by glassy water. There are places that seem nice and turn out to be awful similar to some of the conversation. All this winding build-up of a relationship leads to "taking the plunge" into marriage as the adventure takes them through a winding river until they are plunged into the lake after being married on the Louisa. It is one big amazing metaphor and I love it.

So should this movie be on the AFI top 100? Yes, but not towards the top. It is fun, but there are a lot of bad aspects that could ruin the experience if you are not in the right mindset. It is ranked as the lowest Bogart film on the list and that seems fair. It deserves to be on the list and the ranking is appropriate. Would I recommend it? Sure would. I have seen it twice this week along with a one hour special that goes behind the scenes and I am still not tired of it. The pace is fast, but that makes it an easy watch. There is implied physical relations and gross man vs. wild moments, but it was made during the Hays Code and appropriate for any aged viewer. A great movie and I am glad that I gave it a second chance.

#the african queen #katharine hepburn #humphrey bogart #john huston #adventure #technicolor #afi movies #best actor winner #introvert #introverts

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lo-55 · 3 years ago

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Lightning In A Bottle Ch. 2

Nanohana wasn’t changed much, to the point that Nao was beginning to wonder how long she had been inside her crystal prison. She had no idea how much time had passed, but if the boy who had broken her out of the rock hadn’t recognized her or her flag it had to have been a while.

And that hat…

It had to be a duplicate, surely.

Nao tucked her hands into the pockets of her pants. Her high leather boots kept the sand out of her socks, at least, and when Luffy managed to burn whole sacks of Raindance powder her cape kept her dry. At her side, Odenta and Mikazuki hung as heavy comforts in their sheaths. They didn’t garner nearly as much attention in the city as Nao and the Gem’s had when they had arrived however long ago that was. Back there the city had emptied out as soon as they stepped foot in the sand covered streets of the Alabastan port.

No, no one even looked twice at them, there were so many people going through the city.

Not her, or Luffy in his hat.

How peculiar.

Nao made a mental note to get a hold of a newspaper as soon as she could, or maybe visit Ohara. They would have the best records about what she’d missed.

It would have to wait. Ohara was a long ways from Alabasta, and it would be hard to sail Blood Stone without someone else helping her. The ship was just a little felucca, hardly big enough for fifteen people, but she was tough as nails and made for the roughest waters in the world. All the same, it wasn’t safe to sail alone in the Grand Line, where the weather might change without warning, when there wasn’t someone to stay awake and keep watch. Not to mention Marine’s, other pirates, and all sorts of other dangers. Sea Kings probably hadn’t gone extinct since she went under. She’d rather not deal with them.

Nao was so busy contemplating her ship that she nearly walked right by the restaurant that Luffy went shooting into.

She had to backtrack to poke her head inside. A crowd had gathered, and Luffy was ignoring it entirely in face of ordering lunch. A pair of unconscious bodies lay through several broken walls.

Nao cocked her head. Had Luffy done that when hed stretched out and launched himself like a demented rubberband? She knew it had to be a Devil Fruit, but she didn’t expect him to go causing that much destruction mindlessly.

What a weird kid.

Ah well. Pirate.

Nao took a seat next to Luffy while the chef frantically started cooking. Whoever had been in before them had eaten a lot, with dirty plates stacked nearly to the ceiling. Now he was feeding Luffy, and her too.

Nao made a mental note to tip him well.

She casually elbowed Luffy’s face out of the way and stole a whole chicken to rip into.

“Hey!” he shouted around a mouthful of food. His head stretched unnaturally away on his neck. “That’s mine!”

“Finders keepers,” she said succinctly, and shoveled it into her face as fast as she could. Time hadn’t passed for her at all inside the stone. Her injuries from the battle weren’t healed, and she didn’t feel well rested. She was famished, but not starving like she’d spent months unconscious.

Nevertheless, she’d always been a big eater. She needed the energy to keep up with her lifestyle, and to keep herself strong enough to fight. She wouldn't let her broad shoulders shrivel or her powerful legs grow weak if she could help it. It was a death sentence.

She nearly bit Luffy’s hand inhaling spicy noodles next, and a hank of lamb. The chef was sweating and out of breath but he kept putting food on the counter and they kept eating. Luffy was chatting with the locals while he ate.

“Why’s there a hole in the wall? Is that some weird hobby of yours?”

“YOU’RE THE ONE WHO PUT THE HOLE IN THE WALL!”

She knew it.

Nao was in the middle of a plate of roasted peppers when one of the formerly-unconscious men climbed out of the hole in the wall. She watched him get slammed back down by a man in a fur coat, and the next thing she knew she was getting dragged through the streets of Nanohara by Luffy.

Why are we running? That guy isn’t even that strong...

“Tashigi!” the man chasing them shouted, “Stop them!”

Nao looked forwards to see a girl with a sword.

“I’ll handle her,” she offered Luffy, who nodded and let go so he could go bouncing up onto the rooftops like a ninja or something. In one smooth move Nao drew Odenta from her side and lifted it to block a blow from the other girl, Tashigi.

“Nice sword,” Nao grinned sharply at the girl over their locked blades. Her form was good, but she wasn’t very strong. Too bad.

“Yours is too. It’s a shame it’s being used by pirate scum!”

“Xeshishishi, tell you what, if you can beat me you can have her.”

The man who’d been smashed into the floor landed next to the two. An orange hat rested on his head and he had a bad slung over one shoulder. Black hair fell in soft waves to frame his cheeks, which were covered with freckles.

There was something familiar about him…

“Excuse me, ladies,” he said politely, startling both of them into looking away from their crossed blades to him instead. He tipped his hat towards them, then the building that Luffy had jumped up onto. He was blocked from it by their swords. “I have to catch up with my brother now.”

“Uh, sure,” said the marine girl. They pulled their blades away to make a path for him.

“Why are you telling us this…?” the redhead countered, looking confused. She faltered when she got a good look at his face, recognition shooting through her. Nao sucked in a breath. He looked like-

“Hey, hold on-!”

“Sorry, I can’t,” Portgas waved to them and shot over the rooftops, after his brother and the marine. Nao shook her head. She would see him again, if he was chasing Luffy.

Nao drew back and slashed again easily. Each move was economic and graceful. She spared no energy, partially because she simply didn’t have any. Tashigi blocked, but the force pushed her back a few feet.

Nao parried her next attack and side stepped to smack her on the back of the neck with Odenta, sending her careening to the ground.

Someone screamed, but no blood came from the fallen marine.

She touched the back of her neck in confusion. “Wha-?”

Nao didn’t answer.

She was already gone.

Nao ducked around a corner and ran after Luffy, following his Haki until she caught up with him and a group of colorful people. Hadn’t he said he was a pirate? Or he was going to be King of the Pirates. That was what he’d said. Well, to be king of them you needed to be a pirate in the first place, right?

That sounded right.

So these people were probably his crew.

When he saw her he grinned and threw his hand out. It stretched far enough to grab her by the wrist and yank her forwards.

“Hey! You made it past the sword lady!”

“Well yeah,” Nao landed beside him running. Her leg was starting to ache where a cut had caught her over the knee.

“Who are you supposed to be?” A curly haired young man with a long nose demanded, eying her.

“She’s a rock person I found,” Luffy said cheerfully.

“That. About sums it up,” Nao felt herself smile involuntarily. “I’m Roche Nao,” she said for the second time that day. She really hoped they stopped running soon. Her leg was seriously starting to ache.

“So Luffy picked up someone else weird,” an orange haired girl looked exasperated more than anything else. Nao felt like she should have been offended, but she just shrugged. She was too tired to be upset with people who hadn’t actually done anything to her.

Besides, she wasn’t wrong.

They came upon a pretty caraval, with a sweet looking figure head. A sheep. Nao felt herself smile. It was cute and light hearted, like this crew seemed to be. Nothing at all like the swift, devil faced Blood Stone. Her eyes were two carved rubies, and a pair of snakes twined around her in a macabre necklace that matched the one that hung beneath Nao’s own shirt.

“Permission to come aboard?” she asked Luffy lightly. The boy beamed at her and tipped the brim of his hat.

“Granted!”

They scampered onto the ship and in a whirlwind of motion they set sail. The caravel carried them away from the port. The pirate flag flapped in the wind, showing off a skull wearing a straw hat.

Seriously, what was up with that hat?

Had that up-and-coming volcano really given it to some upstart?

...actually. That sounded exactly like something he would do.

She realized that their little pet (a raccoon?) was staring at her only when he shouted suddenly.

“Ah! You’re bleeding!”

It was a testement to how tired she was that she hadn’t noticed that he was a mink, and not just a weird animal.

“Hah? Where?”

“Your leg! Quick, take off your pants and I’ll- ouch!”

The orange haired girl smacked him over the head. “Don’t ask it like that!” she scolded.

“But I need to see how bad it is! She might need a doctor!”

“You’re the doctor!”

Ah. Nao would have preferred they didn’t know she was actually injured, or weak, but there was nothing to be done about it. They seemed like good people anyhow, as far as pirates went.

“Well then, mister doctor, where’s your office?”

“A-ah! I don’t have a real office yet. We’ve been using the bathroom.”

“Then lead the way.”

The doctor, Tony Tony Chopper, guided her down to the bathroom. The Caravel was small without being cramped. Nao took off her boots and pants, now stained with blood, so he could clean and stitch her leg. He treated her smaller scrapes and bruises as well, and stuck bandaids across her cuts.

He left so she could clean herself properly, wash her hair and get the blood off of her. She watched the pink water wash down the drain and wondered where her crew was. What had happened to Elba, Talisa, Adrien and Pearl? Were Rize and Hinami still injured? Had the marine’s tended to their wounds? Tier had escaped into the sea before a blast from a marine flagship had sent them hurtling out of the little cove they’d been hiding in and beached their ship. Had she made it back to fishman island?

She needed to find out. She owed it to her crew after she had failed them all.

There was a knock on the door.

She cracked it open to find the blond man standing outside, holding a bundle of clothes in his arms. Her red hair dripped across her shoulders, but in a few minutes it would be dry and wildly curly again.

“I bought an extra outfit for Nami or Vivi, but now I see it was destiny that I have it ready for you!”

He had literal hearts in her eyes when he presented them to her.

Nao took them carefully. The clothes were lightweight and soft, so soft that they caught on the sword-callouses on her fingers.

“Thank you?” Her clothes weren’t ruined, by any means. Did she really need a new outfit?

“If you need any help changing I-”

She shut the door on his face. “Nope.”

They definitely didn’t recognize her. No one who did was stupid enough to flirt with her. Her dad would kill them.

Nao changed into the clothes and was disappointed to find that they were dancers clothes.

Yeah. No.

She couldn’t fight in that!

Instead she cleaned her pants as best as she could, used a small sewing kit she kept in her cape to fix the cut in them, and redressed.

She'll have to find a hair tie eventually.

When she came back up to deck the other man they’d run into was crouched on the outer rail. With his back partially to her while he chatted with someone else Nao caught a glimpse of a tattoo on his back.

It was familiar, too. He nodded to Nao when she came to stand beside the green haired man. Solo?

Most of his attention was on Luffy, not her.

“Luffy. Will you come join the Whitebeard Pirate Crew? With your friends, too, of course.”

Whitebeard pirates. Whitebeard. Edward Newgate.

Nao could feel a headache starting to throb behind her eyes.

“No way!”

The man laughed. “Just thought I'd ask! Whitebeard is the greatest pirate I've ever known. I want to make him the pirate king. Not you, Luffy.”

Nao internally winced. Brutal. They were obviously close. Childhood friends?

“That's okay! I'll just fight him.”

Nao blinked at Luffy’s back. Was he stupid? Or just crazy?

Either way, Nao liked him.

She couldn’t start her hunt for her crew yet. She didn’t know how long she was trapped, and she didn’t know where everyone had gone. She also wasn’t in any shape to go rushing off and finding out. Her mother would have killed her for doing something as impulsive as grabbing the nearest Marine and demanding to know where her crew had been taken. And her dad…

Her heart twisted in her chest. Nao shook her head. She wouldn't let herself have a breakdown yet. Not here. Not yet.

“Hey, Luffy.”

He turned his head to look at her. Nao offered him a half bow. “Sorry but, I’m going to have to take advantage of your hospitality for now. Until I can get in contact with my own crew.”

Luffy shot her cheerful grin. “Sure, okay. You can hang out with us for a while.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” the blue girl stepped forwards. Nao really needed to figure out everyone’s names. She only knew Luffy and Chopper. “We’re not here for tourism. Where we’ll be going is bound to be dangerous.”

Nao cocked her head. Yeah. “I appreciate you worrying. But I’m a pirate as much as anyone else. I won’t change my mind just because it’s dangerous.”

Besides, they were going to Yuba, where Nao was supposed to meet with her crew.

Molly should have already gotten there and set up shop.

“Wait for us, Moll. We’ll get there, even if it takes a while.”

Molly pursed her black-painted lips. “I don’t like it, captain. This splitting up stuff. You already sent Harry and Monty back to Zou. We’re stronger together.”

“I know we are. But with dad-”

“Don’t worry,” Nao looked the girl in the eye and lay her hand on Odenta’s hilt. “I won’t ask any of you to be responsible for me.”

“I am my own captain, after all.”

#one piece #One Piece Fanfiction #monkey d. luffy #original character #one piece strawhats #straw hat luffy #straw hat pirates

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deathtrapnest · 4 years ago

Text

Waves That Pulled You Under

fandom: One Piece pairing: Luffy x Nami notes: -Takes place after Usopp joins but before Baratie arc. summary: Nami watches him atop Merry’s figurehead from afar and thinks that the sea might reach up to take him, to swallow him and carry him away. And then one day it does.

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Luffy had chosen his favorite spot on the Going Merry the first day they'd set sail- sitting perched on top of the figurehead, balanced precariously over the water- nothing but an unobstructed view of sea and sky stretching out endlessly in front of him.

Nami has yet to meet a Devil Fruit user so unafraid of the sea as Luffy. It should come as no surprise- she has yet to find anything that Luffy is afraid of. Nami isn’t afraid of the sea but she knows better than to disrespect it. She knows that like her captain, Luffy, that the sea has no sense of boundaries, is beholden to no logic or reason. And like her other captain, Arlong, it has no mercy and it can take and take indefinitely.

Nami watches him atop Merry’s head from afar and thinks that the sea might reach up to take him, to swallow him and carry him away. And then one day it does.

It’s an afternoon where the horizon is endless on all sides of the ship, with no island expected to appear for days to come. The skies are muted, there’s a stillness in the air, but Nami is a navigator, she knows that stillness on the sea is always a lie. Luffy, too, on the figurehead, looks momentarily still and calm but she knows that won’t last either. Nami can predict the weather. She’s given up on trying to predict Luffy.

Merry rides on the ocean’s back, creaking gently as waves crawl up her sides and then retreat like living things. Nami stands at the balcony of the quarter deck.

With his back to her she sees where his hair is getting long, tangled at the nape of his neck. And thinks, if it will be up to her to cut it, at some point. Like how it has fallen to her to cook the crew’s meals and sew shut the holes in Luffy’s hat. Strange, intimate, tasks of care that she’s never performed for anyone but herself before.

Sometimes he turns his head slightly and she gets a glimpse of the sickle shaped scar on his cheek; of the nearly serene expression he wears sometimes when he thinks no one is around to witness it.

Occasionally a breeze blows over the water and the hat on his head twitches at the edges- a tease, like the wind is reminding him how easily it can blow his treasure away. It makes Nami nervous but Luffy never seems to notice. She wonders if he’s never had anything taken away from him, if that’s how he can stay so self assured. If all the important things she’s had taken from her are why she can never seem to relax. The hat keeps its place even when he doesn’t reach up to hold it down.

But no one stays on luck’s good side forever.

She’s looking down at her map, and then when she looks up, he’s gone.

There’s not even a tell tale splash of him hitting the water. The sky hasn’t changed, the sea still, and yet his seat is empty.

Nami is paralyzed. Her throat too tight to even call for help from Usopp or Zoro who are below deck and out of earshot anyway. She drops the map she’s holding and runs toward the bow but she’s pulling off her shoes with one hand already as she goes. Before she has time to think she’s diving in over the edge.

The water she plunges into is cold, silent, breathless.

There’s enough sunlight cutting through from the surface to make out his silhouette as she pulls herself further down, to where the sea is wine dark and heavy.

In the water, everything is dyed indigo, and Luffy is suspended in it like a bug in amber, motionless and limp, though his hair and clothes move without gravity, his hair a dark, swirling, crown obscuring his eyes, his shirt a flag of color in the dark, floating in an almost imperceptible current, trying to pull away from the anchor its attached to.

Nami’s hand seeks his, she pulls at slippery, icy, fingers. But he’s heavy as lead, continuing to sink further like someone is deep below him, pulling him down by his feet. The ocean laying claim to him, taking revenge on its would-be king.

Her arms encircle his waist and she pumps with her legs, eyes on the twinkle of sunlight above their heads. Luffy is so heavy. And cold.

Nami isn’t a hero. She’s scared. And angry. The muscles in her legs burn and her chest aches from holding her breath. But she can’t stop thinking, again and again, “if I hadn’t been here, he would be dead right now. He would be dead right now.” And the image of Luffy lifeless at the floor of the ocean is unbearable. He’s supposed to be the one with all the luck.

When she reaches the surface she gasps for breath so deeply that her head falls under again, her legs forgetting to swim, she inhales water deep up her nose, chokes. She rights herself and pulls Luffy’s head up next to her by his hair, his mouth falling open, though she can’t hear him taking in any air.

She turns toward the ship and sees that on the surface of the waves, the straw hat is bobbing, only a few feet away. Luffy had been taken from the safety of his favorite spot on the figurehead, the hat had been taken from the safety of its favorite spot on his head, and looked lost without him, lonely, even. Nami uses one arm to pull herself closer to the ship, the other arm holding Luffy up, and before ascending the rope ladder, she considers the hat, and she thinks about leaving it to float away. Just for a half a second, she thinks about it. Just to see what would happen. To see what he’d do. But she’s done a lot of cruel things in her life already, and she’s trying to do less. She adjusts her grip on Luffy’s waist and reaches out to grab the hat.

She drops Luffy without ceremony on the deck of the ship and his head flops to the side lifelessly, his face ghost pale all the way down to his lips. Motionless in a way that couldn’t be mistaken for sleep. Nami can barely catch her own breath, there’s water in her sinuses and she’s shivering but she bends over his body, pressing her ear to his mouth. She can’t hear his breathing, even as the wetness of his lower lip brushes the shell of her ear. All she can hear is the ocean lapping against the side of the boat, reaching to reclaim the prize she’d deprived it of.

All she can hear is her own desperate gasps of breath, wracking her body, like sobs. Like them.

“Dammit…”

She intertwines her hands and places them over his ribcage, and begins compressing them against him, digging her palms in and trying to keep the rhythm steady even as her hands shake and water drips from her hair in cold rivulets down her back. Soaked through to the skin, Luffy’s shirt is the color of a dried bloodstain.

“C’mon… C’mon… C’mon…” with every compression.

She stops, swiping her hair out of her eyes, lifts up Luffy’s chin and pinches his nose. His lips are cold and salty to taste, yielding under hers as she breathes into him. She comes up for air, inhales as deeply as she can, tips his head back by the hair this time, fingers curling against wet strands at the nape of his neck, wrings it into her fist until sea water drips past her knuckles and over her wrist. She clamps her eyes shut and she tries to teach him how to breathe again. To remember how to live again.

It’s the third breath, he makes a gurgling noise and his body begins thrashing against hers. She lets go and he flops onto his side, choking up brine onto the deck and coughing water out of his lungs.

Predictably, the first thing he does when he catches his breath is touch the top of his head, feeling for his hat, then turns to see it laid next to him. He doesn’t even shake the water from his hair before putting it back on his head and flashing a wide grin to Nami and letting out a hoarse laugh.

“That was close!” His voice scratchy from choking.

“Don’t laugh. It isn’t funny.” Nami says coldly.

“I’m relieved to be alive.” He leans his head back, taking long, grateful, gulps of air.

Nami glares at him.

“How stupid would you feel? Losing your dream like that? Before you even get to the Grand Line?” She bites out. But he looks back at her serenely. Water drips from the brim of his hat onto his face, clumping his eyelashes together, dark and dewey.

“But you saved me.”

He says as if it had always been a certainty. And there was nothing to worry about. In the world. Ever. That makes her furious.

“What if I’m not around next time, dammit?!” her voice rises and cracks and she remembers that she’s out of breath too.

Luffy fixes her with one of those solemn looks he only saves for rare occasions. Luffy can veer from clueless to penetrating faster than an ocean gale.

“Why wouldn’t you be around?” he asks.

She shivers, her clothes cold and clinging to her skin. The tattoo on her arm. She wonders if he can see it through the white of her wet shirt. Sometimes it feels like it itches, now it feels like a sunburn. She turns, wrings the water out of her skirt.

“I’m not going anywhere.” She mutters. She lies. It’s a well rehearsed lie, but it doesn’t come out as easily as it usually does. For some reason the look on Luffy’s face makes her think he doesn’t believe it. But he smiles back at her anyway.

She looks away from him, toward the horizon. “Next time… Get one of the others to save your ass… It can be someone else’s problem if you die on them.”

Luffy gets back on Merry’s head because he never learns. He closes his eyes and folds his arms behind his head, letting the breeze dry him. She doesn’t waste her breath scolding him. There’s some things she’ll never learn either.

A storm comes that night. Just like she’d thought it would. The rain beats steady as a drum at the circular porthole windows of the dining room after dinner.

“You need a haircut.” Nami observes. And leads Luffy back to her bedroom, away from the noise and laughter of the others. Where it’s silent except for the faint growl of thunder, the waves battering the sides of the ship.

She lights a candle. Shadows cross Luffy’s unsmiling face and he looks so different than he does in the sunlight that for a moment it takes Nami aback. He’s a man. Not just a boy.

She kisses him. His lips are warm now, more dry, but she runs the tip of her tongue just faintly against his lower lip and imagines she can still taste the sea on it. Luffy lets her, not closing his eyes, until she pulls away and he blinks at her with a face devoid of curiosity or surprise.

“What was that about?” he says.

Nami huffs a laugh. “You wouldn’t understand.”

His eyebrows knit together and he sticks his lip out petulantly. “I understand plenty.”

This time, he initiates. Clumsily, brief, his teeth a hard wall she feels the press of behind the softness of his mouth. He straightens up, unabashed by the display and waiting for her rapport.

She remembers abruptly sometimes, he’s really not much younger than her. She feels like she’s been alive for a hundred years. She wonders how many hundreds of years he’s been alive. He already has one indelible scar. She wonders how many he’ll have someday. And does he ever forget that it’s there? Like she does with her tattoo? Then catch a glimpse of his reflection and remember who he is and how much it hurts?

“You can touch it.”

“What?” she whispers, because it’s dark, and they’re the only two there- in the dark with the candle’s warmth between them, and she doesn’t want to speak over the sound of the sea.

He sits on the edge of her bed without looking away. “My scar. You can touch it. I don’t mind.”

She realizes she’d been staring. She sits down next to him and raises her hand to his cheek, traces the scar with her fingertips while he watches her without blinking. It’s rough, a divet in otherwise smooth skin, the ridge of it guides her fingertips along its curved path like a line drawn on a map. Whatever did it, had gone deep.

He laughs, and it’s so sudden she jumps in surprise.

“Tickles.” he says.

Nami takes his face in both her hands, pulls him down onto the bed with her, opens his mouth with hers. She breathes against his lips, feels his breath returned on her skin, proof of life- his and hers. She lets his breath fall between her lips, breathes it in as her own.

Her fingers slides up his shirt, landing just west of his heart. Like the sea, she reaches out to touch something she can’t have. She tries to pull him under, she kisses him breathless.

Luffy’s hands roam over her body with uncertainty, like a mouth trying to form the words of a language foreign to him. The ocean beneath the ship makes the bed roll gently on its wave, her hips canting into his thigh on the swell, and on the next crest Luffy flips her over onto her back, blanketing her body with the weight of his. In the candle light he watches her as he kisses her, his eyes open and his lashes low.

She puts her arms around his neck and holds onto him as if he could be her lifeline.

End.

#one piece #luffyxnami #monkey d. luffy #nami #fan fiction #my fanfic

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madlymiho · 5 years ago

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Hi Miho! Scenario here! It's halloween soon, and in the tradition, dead people and living people can encounter on that day. I wanna request a scenario with Corason and Law, ghosty Corason meeting Law when he's adult for the special day. I hope I made it in time! I love your writings and this is my first request to you 💞

Hello anon! ❤️ Awww this scenario is just the cutest 😱❤️ I've been dying to write something for them, so thank you! 😍

A perfect scenario for those spooky times!! 🎃🎃🎃

It’s a bit angsty though, it will suit you!!

Words : 2415

Law and Corazon scenario : One Last Moment (read after the cut)

It’s halloween night, and Law is working in his lab. He doesn’t really want to be a part of this odd tradition, preferring to leave all the fun for his crewmates. As he usually does, Law agreed to drop anchor in the nearest island while they were sailing, offering his friends a real night of celebration outside. They were all pretty excited to put on some funny costumes, trying their best to hide their excitement, as if they weren’t all some eternal children in the end. But it’s not something for Law. Celebrate the dead ones? Go trick or treat with when he looks like the edgiest man in the world? No… No he has better things to do. He’s not a child anymore.

As he takes a few notes on an anatomia book of his collection, Law can’t help but remember the last time he celebrated Halloween. It was when… He sighs, a strong feeling of nausea tickling his guts. After all this time, he still hates to remember that he lost perhaps the only man he has ever loved as much as his father. It still feels like a hole in his heart, and painfully, Law forces himself to think about something else, writing automatically his notes, his mind shutting all the noises coming from outside, from the excited laughters to the adorable screams whenever a child is suddenly surprised.

After a moment, though, Law hears a strong knock on the submarine’s hull, probably someone a bit too curious about this odd ship anchored at the harbor. He rolls his eyes, ignoring the intruder, knowing perfectly that sooner or later, they would be gone. But it continues. Another knock, and another one, until Law can’t focus on his work anymore. He exhales and stands back up, rooming himself on the galley to watch who’s dumb enough to bother him this way.

“Hey!” He shouts from the deck, looking down at the dock, noticing a dark silhouette smoking a cigarette. “Where do you think you are?”

The man freezes, lazily smoking on his cigarette, while he flushes his hands back in his pockets and doesn’t move anymore. Law raises an eyebrow, not really understanding why his heart is suddenly so squeezes in his chest.

“You better fuck off before I get down to kick your ass out of the dock, okay?” He growls to the stranger, hoping that would be enough to make them go.

“Oï, Law. Is this really how you talk these days?” The man answers with a deep voice, raising his face to look at the captain of the heart pirates. “Really?”

Law immediately grabs the barrier of the deck, his mind boiling so hard that he almost loses his balance. It can’t be. It’s...It must be a dream. A smiling face with a sort of blue star under his right eyes, a long and scarlet smile drew on his features. Golden locks, hiding his forehead, all of them half trapped under a fuschia hat. There’s only one man in the world like this. A man who died a long time ago…

“Room!” Law shouts while he invokes his blue sphere, to be ready, in case this vision from the past tries to attack him.

Yet, it only makes Corazon chuckles, while he shakes his head, and throws his cigarette butt away.

“Seems like the Ope Ope No Mi works pretty fine with you,” he says as he tilts his head. “But there’s no need to attack me. You wouldn’t hurt me anyway, little Law.”

Dizzy, in distress, Law feels weak for the very first time after many years. He tries to bite his bottom lip, hurting himself enough to wake him up from that odd and cruel dream, but nothing changes. Corazon is still patiently waiting on the dock, pulling another cigarette from his feather coat.

“Law, are you coming down or what?” Corazon invites him, pointing at the ground with his slender finger. “I don’t have much time. Until dawn, in fact.”

“Dawn…?” Law mumbles, silently watching at the clock on the deck of his ship, already pointing at midnight.

More curious than truly scared, Law eventually jumps off his ship, landing right beside Corazon. Even as an adult, he barely reaches his chest, his tired eyes unable to look up for a second. He doesn’t know what is really happening here, but everything feels just like his gone friend. The same aura, the same scent of cigarette and cologne, the same appeasing nature.

“It’s been a while,” Corazon says patiently, while he lights his cigarette with his zipper, until Law eventually finds the courage to meet his stare. “What’s up?”

“For fuck’s sake!” Law shouts as he watches Corazon’s coat burning for the thousand time. He immediately tries to pat his shoulder in order to help him, but he only touches the void, his hand travelling through his body. “Wh...What?”

Corazon blows on his coat, the flames suddenly disappearing before he locks his cigarette at the corner of his painted lips.

“I told you,” he smiles, almost sadly. “I’m a ghost.”

Law wishes to tell him that it’s not possible, that all of this sounds just like a bad dream. He wishes he has the words to shout him to stop this nonsense, and to leave him alone, but there’s still this little boy living within him. The one who lost too much during that night, in North Blue. Yet, he feels himself unable to have any emotion. Everything seems blocked inside his heart, strongly maintained under hundreds of days where he learnt how to muffle everything.

“I know it’s weird, I don’t even know how I end up here,” Corazon tries, shrugging. “I think I took the wrong door, or I don’t know, fell somewhere...I can’t remember,”

Law shakes his head, looking at his feet. Door. Falling somewhere. What the hell is he babbling right now?

“Oï, so, what do you think?” Corazon asks, blowing some smoke in the air with a genuine smile.

“What do I think of what?” Law snaps coldly, raising an eyebrow, while he gets back to the reality.

“Didn’t you hear me? You, me, trick and treat?” Corazon tries to punch Law’s shoulder, but he simply passes through it with a little grimace.

Law, on the other hand, has some difficulties to understand everything.

“I’m twenty-seven, Corazon, why the fuck would I want to go on trick and treat? And it’s midnight! People are already either asleep or drunk!”

Corazon sighs, while he smokes on his cigarette, his gaze becoming slightly darker. This time, Law feels the words disappearing before he would be able to speak. He remembers that serious look on Corazon’s features ; it has always distressed him.

“Law,” Corazon starts. “I don’t know why we are reunited tonight, and I believe that this is hurtful, especially for you. I can’t even imagine what you’ve been through, in fact, until today. Halloween is a special night where the frontier between the worlds of the living and the dead is the slightest. Perhaps it’s a curse, unnatural and wrong. But the only thing I know is that I have six hours ahead, before everything would be gone forever.”

Law swallows his spit, deeply touched and hurt by his words. How can he tell him that he can’t? That it would break his heart forever? Yet he knows this is the only to have a bit more of time. Perhaps even one last true goodbye, seeing the face of the man he loves to the core. Law finally nods, understanding that his chance is right now.

“Okay, let’s do this, I follow you.”

Corazon happily chuckles, and immediately turns his feet, walking straight to the city where many people are still in the streets. Children wearing famous pirates’ masks, sometimes dress as monsters. Delightful parents who follow them with a huge smile on their lips, some of them controlling their candy bags in order to prevent any stomach ache. Everything is cheerful, like a floating moment in the cosmos.

“Trick or treat!” A eight years old stops by them, a large straw hat covering his golden locks.

Corazon smiles and prevents himself from touching the boy’s hair, since he’s a ghost and can’t reach anyone. He doesn’t want to scare the little boy for real.

“I don’t have any candies, but I have a warlock with me, and he can show you something!” Corazon winks, directly pointing at Law with his head.

“Hey, what?” Law growls, as the child is looking at him with excited eyes. “Come on…,”

All grumpy, but in order to please Corazon and the curious boy, Law uses his power to swipe their bodies, or their limbs, bringing a curious little crowd of children around him. For a moment, he continues to make the show, until he notices that Corazon isn’t here anymore. Law starts to feel slightly panicked, looking around to find his ghost friend. He suddenly remembers how weak he can be whenever he thinks about him, and when Corazon finally appears again, he can’t help but let loose a long sigh.

“I forgot to tell you I can travel through walls.” Corazon giggles. “It’s fun to try!”

“Don’t do this…” Law only whispers, trembling.

Corazon seems to understand what just happened, offering a reassuring smile to his friend.

“Come, let’s have a drink near the dock,” the blond-haired man offers.

“You can drink?” Law furrows his eyebrows, unsure.

“No, but I think we should talk.”

Later that night, Law and Corazon are sitting on the dock, both of their legs swinging in the air, while they look at the stars, at first silent. None of them really know how to start this conversation. None of them want this moment to end either, and it squeezes both of their hearts. Law often looks at Corazon with sorry eyes, unable to say a single word. After a moment, though, he manages to open-up.

“I helped a…,” he stops, picturing the smiling face of Luffy in his head, “an ally getting rid of your brother,” he starts with a husky voice, putting his bottle of sake beside him. “I wanted to avenge you.”

Corazon remains silent, peacefully smoking, as Law sighs.

“I wanted to avenge you for this world. I had this plan in my head for years. Take down Doffy. Make him pay,”

“Law…,” Corazon answers with a deep voice. “Violence and revenge wasn’t the path I wanted to offer you. Freedom, for sure. But I didn’t mean to poison your heart with those...violent feelings.”

Law clicks his tongue and shakes his head.

“I couldn’t just let you down, don’t you get it?” He snaps a bit harshly. “You died to save me!”

He turns his head to look at Corazon with furious eyes, but immediately stops talking when he notices the tears at the corner of the eyes of his friend. There are...so real? Even Corazon’s body seems more present. Corazon smiles, throwing his cigarette away.

“It’s almost time for me to disappear,” he explains, as Law notices the pinky colors growing in the nocturnal sky. “The frontier between our world is getting thinner, but it won’t last forever, it’s only for a short moment. Which means…”

To illustrate his statement, Corazon simply extends his hand and carefully skims Law’s shoulder. For the very first time, he doesn’t get through him, on the contrary. He rests his palm on his jacket, a smile growing on his lips, while Law feels a cold sensation travelling through his entire body. He blinks a few times, his heart beating so hard inside his chest.

“You can’t go… Not now…,” Law finally mumbles, closing his eyes for a second. It burns his entire throat to finally reveal his deepest feelings. “I can’t do it without you…”

“Can’t do what?” Corazon responds warmly, squeezing his shoulder to encourage him.

“Live.”

Corazon stops his movements while Law feels his entire soul boiling inside of him. Bitterly, he even begins to cry, acid tears running on his cheeks.

“I can’t live without you!” He almost screams, his voice broken and hurtful. “Something will always missing in my life! It’s unfair! Why did you have to sacrifice yourself for me? Why did you have to die?” Law turns around and violently grabs Corazon’s shirt. “I have to live and know that you’re not in this world anymore! That evil won that day, and took you from me! Why did… Why did you…”

Too weak to continue, he just slides between Corazon’s arms, as the ghost simply welcomes him inside, offering a strong hug to his friend. Corazon softly embraces him harder, a soft and comprehensive smile plastered on his lips.

“I’m so sorry Law,” he answers calmly. “But I selfishly decided to save you and let you live, and I don’t regret my choice,”

Law closes his eyes, hiccuping. He feels like a lost child right now, but somehow, he needed to hear that.

“If I had another chance, I would do all the same. I would make you eat that fruit, and help you healing from that terrible illness. I would fight my brother, and hide you inside a chest, living long enough to let you run away from him. My choice has always been you, Law. You were my son, my flesh and bones. You were my heart,” he pauses, and helps Law straightening himself up, so he can face him. “You are my heart.”

Law can’t get himself together, but he finally nods, grimacing.

“You have a tremendous life to live, Law,” Corazon continues, as the shy rays of sunshine start to fondle Corazon’s face. “Please, don’t throw it away because you think I didn’t want you to have it. You’re all wrong, my precious little man.”

Law instantly grabs Corazon’s sleeve, noticing that his ghost friend is starting to disappear. He doesn’t know what to do, but suddenly, a memory pops in his head, enlightening his all face. A smile, two fingers, words which have changed him forever.

“Hey Cora-san,” Law says, smiling for the first time, despite his tears still falling on his cheeks. “I love you.”

And for the last time ever, Corazon gives him the brightest smile ever, before he vanishes into the dawn, living Law with a sensation of deep bliss. He needed it more than he would ever believe : saying goodbye to the man he loves the most in this world.

#one piece headcanons #one piece scenario #trafalgar law #donquixote rosinante #corazon one piece #law one piece #coralaw #one piece imagine #one piece imagines #one piece scenarios #one piece hc #angsty #hurt comfort scenario

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kathyprior4200 · 5 years ago

Text

Cold-Blooded Hearts

In Episode One

Present day, episode one

Angel Dust spotted a flying metal aircraft, which was firing lasers at buildings. It looked like an industrial rocket ship made with gears and a steampunk style to it. A metal hook hung from the bottom of it. The lasers struck the buildings, which caused bright pink explosions to fill the air.

From inside the ship, a serpent overlord stood high above over the controls, laughing manically. Down below, his deviled egg minions stood and watched. Each of them wore black top hats and pinstriped round clothing. They were called Egg Bois.

The room had deep purple walls, cabinets for the minions and decorations of their leader along the wall.

The villain was Sir. Pentious. He wore a gray coat with yellow vertical stripes down the front. He had a black tail with yellow stripes and pink eyes all over. He wore a top hat with a moving pink eye and a grinning mouth of fangs. He sprouted a demonic grin of his own, his hood also full of several pink eyes.

Up on the platform, he oriented two levers in his hands, the control button in the center displaying a pentagram design.

“Those other cowardly sinners dare not hinder my territorial takeover! A wise decision. The power of my machines are unmatched! No other demon can compare to the likes of I!”

One egg minion with #23 on his back added, “Gee that was pretty swell boss!”

“Yeah!” another chimed in: #666.

“You really showed them what for!” called a third.

Another minion teasingly ran his fingers up the overlord’s spine. “I like it when you shot them with your ray gun…”

Sir Pentious punched a minion out the window and whirled around in anger. The other minions backed up. “I wish he’d shoot me with his ray gun,” a minion whispered, head lowered.

Sir Pentious rolled his eyes at his masochist minions. He turned back to the controls and grinned. Pentagram circles revealed the areas he had taken over and the other territories ahead. “At this rate, I will seize control of the entire west side of the Pentagram by day’s end!”

He laughed and bragged some more. “And nothing, not a single beast in this inferno of suffering, will be able to take back this empire from my constrictive grasp!”

As to prove his point, he grabbed a minion in his tail and tightly squeezed him.

Another minion blew a noisemaker and then popped open a blue bottle of a brown drink. The overlord threw the minion across the room as the eggs celebrated down below.

“Hell will be mine,” he declared, “and everybody will know the name of Sir Pe…”

“Edgelord!” yelled a voice.

“Pardon?!” Sir Pentious shot back in shock. “Who said that?!”

He leaned in close to two of his minions, not pleased.

“What did you just say to me, you fried chicken fetuses?!”

The minions shook in fear.

“Speak up!” he hissed.

“It wasn’t us, mister boss man!” said a minion.

Just then, an object shot through the glass at the front, creating a small hole. A small pink bomb with a black skull on the front, landed on the floor. Sir Pentious observed it for a moment…the bomb looked like a cherry…which could only mean…

The bomb exploded, covering the room in sparkles and thick red smoke.

Sir Pentious coughed and swiped some of the smoke away.

“You looking for a fight, old man?” a female voice challenged.

Sir Pentious spotted his rival standing proud and casually catching another bomb in her hand: Cherry Bomb.

Towering tall in pink high heel boots, ripped black jeans, a pink crop top with an x on the front, long strawberry blonde hair, a single pink eye with an x that took up most of her white face…a grin of sharp teeth…it was her alright.

“Why don’t you get that tinker toy bullshit off my turf before I smash it…” she declared before catching her bomb. A random barbell of metal crashed into the floor close to Cherri Bomb.

“…more.”

“Oh, you wanna go, missy?” Sir Pentious retorted. He flicked his hood back before opening it. Well, I’m happy to oblige!”

He let out another evil laugh as his minions closed in, holding stun guns, which crackled with yellow electricity.

But Cherri Bomb wasn’t scared. With graceful leaps, she avoided the blasts and threw down another bomb. She used the cover to escape, jumping down and swinging once from the anchor at the bottom of the flying craft. Landing gracefully on the ground, she continued her assault from below.

“Catch me if you can, snake man!”

“Get her!” he bellowed through the red smoke, the eggs quickly running around in a frenzy.

The minions jumped to the ground after her, the overlord following suit. Cherri Bomb dodged a blast, grinned and picked up the minion egg. She spun around and threw the minion straight into Sir Pentious’ face. He threw the egg back at her, and she caught it with one hand.

“Thanks for the gift!” she called out, before cracking the egg open with an evil grin. She placed a bomb into it, then threw it back at him...straight to his face. Sir Pentious could only make a face of surprise before the egg blew up in pink smoke.

“Why you little…”

Cherri Bomb ducked as another egg sailed over her head.

Just then, a familiar drug-addict white demon stomped on an egg minion and threw a grenade in the distance.

“Angel Dust!” called Cherri Bomb, happy to have her partner in crime arrive.

“Great to see you too, sweetie!” he teased.

Another pink explosion filled the air as the fight continued.

“Hey, thanks for the backup, Angie!” Cherri Bomb said as she fired a flaming red arrow with a large gun over toward Sir Pentious.

Angel Dust laughed, leaning against volcanic rock as cover. He threw a grenade over his head.

“You kiddin’? This is the best action I’ve seen in ages!”

A pink explosion rocked the streets.

“Where have you been anyway?” she asked. “I thought you up and died or some shit.”

“I wish,” he remarked as he lit another fuse and handed the bomb to his ally. She threw it forward, then ducked behind the rock next to Angel.

Angel continued, “I’ve been staying at this crappy hotel on the other side of town. Some boards are letting’ me stay rent-free if I play nice.” They covered their ears.

A column of green smoke rose into the air with a fiery whoosh. The duo leaped over the rock and charged at the army of egg minions. Using four arms, Angel Dust fired rapidly from a gun at the minions, making some of them explode.

He sighed, and used one of his hands to gesture. “Y’know, no fights, no pranks, no “problematic language.” Her words, not mine.”

He tripped an unsuspecting minion, sending him into the air and exploding in a yellow yok mess. He waved a spiked club and continued firing his gun. A pot shop stood in the background, with marijuana leaves near the sign.

“These bitches are no fun!” Angel complained in frustration. Splatters of yok landed on his head and face. “I’ve been clean for two weeks!”

“Holy shit!” Cherri Bomb yelled after avoiding a green explosion and leaping into the air.

Angel scooped up yok with his finger. “Well, sorta clean.” He smashed apart another egg minion with his club. “As clean as you can get with a shitload of Bolivian marching powder.”

Angel’s shadowy silhouette displayed sharp fangs as Cherri posed in the background, one of her boots missing. A sign read “50% off meth” above a small super market.

A black chain wrapped tightly around Angel’s waist and chest, sending him flying backwards. Cherri Bomb gasped as her ally was pulled away. Sir Pentious threw the chained Angel Dust hard onto the ground a distance away. He landed with a thud against volcanic rock.

“Oh, harder daddy!” Angel teased with a wide smirk.

Sir Pentious gasped, eyes tearing up. “Son?!”

Angel Dust stared blankly, one eye raised, a look of disbelief on his face.

Cherri Bomb rushed into action, landing a sharp kick to Sir Pentious’ back. The villain landed on the ground, then hissed threateningly.

“You whores have no class!” he exclaimed, standing up. “In war, the side remembered is the side with the most…style.” He straightened his black bowtie with a spring.

Cherri Bomb broke open an egg and tossed the shells aside. Angel stood up, freeing himself from the chains.

“Or the side that ain’t dead,” she added.

“Speaking of style, is your hat like, alive or something’?” Angel asked, wiggling his fingers.

Sir Pentious hissed. “Oh, well, that’s none of your goddamn business, now is it?”

Angel continued, “Would that make your hat the top and you the bottom?”

He and Cherri burst into laughter. Even a pink “loser” sign pointed at the oblivious villain. “Ooooh,” said a minion near him. “One hellish burn.”

“I’m going to blow you to bits!” Sir Pentious yelled, pointing at them.

“Hmm! Kinky!” Angel teased.

An advertisement displaying a plate of, sausage, eggs and a tomato slice stood halfway buried in the ground. A glowing pink sign pointing down read “pussy.” Another yellow sign read, “Sex here.”

“Not like that! Pervert!” yelled the villain. Cherri Bomb and Angel Dust held in laughter.

Angel suddenly pushed Cherri Bomb out of the way, as an egg minion shot tendrils of claws from behind them. The claws had eyes in the center and grabbed onto Angel’s four wrists. He struggled to free himself, the cords stretching.

Sir Pentious chuckled. “Not so cocky now, are we?”

“Y’know, you really need to watch what’s coming out of your mouth,” Angel remarked. “Cocky…cumming, you get it?”

The villain didn’t respond.

Angel sighed. “I’ve been making these sex jokes the whole time!”

A drill poked out from the ground, Angel avoiding it. A minion held a drill in his small hands at Angel. Two extra arms popped out from Angel’s body, holding his rifle.

“And it’s obvious you ain’t catching on.”

He cocked his gun. “I mean, it’s just sad!”

He jumped into the air, freeing himself and firing the gun. The laser hit Sir Pentious, and his gray top hat fell off.

Cherri Bomb popped up next to Angel. “So, think you’re gonna get into a lot of trouble for this?”

“Eh, what’s one little brawl gonna cause?” He shrugged his shoulders and retracted his extra arms. Sir Pentious lay fuming on the ground.

More egg minions scrambled over to the edge of a high cliff, overlooking the scene. Egg shells and yok puddles littered the cracked street.

Cherri Bomb playfully elbowed Angel. “Glad ya haven’t changed. You know you’re my favorite guy to party with!”

“You know it, sugar tits,” Angel replied.

“You ready to finish this?” she asked. She rolled a bomb from one of her shoulders to her other shoulder, then into her hand.

Angel cocked his gun again. “Born ready, baby!”

The duo charged at Sir Pentious. Everyone yelled. More egg minions fell and Sir Pentious realized he was running out fast.

After several more minutes of battle, Sir Pentious and his remaining minions retreated back to his ship. “This isn’t over, sluts!” he declared at his enemies. “I’ll have my revenge!” The ship hatch closed. The egg minions steered the ship and it rose into the air, almost sending the overlord flying out of the craft. He tossed out more minions in response before taking the controls and flying the craft away.

Angel and Cherri Bomb high-fived.

“See you around,” she said.

“Until the next brawl,” said Angel.

Cherri Bomb waved goodbye and blasted music from an Eye Pod (a device made from an actual moving eye. “Hello, daddy. Hello mom. I’m your ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb! Hello world! I’m your wild girl. I’m your ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb!” she sang out loud. Angel Dust laughed and continued on his way.

After buying some more amino and pot from the 666 Shop, Angel met with Charlie and Vaggie in a white monster limo. A great day indeed for the promiscuous demon.

Later on, Alastor, Husk, Niffty, Charlie, Angel, and Vaggie, peered out of the hole to see what was going on. Vaggie had her weapon at the ready.

Looking skyward, the group saw a cracked blimp in the air. It had a small random band aid with a sad face on it along the rim. A familiar snake villain popped out of his hideout.

“Ha!” Sir Pentious laughed. “Well, well, well, look who it is harboring the striped freak! We meet again, Alastor!”

Apparently, he was also rivals with Alastor.

But Alastor simply asked, “Do I know you?”

The snake boss looked disappointed. Then he said in anger, “Oh yes you do! And this time, I have the element of…surprise!”

The villain raced toward his pink velvet chair and pulled a lever. A metallic cannon lowered to the ground. The cannon fired up with pink energy as pink smoke appeared around them.

“He laughed manically. “I’m so evil!”

Then he added, “I have an Egg army!”

“Well, we have an Alastor,” Charlie responded.

Alastor snapped his fingers, red tendrils of smoke rising from his hand. The weapon froze in mid fire and a fiery portal opened up below the blimp.

A horde of black tendrils rose from the hole, latching onto the ship. One tentacle ripped off the cannon and threw it into another smaller portal, causing it to explode in pink smoke. One of the tentacles had already smashed a hole in the large round window.

Sir Pentious looked on in shock as his Egg Bois slammed against the wall (one of them read #Ouch.) One of the eggs cracked open, spilling out yellowish brains and small organs among the stains of yok. Sir Pentious and another minion were thrown against the wall.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” he screamed before he was slammed against the ceiling by a black limb.

“Oh, that hurt!” he cried.

Sir Pentious screamed as he was dragged along the floor and lifted up slightly. He was held in place, surrounded by the wrapped up tendril. At once, the tendril shrunk and squeezed the helpless snake. The Egg Bois ran around screaming as black cracks appeared on the floor and walls.

From the outside, more black tendrils were closing in. Red voodoo symbols appeared around the blimp.

Four horned shadowy spirits with red auras floated around, wearing toothy grins.

The tendrils were now wrapped around the entire blimp, holding it in place like thick black vines.

Red radio waves filled Alastor’s eyes as he circled his fingers and worked is magic. Voodoo symbols appeared all around him as he altered the state of reality. Radio static consumed the air.

The vines thickened and completely enclosed the blimp. The spirits swooped around it in excitement, with echoing shrieks. The aura around the tendrils glowed a fiery yellow, the same color as the portal rim.

Alastor closed his four-fingered hand which began to glow. The tendrils proceeded to crush the blimp. Pink rays of light shot from the center and the blimp exploded in a loud BOOM!

Pink smoke spread everywhere as the spirits sped away. The tendrils broke into severed bloody pieces that rained down to the ground. Alastor smiled victoriously, while behind them, the group of five stared in utter terror and shock. (Save for Niffty who had a small smile on her face).

Sir Pentious climbed out of the crater, hand shaking, tooth chipped, after the group had left.

“Now will you shot me with your ray gun?” asked the minion.

Sir Pentious face-planted on the ground in response.

Humiliating Defeat

Present day

A buzzing static sound came from a device on Sir Pentious’ wrist.

“Boss, do you read me? I just got done watching the princess on the news and I’m on my way to this so called Happy Hotel. Right next to my lab. I’ve already connected it. Apparently, this hotel is intended to redeem sinners and send them to Heaven. Implausible but not impossible. When you’re finished fighting, let’s meet up at the lab…the one away from the hotel.

“Sir Pentious, sir, are you there? I’m on my way there. Over.”

Inch by inch, the serpentine aristocrat heaved himself up and out of the crater. He slowly slithered on with his lower snake body. He had underestimated Angel Dust, Cherri Bomb, and Alastor. He had believed that with his inventions he could take over Hell and disintegrate all his foes with one press of a button.

Now his airship lay in smoking ruins at the bottom of the crater. He could still hear the faraway laughs and taunts of the shadow spirits as they flew off.

“Please, O’ mighty sir…just one blast?”

Sir Pentious glanced down at the Egg Boi and scowled. The egg minions thought of him as some kind of sexy intelligent deity. They praised him, ran around, and admired his inventions at every turn. With more than three hundred of the humpty dumptys constantly being made, it was surprising that the inventor hadn’t gone mad. Sure he would be fond of them at times, even reading them stories about villains taking over the world to help them get to sleep. But mostly they were annoying little tools who wouldn’t shut up. With dozens of eggs at his beck and call, came the cost of being an unofficial part-time parent.

Then again, maybe it was his assistant’s way of getting on his nerves. His assistant was Baxter, the blue anglerfish scientist, who had helped him make the Egg Bois. He had a few underground labs, including one under the Hazbin Hotel. While Sir Pentious conquered territory from above, Baxter lurked below and conducted unethical experiments on other unlucky sinners. He was a loner who didn’t like to be disturbed but he would go out of his lab on occasion.

But the minions had been very helpful at overwhelming demons who had tried to fight back. The eggs would keep them distracted while Sir Pentious would destroy the area with a fury of lasers while letting out an evil laugh. He had blasted one demon to bits after the youngster had mocked his hip outfit with an “ok boomer!” and flipping him the bird. Sir Pentious was mad that his rock star shirt and baseball cap were disregarded so fast. He even had a skateboard and sunglasses for show. But the minions had showered him with compliments, leaving him temporarily satisfied.

Plus, as eggs, the minions were also a suitable source of substance.

Just like the one near him.

Sir Pentious picked up the egg minion in his hands and stretched open his mouth.

Several minions who had tested his patience for long enough became part of his breakfast. He had swallowed them whole and licked his lips. Or cooked them alive in a frying pan, while making the other minions watch. He would say, “This is an example of what happens when you don’t obey my orders.” The rest of the egg minions would fall silent and quickly get back to work.

He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until after the smoke cleared.

He looked at the minion with one eye open and saw the minion holding in a giggle.

“Are…you blushing?” he asked, closing his mouth and facing the minion in his hand.

“I think this is even better than getting shot, now that I think about it,” said the minion, a big smile on his white oval face. “What does your tongue feel like on my hard shell?”

With a noise between a gasp and a yell, Sir Pentious tossed the Egg Boi into the air until he cracked open in a splatter of yellow organs and yok at the bottom of the crater. Sir Pentious’ gray top hat rolled its pink eye.

He scoffed, “I swear, Hell is just mocking me today!” Taped on his back was a sticky note that read, “I’m A Dirty Snake In Da Grass.” The top hat tried not to laugh. Sir Pentious glance down at his device and listened to it. As much as he wanted to see the hotel, he was not in the shape to take that risk. He would be noticed right away, and defenseless without his machines.

In many ways, he was lucky to have his assistant and spy around. He could only hope that he could find useful information for him. His mind was full of himself and his inventions most of the time…which led to him being slightly unaware of the proceedings outside. Forget about the fact that he didn’t know what cell phones or computers were. Being one of the oldest sinners in Hell had pros and cons. Many years of conquering territories and admiring himself…but also having to keep up with the ever-expanding technologies and cultures merging together.

Sir Pentious winced as he made his way back to his hideout on top of a volcano. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, save for glass windows at the very top of the structure. He glanced down distastefully at his outfit, which had been ruined in the battle. His suit would have to be washed and ironed as soon as possible. Even his bow-tie was lopsided. His lower snake belly, though it was thick and tough, was tired from moving over the hard ground.

A set of double doors lay behind a large black hunk of rock, unnoticeable to many passerby. He tapped it in a rhythmic pattern with his clawed fingers and the boulder moved off slightly toward the right.

After typing in a passcode on a keypad next to metal double doors, he walked up and a long scanner appeared from a small hatch inside the rocky wall. It hovered by his face and registered his yellow eyes.

“Match recognized,” chirped a robotic voice, before the scanner retracted back into the hatch. The set of doors opened.

Whirring and the sounds of rapid footsteps came from above. The floor was black onyx with several cracks and holes in it due to machinery parts that had fallen to the lower level in the past. The place smelled of mechanical machines, old furniture, and of course, eggs. The walls were purple with little golden curves shaped like snake scales. There were a few small lamps in the walls. Sir Pentious walked over to an old fashioned pulley-like lift connected with ropes and stepped onto the slab of square wood.

“Pull the lever!” he ordered a nearby Egg Boi. Two levers stood side by side, each with a red top part.

“This lever?” the egg asked. He pulled one. The pulley and Sir Pentious rapidly descended until it hit a floor covered with dark spikes.

“WRONG LEVER YOU IMBECILE EGG!” Sir Pentious yelled.

He pulled his hood free from the protruding spikes, blood spurting from his smaller pink eyes. The Egg Boi pulled the other lever and this time, Sir Pentious and the hole-covered slab of wood were slowly raised upward. The snake gave the egg a heated glare before he disappeared above.

He reached the top and opened the wooden doors in front of him.

A large dome had glass windows that allowed a view of Hell and the red sky outside. An overhead screen with a glowing red pentagram showed a map of Hell and Sir Pentious’ occupied territories. Adjoining doors in the far wall led to a small kitchen, a bathroom and a bedroom. Metal and concrete pipes of various sizes intercepted in a haphazardly pattern close to the stone ceiling. Along the wall were gold framed portraits of Sir Pentious in various poses. In one, he was smirking while holding his wrist out, fingers pointed downward somewhat spread out. In another portrait, he stood with a cigar in one hand and a newspaper in the other. The headline read: “Sir Pentious Seizes Control of Styx, St. Peter Central, Brimstone, and portion of Pentagram City.”

The Egg Bois cheered and darted around when their boss returned.

“Welcome back, boss!” greeted one egg wearing pinstriped clothing identical to the one Sir Pentious was wearing.

“The takeover, how was it?” asked another one who popped up nearby.

“Oh, you look badly beaten,” remarked a third. “Perhaps a bubble bath is in order?”

“I don’t need a bath!” Sir Pentious snapped. “I just need to have a plan.”

“You sure, sir?” asked the egg with a grin. “I brought a rubber duck for the occasion!”

The egg held up a yellow plastic duck in his tiny hands, the ducks eyes demonic red, with small horns sticking from the top of the duck’s head. He began squeezing the toy with childish laughter. Sir Pentious swatted the egg minion aside with his tail.

He walked over to a desk made of snake skin. The desk had various tools organized in metal boxes: wrenches, screwdrivers, drills, pencils. An ashtray hung out on the top of the desk, extended slightly past the desk. He opened a drawer. A bunch of folders were inside, all with “Evil Plan” labels on the front. He sat down on a leather chair, took in a puff of smoke with his cigar and reviewed the contents.

“Cause mass hysteria with swarm of robotic snakes, check. Send egg army to infiltrate Vox’s studio, check. Lost a lot of minions that time. Hypnotize Katie Killjoy so she can mention my conquests on the news…easy enough. Apprehend Vox…not started. Poison Angel Dust, not started. Open up a coffee shop for fellow villains…also not started…”

Sir,” said a group of Egg Bois nearby, startling him. Sir Pentious burst into a coughing fit, circles of smoke floating from his mouth. “What?!”

“We are pleased to inform you that the territory near the West side of the Pentagram is now open for the taking.”

Sir Pentious cleared his throat looked at the map on the screen to the open area littered with egg shells. “That’s the area I was just at! The place where I fought that striped freak and his punk friend.”

“That’s the place!”

Sir Pentious grinned with a row of sharp fangs, rubbing his hands together. “Excellent! Send out the drones!”

The Egg Bois rushed down a slope shaped like a snake tail and configured with controls and buttons. Hatch doors opened and metallic drones armed with missiles and cameras whirred and flew out into the distance. The sounds of explosions and screams could be heard.

Sir Pentious chuckled. At least one good thing had happened today. Seeing the denizens get trampled beneath his inventions would give him a thrilling sense of dominance. During those times, he felt more like an overlord, despite not officially being one.

If he weren’t so tired, he’d burst into song. He let out a sigh as he stared at the mess of metal, screws, and weapons around the room. He had to get to work…it would at least keep his mind occupied and perhaps come up with another more devious plan.

For the next couple of hours, Sir Pentious worked on modifying a large tank that could ram through buildings and other demons who were around. The canons could shot out blasts and emit noxious gas. Of course, the gas wouldn’t kill demons; it would temporarily leave them gagging so he could either defeat them or sneak around them. Wearing protective face covering, he fused wires together as sparks flew from a tool he used. He narrowed his eyes at empty vials and flaks left over from Baxter’s last visit. There was also a partially finished fish robot underneath the arched desk.

“Blimey, Baxter, you always forget to take your things with you! Worthless junk.”

His first instinct was to chuck the robot and useless vials out the window.

But that would lead to a broken window…

And the possibility of being spotted…

And an angry assistant…

But why should he care about what Baxter thought? The fish man could just replace those items just like that. Besides, he was working for Sir Pentious, so Sir Pentious’ feelings were more important anyway. Outbursts were the norm in Hell.

Pushing aside his hesitant feelings, the snake resumed his work.

Next he worked on different types of guns that could shot venomous darts to paralyze demons.

At least he would have worked more on them without the Egg Bois pestering him.

“Hey boss, is it true that slutty spider flirted and teased with you during that battle?”

“Were you beaten by a red deer lord?”

“When will you sing us a villain song?”

“Do you really have a son? Is that Baxter guy your son?”

“Will Uncle Baxter teach me how to fish for victims someday?”

“Dad,” asked a little egg, “I need help using the bathroom.”

“Ugh,” he sighed lifting his mask and turning around.

“Do you fried chicken fetuses not know the meaning of “Do Not Disturb?!”

“I don’t think so,” said Egg #666, holding a red marker. He had crossed off “not” on a nearby Do Not Disturb sign.

“Why don’t you ask your hen mommy for help,” Sir Pentious told the little egg. “Oh wait, you don’t have one.”

The small egg burst into tears. “But…you’re my mom and my dad.”

Sir Pentious waved a hand. “Ask someone else, I’m busy right now as you can see.”

The little egg sighed in disappointment and grudgingly wondered away.

After Sir Pentious had some tea and washed up in the bathroom (his broken fangs would thankfully grow back) he traveled back to the pit to retrieve the broken airship parts, quickly and quietly. He made it back to his hideout and got to work.

The Eggs pestered him with more questions and even worse, poking and touching him. He hated being touched, and this resulted in many Egg Bois being slammed or flung against the wall.

“Clean up that yok mess,” he ordered the other eggs before going back to repairing.

“Egg 66 stole my toy train,” Egg 99 complained after a moment.

“I did not,” #99 shot back.

Sir Pentious’ hammering and drilling did nothing to block out the Egg Bois insistent, obnoxious wailing.

“You did.”

“Not me.”

“Yes you!”

“No!”

“Yes!”

The eggs rolled around in a fight, rolling into other eggs and knocking them to the floor.

One egg held up two top hats. “Which one looks better on him?” she asked. “This black top hat or this lavender one?”

“I think he’d look great in a dark cape and long black mustache,” said another egg.

“I think he looked like that in his other life,” said the female egg.

“You didn’t answer my question, sir,” said Egg A 113, “did you really get beaten up by the Radio…”

“We don’t speak his name!” Sir Pentious yelled in a high voice.

The fighting Egg Bois rammed into the tank, causing it to wobble. The tank leaned into a worktable, sending wheels, weapons, blueprints, and tools crashing to the floor. The tank fell to the ground, its weight causing it to crash through the onyx floor. The vehicle plummeted down through the lower level and into a large puddle of lava.

Sir Pentious hissed in anger, breathing heavily. All the Eggs fell deathly silent.

He grew in size, his hood extending outwards, pink eyes turning red. Even his gray top hat increased in size, turning into a small snake. Sir Pentious was as large as Boa Constrictor in his full demon form. His eyes glowed red and more sharp fangs grew from inside his mouth.

His low demonic voice was mixed up with the sounds of turning gears and clanking metal.

“What did I tell you fools about bothering me when I’m working?!”

The Eggs shivered. “We’re s-sorry, boss!” several called out.

“Yeah, we didn’t mean it!”

“You did, though,” said an Egg, elbowing another minion.

“I don’t care who started what!” he hissed. Green fire sprouted from his mouth, frying some Egg Bois. “Those to the left have ten seconds to start cleaning up this mess. Those to the right have ten seconds to go to your incubators before I eat you all.”

“But, wouldn’t your stomach explode?” asked an egg. “It would be kind of fun to see what in there…”

“SILENCE!” he bellowed, causing the room to shake. “Get to work and get out of my sight. NOW!”

The eggs scurried off as Sir Pentious reverted back to his regular form. Downstairs in a small area were rows of circular incubators, each covered by round glass barriers that could open and close. The holes filled up nearly every inch of the metallic wall in every direction. Inside the incubators were beds of straw, golden light, and vents to provide warmth. The eggs climbed up stairs attached to snake-like structures up to their assigned holes. Many of them soon curled up and feel asleep to the sounds of hens clucking and steampunk music emitting from nearby speakers.

Sir Pentious loved steampunk technology like gears, trains, airships and others, while Baxter preferred science, robots, computers, and modern inventions. While Sir Pentious relied on weapons and warfare, Baxter relied on research and data. Baxter deemed Sir Pentious’ inventions as outdated junk. In response, Sir Pentious perceived Baxter’s work as complicated and boring. Baxter may have been an expert in physics and science but he didn’t have the classic sense of style that Sir Pentious possessed. Baxter sat around, while Sir Pentious moved around.

Surely everything about Sir Pentious was cooler, he thought: his attire, his animal-like traits…and his name as well. Sir Pentious…a pun on serpent. Why would his assistant settle for a simplistic name like Baxter? Why not Angler-Inventor or Einstein Fisher? Or even Dr. Reducto?

But still, Sir Pentious couldn’t have created so many Egg Bois on his own. Not when he was busy claiming territory or fixing his machines.

Which reminded him that he needed to make a new airship and weapons.

Several hours later, Sir Pentious had completed the stun guns that shot venom darts. The exterior backbone of the airship was done but there were still many empty spaces. In fact, only the front part of the airship had been thoroughly repaired and worked on. Never mind the interior, weapons and engines…they would have to wait for now. An old grandfather clock in a corner let out a chime, signaling it was midnight.

“Guess I better go to bed,” he said groggily. He pressed several switches that locked more doors and a metal shutter that covered the glass windows. He wandered to the bathroom and did indeed take a bubble bath in the old claw foot tub, the rubber duck floating in the water. Sir Pentious’ top hat remained in his head.

Thankfully there were no Egg Bois around to disturb him.

Save for one, #666.

He had been spying on Sir Pentious when he had undressed and threw his suit down a chute to be washed. The inventor’s lower half was that of a black snake but his top half was more human-like. He looked similar to the mythical Naga, part snake part man.

The top hat growled and narrowed its eye, staring at the Egg in the corner.

“What is it?” Sir Pentious asked. The top hat turned around in midair, baring sharp teeth. It was then that the snake spotted the stalking egg.

His mouth opened in a vicious hiss and his hood extended out from his head.

“ARE YOU SERIOUSLY SPYING ON ME IN MY BATHROOM?”

Water splashed everywhere onto the white and black tiled floor. A gold toilet and sink stood nearby.

Smartly, the egg dashed out of the room.

“IF I EVER CATCH YOU AGAIN, YOU’LL BE MADE INTO AN OMLETE!”

Sir Pentious sighed in frustration, throwing the rubber duck across the room. It bounced and squeaked, eyes glowing. He sunk back into the water, long tongue flicking out. He stared into the water, the bubbles gradually clearing away. Staring at the liquid made him think of someone else that could aid in his plans.

“Of course!” he thought. “Going through all my old plans and I didn’t think about my assistant. I wonder what the little rascal has got for me this time.”

Sir Pentious got out of the tub and changed into his red pajamas, long pants and a shirt with pentagrams, gears and hazardous symbols on it. A nearby tea mug read “Hell’s #1 Villain” on it (though an Egg Boi had scribbled on the word “Dad” in black sharpie.) He sank into bed, admiring the large wall portrait of himself across the room. He was standing proudly with one of his airships in the background, rows of burning buildings nearby. The Egg Bois were cheering and standing beside him, one was on his shoulder and another got close to the old camera. Said old camera was tucked into his closet among the rows of suits, ties and fancy shoes.

Sir Pentious turned on the old fashioned TV and Katie Killjoy popped up on the screen.

“...and in other news, claimed king Sir Pentious recently got twisted in knots after a brief scuffle with the infamous Radio Demon.”

Several Egg Bois “Ooohed” from outside the door.

“Get to bed, you sacks of unborn chickens!”

“Indeed,” Tom Trench added. “Even the inventors have their limits…especially when it comes to overlords. He’s certainly no overlord.”

“I am too!” Sir Pentious yelled. “I’ve conquered the Eastern side of Pentagram City and I’m still not done! Plus I have an egg army. But no magic…yet. But then again, I don’t need any. All I need is my super intelligent mind!”

“Edgelord!” called Cherri Bomb who blew raspberries at the camera.

“That classless whore!” he exclaimed. “I’ll made her explode using her own bombs.”

Tom Trench gave her several winks while Katie glared.

“Get out of my studio, punk!” she demanded.

“Newsflash, bitch!” Cherri declared. “This is Hell! I go where I want, whenever I want. You’ll be seeing me during the next turf war!”

She threw a bomb onto the ground and vanished in the pink smoke. Katie coughed while Tom Trench mentioned, “She’s the bomb for sure. I could blow her mind!”

The gas mask news anchor got slapped by Katie. “You fucking would, Tom! You perverted little bitch.”

“Bah!” Sir Pentious spat in anger, raising a fist. “That Alastor ruining my plans to destroy that place of junk and that slutty spider. The nerve of him!”

Katie appeared back on screen. “Meanwhile, Hell’s princess has decided to pursue her passion project after all.” The screen cut to the Hazbin Hotel, a building with an old ship, a carousel and other odd structures attached to it.

“Look there she is, all high and mighty with that sweet smile on her face.” Katie’s voice was laced with disdain and sarcasm.

Sure enough, Charlie was standing underneath the circus stripped red canopy in her pink tuxedo and black pants. Her lips were black and her yellow eyes shone with excitement.

“Welcome to the Happy Hotel!” she said to three demons. “Vaggie will be with you shortly to discuss rooms and rules.” She held open one of the stained glass doors with an apple on it.

“Vaggie! We have three new guests coming in!”

“What? Already! Please don’t tell me they have creepy shadow powers.”

“Nope!” she called.

“Fuck everyone,” Husk called.

“I’d be glad to,” Angel replied.

“You’re a horrible sick spider,” Alastor remarked.

“I second that,” said Vaggie.

“I’ll go get their rooms cleaned!” called Niffty.

Charlie turned back to the visitors outside. “You’re just in time! Alastor finished making jambalaya for us! What are your names?”

“I’m Mimzy,” said a plump woman with pale skin, large hips, big breasts and short blonde hair. She wore a pink dapper dress and a headband with a feather in it. “I work at a jazz club in the city and I also sing at performances.”

“I love singing too!” said Charlie. “Have you met my friend Alastor yet?”

Mimzy’s eyes dilated. “Oh believe me dearie, I have.”

She walked inside before Charlie could ask what she meant.

“Crymini,” said a teen hellhound dressed in leather and ripped jeans. Rock music blared from skull earphones. “I like rock, metal, and looking at porn,” she said. “Don’t expect me to change those behaviors.”

“O-okay then,” Charlie smiled nervously as Crymini stepped in. “Be like Angel, I suppose.”

The last person had the appearance of a blue bipedal angler fish. He wore a dark lab coat with black gloves. Yellow goggles covered his eyes.

“I’m Baxter,” he said. “I’m a scientist and I prefer being alone. I just need a quiet place to…do some research for the time being.”

“Excellent, welcome then,” said Charlie as he stepped through the doors.

“By the way, why does it say “Hazbin Hotel” on the roof?”

“Baxter, it doesn’t say…” Charlie looked up and sure enough the words had changed.

She turned into her fiery demon form before slamming the door.

“WHO CHANGED MY NAME FOR THE HOTEL?!”

Alastor merely whistled a cheery tune.

“And there you have it,” Katie said. “A Hazbin Hotel for a bunch of Has Been freaks…all run by Charlotte! Stay tuned for more nightly news, reruns and more.”

Sir Pentious turned off the TV and lay down. All the work that needed to be done, the inventions to create, the plans to make…it would take some time for sure. But not if he had extra help.

Thankfully, no one else had noticed the recording device that Baxter kept behind his fin-like ear…a device used specifically to report to his boss…Sir Pentious himself.

Sir Pentious moved his hand to a similar device on his wrist.

“Blubberfish,” he hissed. “What’s going on over there?”

A European accent mixed with watery sounds came through. He appeared to be whispering. “Not now, boss. Too many subjects in proximity to exchange words.”

“Say what?”

“Can’t talk, now.”

“But you just did…”

Sir Pentious heard the hotel residents talking among themselves while Baxter sat and paid them no mind. He was very good at blending in for a few minutes before moving back into the shadows. After gathering more intel, Baxter stepped into an elevator and pushed the button for the basement. The doors opened again into darkness.

The vast basement had stacks of crates, rats, and old pieces of junk. Extra pieces of furniture lay here and there. Against a brick wall were skeletons attached to black chains. Bare round lightbulbs hung from the ceiling.

Baxter maneuvered around the chairs, crates, clutter, and cobwebs until reaching a small metal elevator in a right hand corner on the other side. He typed in a code on a keypad. Gently, he leaned forward and placed his esca into a small hole below the set of numbered buttons.

An affirming beep sounded and the metal doors opened. Baxter stepped in and the doors closed. He felt the elevator descending before coming to a stop. The doors slid open again, letting in cold, stale air.

He walked along the dark narrow stone passageway, his esca lighting the way.

Soon he came across double doors with handles shaped like tridents. He opened them.

Teal fluorescent lights hummed and flickered from the ceiling. The lab was filled with machines, bubbling chambers, and rows of vials and flasks. Shelves in the metal walls held books, cages, and the occasional fish hook. A work desk had a computer, some white colored modern microscopes and blueprints stacked neatly on the table. Several cages held white and black rats in them, another held a few guinea pigs.

But that was nothing compared with the marine life.

Tanks held anglerfish, tuna, angelfish, and one under constructed for a shark. Fish-bones hung from hooks along a mantle. Other doors to the far end led to a bathroom and bedroom, oceanic themes present in the overall architecture.

The windows showed giant eels, sharks, fish and other sea creatures swimming in a large lake. Seaweed and coral swayed in the water as the scaly monsters swam past. Baxter felt at home being surrounded by the ocean. All the creatures among him, yet he was also protected and safe in his orderly bubble made of metal, glass and waterproof material.

Someday, he and the sea life would bring floods to the harsh heat of Hell. All the chaos and ceaseless chatter would be washed away in a sea of salt water and flame. Yes, his work would be recognized…and the results would lead to a steady success. Those he despised and those lost in their ignorant ways would ensure a similar fate to his…only he would get to enjoy his orchestrated spread of chemicals, diseases, fear, and psychological warfare.

Science was infallible…unmatched…even greater than magic and authoritarian power.

He would be the one to bring a New World Order.

Dexter Ryan Solace was his full human name…in Hell he was simply known as Baxter.

He led out a maddening laugh before getting to work. The sounds of explosions and roars echoed and vibrated.

But his laughter eventually fell into sudden silence when he listened to his boss’ last message.

“You are to gather intel for me so that hideous place and its inhabitants can be…thoroughly dealt with. You may poke and prod anyone left as you wish. Under no circumstances are you to genuinely befriend anyone at the hotel and forget about your mission. And whatever you do, do not anger the Radio Demon. We’ll be meeting soon...little Geekfish.”

Back in Sir Pentious’ lair, Sir Pentious sighed and fell into bed. It wasn’t easy being a supervillain sometimes.

“Dad,” whimpered a small voice.

Sir Pentious turned around. He stared into the large fearful eyes of an Egg Boi.

“I had a nightmare and I can’t fall back asleep. Can I sleep with you?”

“How about no.”

“Please?” the egg begged. “At least let me tell you what it was about.”

“I don’t wanna hear it.”

“A big mean owl had us for dinner? And by us I mean us eggs and…um…”

“Me? Nonsense!”

“I-it’s true. He was a scary owl with a crown on his head and he said he was very hungry…”

Sir Pentious rolled his eyes. “Fine. But just for tonight.”

“Oh thank you!” The egg jumped onto the bed and rolled to the pillow next to his boss.

“Sir, I can’t sleep either.”

“What the…”

Another egg boi had arrived.

“My bed of hay was too uncomfortable. And I need a drink of water.”

“You’re an egg,” Sir Pentious noted, warning in his tone.

“Can I stay with you?”

Sir Pentious grumbled. There was no escaping these guys.

A third egg. “Sir, can I come in?”

A fourth egg. “Why does egg 66 get to sleep with you?”

“Can you read me a bedtime story?”

“Oh, tell us about your killing spree adventures!”

“Number 6, move out of the way!”

“I’m number 9, you fool!”

“Sorry, you looked alike.”

More eggs rolled in by the dozens. They crowded onto the bed and some hopped onto the snake’s lap.

“For Satan’s sake!” Sir Pentious groaned. “Go back to bed.”

But the eggs would not budge. Some of them talked while others fell asleep.

Sir Pentious blocked out the noise and uncomfortable sensations of hard shells pressed against him.

He had to meet with Baxter.

Partnership

1913, Hell

Sir Pentious slithered along the streets on Pentagram City, trying to keep his head up and tall. His clothing was torn in several places and there was a gash on his scaly dark gray chest. Demons gawked at the sinner who would usually scare off anyone he saw. But this time, several demons mocked and sneered.

“So claimed king of all Hell, ha! What’d you get beaten by this time?”

“Old man…not so pompous now are you?”

“Fuck you!”

“Snake can’t catch a break!”

Sir Pentious hissed in anger, his eyes glowing red. The demons backed off and fell silent. The eyes in his hood glowed, catching the attention of the demons. The demons began fighting each other minutes after staring at the hypnotizing orbs.

He walked away and wondered toward the repair shop.

Indeed, he had been beaten badly by a formidable foe: Stolas the Gnostic owl demon king. After razing several towns and sending the survivors away in fear, Sir Pentious, confident as ever, wanted to take his conquests to the next level: royalty. Sir Pentious had created a gigantic airship with cannons that destroyed several buildings and killed many denizens in the process. Demons were hard to kill but not impossibly so. The snake’s bombs and firepower made sure of that.

Unfortunately for him, Stolas wasn’t very happy that his kingdom was being invaded by an outside force. Worse still, the snake demon didn’t appear to want to “show him respect and spend an intimate night to satisfy his hunger.” Thankfully, Princess Octavia and Princess Charlie were hanging out safely at Charlie’s palace.

Stolas flew outside, right in front of Sir Pentious’ ship.

“Prepare to meet you end, bird-brain!” Sir Pentious cried with a maniacal laugh as he fired up a canon. The canon blasted into Stolas’ wings, which he used as shields.

With an ear-piercing screech and a flap of his wings, Stolas blew the airship away from the palace, sending it into a nearby lake of fire. Sir Pentious yelled in pain as the airship crashed with a splash. Owl guards soon surrounded the airship in the air, holding swords.

“Show yourself and put your hands in the air!” they called.

Sir Pentious climbed out of a hatch and stared at the guards. Anger was evident in his eyes, but he always had something up his sleeve. With a slow forming smirk, he opened up his hood, the many pink eyes glowing and pulsing with energy. The guards stood dazed in midair, allowing the serpent to slip away over the lake and out of sight. One white owl guard flew and blocked his way, but Sir Pentious took him down with a venomous bite. The guard yelped and doubled down in pain as Sir Pentious vanished.

What a foolhardy move that was.

Now Sir Pentious was facing the music for his ego.

He was almost to the repair shop. His airship in the lake was not only burnt beyond repair, but he had lost crucial weapons and tools on the ship. He, too, would’ve died a second death had he stayed in the ship too long.

“Someday…Hell will be mine,” he muttered to himself. “Lucifer, the princess, Stolas…they’ll all bow before me as they witness my mass weapons of destruction. Sinners everywhere will fear my name, even Satan himself will shake. I won’t give up so easily. After all, in war, the side with the most style is the winning side.”

He observed his tattered clothing with a sad look on his face. “So much for style.” Even his top hat frowned and dropped slightly.

Just then, he heard a scuffling sound coming from an alleyway. The eye on his top hat widened. He froze and sniffed the air with his tongue. It smelled...fishy.

He inched closer to the source of the sound, careful not to get too close.

“Low-class scum,” he muttered. “I should do them a favor and dispose of them.”

He took out a small gun from his belt and aimed it at the narrow lane of shadow.

“Show yourself and say your prayers!” he called with a click of the weapon.

The luminescent glow of yellow eyes appeared from the darkness.

“Back off!” growled a voice.

Sir Pentious scoffed. “Hah! Those are your last words?”

“Back off, I say!”

Sir Pentious fired his gun and the figure hit the ground with a thud.

Moments later the figure stood up again. A green blast flashed through the darkness, shrinking Sir Pentious’ gun on contact.

“What the…” he gasped as he dropped the mini tool in shock. It clanked to the ground.

A white blaster with a rounded end was pointed at his face.

“Do you mind? I’m trying to work on zis project ‘ere.”

The figure’s accent was European, Germanic.

Slowly, the figure stepped into the light. He wore dark shoes and a long gray lab coat with yellow buttons down the center. He had the teal blue gray face of a female anglerfish, with upward facing fins for ears. He wore black rubber gloves. His hair was dark blue and short, swept back, with little light blue dots off to the side. His eyes were cyan with red pupils and his rows of sharp teeth were also cyan in color. Over his eyes were yellow protective goggles. On his head was a small gray top hat with an esca light hanging down.

Currently, the fish’s forehead had a smoking hole in the center. For demons, cuts, wounds and scratches could heal up relatively quickly, perhaps even faster than humans. (They were undead in a world designed for sinners). But they still hurt like Hell.

“Lass mich allein.”

“What?” Sir Pentious asked. He peered behind the figure and saw a pot on a portable stove, vials of colorful liquids beside it. The water inside was neon green and bubbling.

“Es gibt keine Ruhe für die Intelligenten.”

Sir Pentious growled. “What are you saying?”

The fish demon ignored him, keeping his shrink ray aimed at Sir Pentious. Sir Pentious remained in place.

“What are you making?” Sir Pentious asked.

The scientist scoffed. “Like I’d tell you.”

“How very uncouth of you,” remarked Sir Pentious. “Is that how you greet a gentleman?”

“This is Hell, no one cares. I certainly don’t.”

“I’m Sir Pentious, and you will treat me with respect.”

“I’m Baxter and I don’t give a flying fin. Auf wiedersehen.”

Baxter sat down and began to pour some more liquids into the pot: light blue, a hint of orange, some yellow, a few drops of pink.

When the mixture was ready, it emitted some sparks. Baxter let out a laugh. “Oh yes! There it iz! My first successful poison in Hell. This should keep any intruders at bay for now.”

He stood up and soon narrowed his eyes.

“Why are you still here, snake man?!”

Why was he still here?

Indeed, that was a reasonable question. Any moment would’ve been ideal for the supervillain to leave and continue on with his afterlife. But Sir Pentious became curious. He had seen dozens of sinners during his time. Most of them were drug addicts, murderers, porn enthusiasts, thieves, and a majority of demons who did their own things. There were several other demons, those that preyed on children or were cruel to animals…no one associated themselves with them…at least the sane ones didn’t.

Yet in all his years spent in Hell, Sir Pentious had not seen another inventor.

Deep down, the snake got this feeling…a random need for some form of solidarity. Finding another demon with a similar passion for inventing…the idea itself eased the somewhat uncomfortable sense of loneness that sometimes crept up.

Or, alternatively, he’d have fun competing with another brilliant rival.

Why was he still here?

It was a question that Sir Pentious soon answered.

“I was curious to see what you were doing.”

“Well, unless you are blind, I’m making a modified poison from the spine of a pufferfish. But I won’t hesitate to use it on you if I must.”

Sir Pentious laughed this time. “You? All puny and short, dried like a raisin? You have the brains but you have no weapons for it.”

Baxter waved his shrink ray in front of him.

“Well, there is that, but wouldn’t it be more effective to shoot the poison out of a gun? Perhaps from different barrels at the same time?”

“I can make weapons, ya know,” Baxter replied, stirring up the mixture. Green smoke swirled out from the pot. “Robots, A.I., substances are my specialties. Besides, the poison would need to be contained, modified for dat purpose.”

“No one can make inventions as great as mine,” Sir Pentious bragged. “Be glad you’re not fighting me over the next territory. Now…I really should get going.”

“Where? Back to your hidey hole? To lick your wounds?”

He stuttered a bit, trying for a comeback.

“Pretty much!” the snake answered, crossing his arms.

Baxter began meticulously pouring the new substance into small glass vials with lines on them. They were sealed shut with beer corks. He began packing up his things into a small black bag.

“Where are you going?”

“Back home?”

“Home? Is it a lab?”

“Sadly not.”

Baxter glanced over at a lake not consumed by flames.

“You live in a lake?”

“Ya. I can turn into an anglerfish…a blue one with a cyan esca. Sharp teeth that can drag people down. Like snake men.”

Sir Pentious scoffed and waved his hand dismissively. “Please, science scum. You’ll never find me in my cave lair. Though…it is a bit cramped in there.”

“As is my place,” Baxter replied. “One can’t exactly do experiments under ze water.”

“You’re smart. Make a lab up on the surface.”

“Easier said than done,” Baxter scoffed. “You’re nothing but an egocentric old sot. Go jump into dat volcano and get out of my sight!”

Sir Pentious glanced over at a tall pyramid shaped hunk of rock, standing tall in the distance, where Baxter was pointing.

Baxter turned to leave. Sir Pentious gripped onto his arm. Baxter slapped his hand away and bared cyan fangs.

“Touch me again, and you’ll die ze death of a thousand stings.”

“Same to you if you ever touch me.”

“Ha! Your threats are hot air. Light, forgettable, utterly pathetic.”

“Why…I beg your pardon!”

“Ya heard me, reptile-ape demon. Ya done talking?”

“Never.”

Sir Pentious stared at the short scientist who looked so out of place in comparison with many other demons…and suddenly giggled. The scientist raised his eyebrows. “Vat is so funny?”

“You must be a witch with that cauldron you had.”

Baxter stomped his foot. “And you…crazy old school villain. Where’s the mustache and black hat? Got any sidekicks to do your work for you?”

“I can do all my work on my own, thank you very much,” the villain replied.

Sir Pentious paused in thought. Could he really, though? He had no army, no allies. No one but himself to blame after every failure. It was a 50/50 chance that he would succeed or fail at any given day. Perhaps the addition of a…servant or a slave…could tilt the odds in his favor.

He slowly turned around back toward Baxter. “Or perhaps…I could have someone do work for me?”

Baxter put his hand up to his chest, eyebrows furrowed. “Me? Have you gone mad? I work for no one but myself. I dedicated my life to research and science…and in this strange realm, I’ll continue to do so.”

“Let me help you then.”

“I don’t need any help. Especially not from you.”

Sir Pentious glanced around. “So you’ve lived hidden from society for how long?”

“Well if you must know, I’ve kept mostly to myself since a year ago when I appeared here.”

Sir Pentious clicked his tongue. “No labs, no friends, not much of a hideout. Don’t you want your work to be recognized more? If you’re as talented and…eccentric as I think, you could instill fear in those around you. I’ve done it for years.”

“Like I’d want any of that drama. Conquering territories…utter childish nonsense!”

“Hey! That sure beats moping over books in seclusion all the time,” Sir Pentious added, having noticed the physics books that Baxter had tucked in his bag.

“And anyway, why can’t you make labs?” Sir Pentious asked.

“Because the other demons perceive me as weak whenever I’m nearby. I have to go up to the surface to buy food and tools. I guess I could make labs underground, instead…oh but maybe that won’t do...”

“I’ll make the labs for you. You’ll have a place to stay to conduct your so called experiments.”

“I told you before I don’t need your help. Plus, I don’t trust you.”

“Of course you don’t. I’d expect nothing less from demon commoners. But in exchange, you’ll need to help me with my machines.”

“I can easily do that…if I had agreed to help you in ze first place!” Baxter laughed.

“No sense of style, no life, what a shame,” Sir Pentious said, letting out a sigh. “Live like a fish underwater for all I care. No resources, no recognition. A sad life for a mad scientist.”

Baxter just stared in disbelief, words lost on his lips. His scowl couldn’t hide the uncertainty in his eyes.

Sir Pentious continued. “Have fun taking risks on the surface and trying to defend yourself against sinners. Tally ho!”

Sir Pentious turned to leave.

Baxter gripped tightly on his shrink ray. He told himself that now would be a good opportunity to shrink the showy bastard from behind. But he hesitated.

How much longer could Baxter last on the streets, moving from wet to dry environments for so long? Everyone else had jobs, friends, and even families. Not that he wanted to go out and socialize…he’d rather drown again.

But he couldn’t live as a hermit…even in Hell. He had to find a way to get some stability in his afterlife.

Perhaps he could even knock this inventor off his pedestal. Then he could be in the spotlight behind the scenes as it were.

“Wait!” Baxter called.

A sly grin formed on the snake’s face as he slowly turned back around.

“Yes?”

“I’ll…I’ll help you with your machines and everything. Just…help me get somewhere for me to live on land...but not far from the water. And I do want my work to be known…but not who or where I am.”

“Fair enough. I do have some conditions.”

“As do I,” said Baxter. Both demons squared up. Sir Pentious spoke first.

“I’ll need an army to help me conquer territory.”

“And I’ll need some subjects to experiment on.”

Sir Pentious spotted a nearby blue demon with six arms and red eyes. He dashed over to it and paralyzed it with a bite. He dragged the demon’s limp form over to Baxter.

“Ugh, not now, you imbecile. When I have the proper equipment to use.” He paused. “But I must say, your reflexes and speed are impressive.”

“Why thank you.”

Baxter glanced up at a flickering sign that read “Snake N’ Eggs Café, where all your eggs are deviled!” In neon lights, a green snake stood with an egg in its mouth. Neon white circles of eggs appeared to roll behind the snake.

“Hmm…I think I have an idea for your army,” Baxter said. “Snakes like to eat eggs and from eggs hatch more snakes.”

“So make more snakes from eggs?”

“Well I could, but the birthing process would take a while. And though you’re a snake demon, the DNA of sinners is slightly altered in comparison to the Hellborn. Missing chromosomes from ze sinners don’t allow for reproduction, not mammalian nor reptilian procreation…”

Sir Pentous growled, “Speak English, fish geek.”

Baxter paused. “You can’t give birth and make eggs. Which means we’ll have to artificially create the eggs.”

“Oh.”

“Yes…why not try…bringing the portable womb to life? Replace the yok with organs and label each one on the posterior shell with numbers. Find real eggs, enhance their sizes for a greater circumference ratio. Nourish each egg in growth containers, clone them, wait for them to come alive, repeat the process…”

Sir Pentious stared blankly.

“Weren’t ya listening?”

Sir Pentious raised an eyebrow.

Baxter frowned held out his hands like he was grabbing onto something circular. “Eggs,” he exasperated. “Grow and nourish eggs, bring them to life, and they’ll do everything you ask!”

“Oh right,” Sir Pentious replied. “Living eggs. For food and my army. This could work…”

“Brilliant. It costs 1,000…um, what’s the proper term for currency here?”

“Souls.”

“Oh right. Souls. You got that much?”

“I can see you don’t. How long have you been wearing that outfit, huh?”

Judging by the stench from it, it had been a while.

“You need cleaning up. New clothes, new look, perhaps a new home. Everything will fall into place, I assure you. You can come into my lair…after we negotiate.”

He held out his hand.

Baxter stepped back. “No way in Hell am I making any deals with you, let alone going with you. I can pick up some things while I’m here.”

“I need my army made now.”

“Not until I have my labs completed and you being my first test subject.”

“I need the egg army to…protect and help us while the labs are being created.”

Baxter paused. “Well I…erm…” He looked around and spotted a palace with several red apple trees in the gardens.

“Hahaha!” He suddenly laughed. “I might as well kill you now!”

Baxter fired the shrink ray, but Sir Pentious moved out of the way. With the flick of his long black tail, he knocked the scientist down and kicked the weapon away. Baxter quickly stood up.

“In that case, I’ll call the princess. I’m sure her and her father and mother would love to hear how you terrorized towns and killed so many people in turf wars!”

This time, Sir Pentious froze for a moment. One mistake and Lucifer could easily destroy him.

“Oh yes, Lucifer won’t be happy. But who knows, you might even survive his punishment…when you’re sent to the void!”

Sir Pentious looked ready to strike. “You’re not underwater anymore, good sir. You’re in my domain and you’d best remember that. By the way, how do you even know about my victories?”

“I read the daily paper. Now then, it’s over, snake man.”

Baxter made a dash for it, only for Sir Pentious to stick out his tail, causing him to trip. He fell with an “Oof!” Sir Pentious’ shadow loomed over him.

Sir Pentious grinned. “Very well then…we can discuss this later on…”

Before Baxter could make another move, Sir Pentious opened up his hood. The pink eyes glowed and hummed. The effect was mesmerizing. The scientist could not look away, no matter how hard he tried. Baxter’s eyes dilated and his body swayed. A loud hiss and a blur of rapid movement. A sharp prick raged from his cyan hand.

Venom could not kill demons necessarily. It only made them sick, drugged or paralyzed.

Sir Pentous hadn’t sunk his teeth in too deep…but it was sufficient enough to make Baxter gasp and double over on the ground.

Baxter made a mental note on the use of hypnosis on future subjects before his mind went fuzzy. Sir Pentious’ maniacal laughter was the last thing he heard.

Baxter slowly opened his eyes and found himself on a bunk bed inside of a cave. The cave was filled with weapons, tools and inventions in progress. Up on the wall was a recently made blueprint of a hideout and a volcano. The small workspace area had no windows. Baxter was free to move around, but the doors nearby were heavily locked.

He walked over to a desk. A note was tapped to it and bold words were written on it.

“Geek fish,

You will be safe from other demons here. Do not try to escape, for I know the ins and outs of this cavern. You’ll find a variety of tools to use and trays of food and water by your window. You may not leave until my egg army has been successfully made for me.

- Sir Pentious”

In just a few weeks, Baxter had helped create the Egg Bois for Sir Pentious. The number of eggs eventually grew until he had an army of them.

The newly formed eggs rolled out of upright white chambers, when the doors hissed open. Each incubator and hatch could hold a dozen eggs. Indeed, the capsules that held the growing eggs were modeled after egg cartons. In the capsule, the eggs had been growing and suspended in yellow-tinted water surrounded by round glass coverings. Like regular eggs in a carton, the biological ones were slightly separated in rows.

“HAHAHAHAHAHA!” Baxter cackled, as the eggs climbed out of the artificial wombs with their small arms and legs. “THEY’RE ALIVE!”

“We get it, Frankenstein,” Sir Pentious replied, also boring a sinister grin.

Right away, after the eggs were born, the eggs surrounded Sir Pentious and cheered.

“Welcome Mr. Bossman! We’re not worthy!” they praised.

Sir Pentious smirked but looked confused when Baxter laughed.

“What?”

“Don’t get too used to it,” he said. We both made them so they would be obedient but…I may have tweaked their personalities a bit. To make things more…intimate.”

Several eggs nudged against Sir Pentious and one of them ran his little black hand suggestively along his jacket.

Sir Pentious fired back with yells as Baxter laughed some more.

“Well…well done,” Sir Pentious remarked, genuinely impressed, after he hissed at the eggs to back off. “Now, follow me.”

“Where are we going?” Baxter asked.

“To construct your labs of course.”

Baxter was momentarily shocked. Did he hear him right?

“So…you’re not gonna…ya know…”

“Kill you?” asked the snake. “No, not yet. You’re useful enough, and quite frankly, very intelligent, savant even.”

“No one has ever said anything like that. You sure you’re not lying?” He grinned.

“Of course you nowhere near as sophisticated as me, but you’re reliable enough.”

“Bullshit! I’ll prove to you that I’m the better creator in this inferno.”

“Heh, we’ll see about that.”

Baxter’s lab was soon finished a few weeks later (the building process would’ve taken far longer in the human world.)

“Well, there you have it,” said Sir Pentious.

“Thank you so much,” said Baxter.

“You’re free to go,” said Sir Pentious. “But please…do come back and help me out sometimes.”

“I’ll be alone in my lab most of the year,” he replied.

“You can’t stay down there forever,” he countered. “For your hard work, I’ll spare destroying you.”

“I guess…you won’t have to be my test subject after all,” said Baxter. Then he thought, “At least for now.”

Sir Pentious held out his hand. “Until we meet again?”

Baxter shook it. “Until we meet again.”

Green light suddenly flashed around them, the light emitting from their clasped hands. Baxter yanked his hand free and yelped like he had been shocked. Indeed, streams of electricity traveled along Sir Pentious’ hands before fizzing out. Sir Pentious let out a sinister laugh as the green light and blowing force around them vanished.

“You, my friend, just fell for the oldest trick in the book! You unknowingly just made a deal with me. Congratulations, you work for me now!”

“You traitor!” Baxter spat. He was half tempted to turn into a giant cyan blue anglerfish with a long body, sharp teeth and tail, his full demon form.

But Sir Pentious would only knock him out again.

“There’s nothing you can do now,” he said. “We now collaborate with each other. You’re my assistant and spy…and slave if you don’t behave.”

“Why can’t I be in charge?”

“I initiated the deal,” said Sir Pentious. “I’ve been here longer. Plus, you’ve got your labs made soon, all of your required equipment.”

Baxter swore in German.

“With my army and my machines, Hell will eventually belong to me! And you’ll get to see the fruit of my…er…our labors. See you around, Baxter.”

With that, the villain laughed and left, leaving Baxter dumbfounded.

Exterminators Attack

Hell, December 31st 1913

Sir Pentious and Baxter evade the Exterminators and learn about their weapons. When the Extermination is over, Sir Pentious and Baxter bond over slaughtering demons and taking over land. They also discuss their inventions and even make stuff together.

Radio Demon Arrives

Hell, 1933

Sir Pentious and Baxter witness Alastor emerging from the shadow world, bathe din power. He almost kills Baxter when Baxter tries to study him but Sir Pentious distracts him enough to allow Baxter to escape. He is able to hypnotize/hold off Alastor for ten seconds before he is brutally knocked unconscious by him. Baxter hides until the radio static fades away, then quickly retrieves Sir Pentious and heals him in his lab.

Alastor and Sir Pentious fight over Sir Pentious’ claimed town and the snake loses, barely managing to escape.

Story of a Snake

London, 1800s/1888

Birthday March 8 1848 (Stamper’s birthday is March 8 1983)

Died October 8, 1888 (all the eights!)

Human name/s: Sangui (snake, Latin), Daedalus, (cunning in Greek)

Aristocrat, white face, long black hair, cunning eyes, thin chin, inventor, bisexual. Had pet cats. Drank tea. Died after a machine crushed him, leaving him stranded in a blizzard.

Died in 1888 in his 40s.

Fish out of Water

Germany, 1912

Died 1912 Birthday: May 2 1890 (supposed voice actor Vincent Tong birthday May 2 1980)

Human name: Dexter Ryan Solace (Dexter from Dexter’s laboratory)

Named after Ryan Solace, the fan voice actor who made Baxter’s Science Serenade)

Scientist, white face, short black hair, sea green eyes, wears a white lab coat and goggles. Performed unethical experiments on people. Wanted to kill off the dumb and ignorant, spreading disease/chemicals etc. Loved the oceans but also fished a lot and harmed marine life. Lurks in the shadows like the anglerfish. Died like “a fish out of water” on a boat and drowned while on the way to a new life in the U.S.

Nefarious Niffty

Nelly, 1950s

Niffty backstory of how she worked as a housemaid, chimney sweeper and killed her abusive husband. Her name was Nelly, white skin, short black hair. She died in the 1950s. She became obsessed and romantic, sewing together human skin for dresses. She would sometimes kill other women when they tried to interfere with her hitting on men. She also rejected her Christian upbringing, though she still had to clean and cook to make a living. When her parents died from illness/pox, she wrote fanfiction and read alone. Her fanfiction is the sexual/fluff, bad typical kind.

At age 22, she got shot three times near her hips as retaliation. She was held against her will near the flames and smoke, which killed her. Her body was thrown in a fireplace and thus she ended up in Hell, where she later made a deal with Alastor. She got trapped in a lake of fire until she was summoned by Alastor when he easily charmed her into making a deal with him.

Present day

Niffty likes Alastor, Baxter, Vox, Sir Pentious and pretty much any man. She wants a fantasy world where she can have them all to herself...a world of order, cleanliness, and spilled blood.

Hazbin Misfits

Present day, episode 2

The scene starts with everyone eating Alastor’s jambalaya. The other misfits arrive at the hotel and adventures ensue. Even Alastor’s parents are also seen.

Baxter befriends the other residents, being closest to Niffty, Crymini and Mimzy. But Baxter suspects that there’s more to Niffty than her cheerful demeanor would suggest. He starts to develop small affectionate feelings for Crymini, but little does he know that Sir Pentious has feelings for him. He has nightmares about Sir Pentious burning Hell and the Hazbin Hotel, and watching him devour a helpless Crymini as the egg bois surround him. (But Baxter is thankful that he is not Alastor and knows that he is worse than Sir Pentious.)

What if the same person who helped create the Egg Bois for Sir Pentious, was also the same person he had a crush on? When two mad geniuses start to collaborate on inventions, their feelings might become more than casual associations.

Introducing: Baxtious (Baxter and Sir Pentious)

Sir Pentious meets with Baxter after his recent defeat by Alastor. Where else but in... "Baxter's Laboratory!"

Part 1: That’s Sabotage (Sir Pentious)

Part 2: The creation (and recreation) of the Egg Bois (Baxter)

Part 2: Back to the 1800s: cruel fashionable CEO (Sir Pentious)

Part 3: Back to the 1950s: Science studier, loner, and initiator of unethical experiments (Baxter) (born an Aquarius)

Baxter quotes: “Back off!” (like Myron Reducto)

“No touching, no adjusting, and most importantly, no breaking!” – Baxter to Charlie and others when they visit one of his labs at the Hazbin Hotel

“Results must be published, shared to the world like ripples in the ocean. Yes, I do desire to work alone in my controlled environment, but the fun comes from observing the catastrophic results behind the scenes!”

“So what if my experiments were unethical? Sometimes, a great price comes with the pursuit of knowledge. I’d never get as far as I did without taking some…risks as it were. Rats gave their little lives for me to test my formulas. Aquatic creatures contained and brought to the surface to test underwater technology. And poor humans (and later demons), brought into my labs against their will, all for the greater good of science! Prison studies, electric shocks, suspended animation, injections, all just the tip of the iceberg. Knowledge is power…and with great power comes great responsibility.”

“Yes, I was the one who helped him create his dozens of egg minions. He mentioned “a stylish all-powerful lord like me needs an endless army!” He came up with the idea of using eggs, as snakes are born from eggs. Was certainly been better than, say an army of rats (which he would eat). We put mini-brains and organs mixed with egg yok and brought them to life with some electricity and a bit of magic. We have almost a thousand, now. I also assist him with repairs to his airship, ray guns, weapons etc. In exchange, he spares my underground labs from being destroyed on the surface and I provide him with a lair to plan his schemes.”

-Baxter about Sir Pentious

“I despise being touched and bothered when I’m doing my work. Sir Pentious feels the same way. Good thing is, I don’t have Egg Bois running around trying to pester me with ass kissing and sexual innuendos. Unlike him, I don’t boast about my accomplishments to everyone. He goes out there and claims Hell as his turf, while I prefer to keep to myself. He makes war machines mostly, while I specialize in poisons, chemicals, potions, and yes, A.I.s too. I have a secret shrink ray I use in self-defense.” -Baxter

“Some call me “a little gremlin fish,” the nerve of them! So what if I occasionally cause some power outages and make Vox mad? It’s all for research and figuring things out. I still have yet to figure out how that overlord Alastor got to be so powerful. If only I could harness the powers of other demons and use them for further study. I could perhaps make A.I. soldiers with all their powers, then I’d truly be an unstoppable force in Hell! Hahahahaha!”

Niffty: *knocks on the door* “Housekeeping!”

Baxter: (sighs)

“Like anglerfish, I reside in the depths and darkness of Hell, using light or perhaps my unique appearance to lure gullible prey to their inevitable doom. I read that male anglerfish latch onto and fuse with females like parasites. I latch onto Lady Science.” – Baxter

“Sir Pentious is picky about fashion and social class. I’m preoccupied with order and cleanliness. Everything must be in their proper place when I’m around. Though I may be a mad scientist, there is order in my chaos. Hell is so disorganized and loud, and messy. Not to mention the insufferable heat and the crowds. Not the most ideal environment, that’s for sure.”

-Baxter

Baxter: Neurotic, logical, OCD, theorizes that Niffty (being small) is evil?

Part 4: Machine malfunction and blizzard death: from an untrusting “snake” to real snake (Sir Pentious)

Part 5: Drowning like the Titanic: once a “shark” now an anglerfish. Anglerfish with its glowing lights was the creature Baxter experimented on the most…then fate said the tides must turn. (Baxter)

Part 6: Baxter’s Laboratory

Alastor was both fond of deer and hunted them. He was shot like a "deer in the headlights."

Katie was like a locust, annoying, focused only on herself, a real deadly "bugger."

Tom Trench died in the trenches from gas and thus had a gas mask for a face.

Vox died from being crushed by a TV, during a time when television became popular.

Sir Pentious liked snakes but was a dirty "snake in the grass" in life.

Angel Dust was caught in the web of drugs and porn, and would lure others in like a deadly spider.

"Curiosity killed the cat" for Husk when he gambled and drank himself to death after a debt and the Vietnam War.

Vaggie in life was fond of moths but she herself was lured to the light that was romance/freedom...falling into danger too late.

Cyclops were strong and worked for Gods, similar to how Niffty works for Alastor and how strong she is. Cherri Bomb is strong but she doesn't work for anyone (that we know of)

Stolas is a Gnostic owl demon, who taught knowledge and ruled over many legions of demons.

Baxter liked marine life and the oceans, but also harmed the fish he caught in the name of science. He died like a "fish out of water," taking on anglerfish traits.

#hazbinhotel #hazbinhoteltheory #sir pentious #baxter #inventors #baxtious #sir pentious and baxter

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rprambles · 4 years ago

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FFXIV - Crux

n; a vital or decisive point

When the storm finally clears, The Discourteous Siren sits in the sea like the debris strewn about her in the water. Listless, little more than something for the wayward souls aboard to cling to with the last of their hope. She walks around the deck with care, stepping over broken wood and bodies that were not swept away by the gale. The sails hang in tatters, great holes burned into them. She wonders if the captain looks like that now, floating in the sea with a rough circle charred through his chest.

She shakes the thought from her head and looks skyward. Without the angry glare of Dalamud the stars shine clearly through the breaking clouds. She holds up a hand to guide herself as she connects the distant flickering lights into constellations.

Her ears twitch toward the footsteps coming up behind her. “Know where we are, lass?”

She turns her gaze down to him; he’s has certainly looked better. “Far off course. But I think I can direct us back to civilization.”

He shakes his head. “Gotta be more confident than that if you’re to lead.”

“...that blow to your head is worse than it looks. You’re the first mate, Gomani.”

“Aye, I am. And you’re the one that stepped up when it counted.”

She hadn’t thought about it at the time. Half the crew had seen the comet strike the captain mid-sentence. She’d just been the one to pull her wits together first, to yell louder than the chaos and get everyone moving. But yelling doesn’t make a leader. “Why would the crew follow me?”

“They already did.”

He’s not wrong. When she’d yelled for them to abandon the sails and get below, the crew had rushed under the deck. When more comets came and water leaked, the crew had snapped to her orders. She hadn’t thought about any of it. She’d just wanted to survive the storm.

From behind his back Gomani holds a simple tri-corn hat. Lifts it up to her in offering. She can feel people watching, members of the crew cautiously peering above deck now that the ship has settled.

Putting it on feels like the most natural thing in the world.

#sive molrocca #ffxivwrite2020 #my writing #ffxivwrite

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theverybestpencilsoftuscaloosa · 4 years ago

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The Heat of Battle

My first story for the One Piece Bingo event hosted by @op-pirate-fleet and also my first One Piece fanfic ever. Which is weird because I think I’ve tried to write like a hundred. Oh well. This is for the prompt “near-death experience,” which I think it just barely qualifies as, but hey! It’s my fanfic and I can be as loose as I want (OP Pirate Fleet please let me be as loose as I want). It’s a little thing about Usopp, who is my favorite, doing a thing. AO3 link here.

~~~

The fight had been going so well.

Usopp was watching from the foredeck, firing into the fray. Each shot was well-placed, and more often than not felled one of the fodder clogging the Sunny’s deck, but from time to time he aimed into the one-on-one battles in progress.

Nami was missing her Clima-Tact, snatched from her hands by a self-proclaimed witch wielding what looked like a magnet on a stick -- which, against all odds, had worked. It didn’t work on wood, though, and Nami had swept up a broom handle for an improvised staff and pressed the attack. Now the two were locked in combat, the staccato rhythm of their fight audible from across the deck.

The same rhythm was feeding the battle on the other side of the mast, where Brook was improvising on it, mixing stabs and slashes with swipes at his violin. Every few measures he managed to catch one of the bounty hunters with his music, and they dreamily swung into battle against his opponent -- but just as quickly, her pendant danced in front of their eyes, sending them back towards him with spiraling pupils and slack faces.

Sanji had been sparring with what seemed to be the bounty hunters’ second-in-command, and taking the upper hand -- but then the woman fighting Brook had cried out for help in a perfect imitation of Nami’s voice, and as Sanji turned away, his own opponent had swung his tonfa into the cook’s knee. Sanji had dropped to the deck with a crack that was still echoing inside Usopp’s head, and now Robin, who had dispatched the second-in-command as he moved in to finish Sanji off, was standing over him and fending off anyone who came too close. Franky was on her flank, picking off bounty hunters with bursts of gunfire as they tried to slash the Sunny’s sails. Chopper was at the wheel, trying to keep away from the bounty hunters’ cannons. Luffy -- Usopp cocked his head and listened, and heard the sounds of wood breaking and panicked yells from the bounty hunters’ ship -- Luffy was fine. And Zoro…

The center of the Sunny’s deck was a no-man’s land. The grass gone, mowed down to the dirt. Every so often, a hapless bounty hunter would stumble or be thrown into the circle at the center and be flung out, bloodied and unmoving. Zoro was stripped to the waist, bandana tied around his head, all three swords in constant, furious motion. Opposite him was Riser, whose name was proudly emblazoned on the hunters’ sail, smiling, empty-handed, and utterly unharmed.

Usopp dropped another hollering bounty hunter headed for Nami’s back, and took stock of the situation. His crewmates were holding their own in their one-on-one fights, Sanji was still secure, and the cannon fire from the bounty hunters’ ship had faded into the distance. He looked out over the water at the distant ship and thought for a moment to ask Chopper to bring them closer, just in case they needed Luffy back on board -- but Chopper had abandoned the wheel, looking out over the deck. “I’m going to try and get to Sanji,” he said, voice shaky but certain, and as Usopp watched Chopper shifted into a reindeer, galloped across the deck, and leapt, nearly clearing the length of the deck. As he descended, he changed again, and a gorilla-sized doctor landed in the fray, swinging his fists as he pushed towards the wounded cook.

Now alone on the foredeck, Usopp looked back to the fight dominating the center of the ship. “No banter, Roronoa?” Riser was still smiling. Shusui whistled towards his face, but before it struck he deflected with an open palm, sending it off course above his head. It didn’t even leave a mark on his glove. Zoro grunted, deflecting a chop towards his neck with the flat of his blade.

“Save your breath.”

Riser laughed. “Perhaps you feel the need to, but I’m hardly in--” He ducked a swipe that nearly went through his throat -- “Any distress here, Roronoa. Shame. Perhaps your captain would be more of a challenge.”

“You’re fighting me,” snarled Zoro, and brought two swords down in an arc as Riser laughed.

“Shame,” he said again, and delivered a punch that sent Zoro flying.

Usopp’s eyes widened. A second later, Zoro hit the main mast with a thud and dropped, barely landing on his feet. From across the deck, Usopp saw his eyes go hazy for a second. This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all.

“You long-nosed freak!”

Usopp had no more warning than that before what sounded like a small explosion annihilated the ground where he was standing. He looked down, realizing his legs had thrown him clear without any conscious effort, and then around, taking in the barrel-chested man standing behind him. He raised his fists, and Usopp’s eyes widened as he saw seven unlit bombs mounted on the man’s fingers. As he watched, the bounty hunter passed his left fist under his beard, where a lit match was braided into the hair, and swung at Usopp.

He dodged again, barely, feeling the heat of the explosion on his side. Bomb knuckles? Bomb knuckles? What kind of crap was that? It sounded like something from the Usopp Factory, but the early days of the Usopp Factory, before he had any idea of what was cool and daring and what would blow your hand off. Honestly, how stupid would you have to be to use --

Usopp came back to himself and realized he had backed into a corner. The bounty hunter was advancing, both fists raised to his chin. One by one, all six of the remaining fuses ignited. The man smiled a horrible smile. “Nighty-night.” Both of his fists slammed home into Usopp’s chest.

Nothing happened.

The bounty hunter blinked, and looked down. Between Usopp’s chest and his bombs, the sniper was holding something: a small, circular, spiraling shell, marked with even holes. His eyes widened. He looked back up.

Usopp stared the bounty hunter in the face. Say something cool, he thought to himself. Come on. He laughed nervously. “Whoops.”

Both of them screamed nearly in unison. Usopp clutched at his wrist, feeling the aftershock travel up through his shoulder with such intensity he thought it would pop from its socket. The bounty hunter took it far worse, flying backwards through the air and over the side of the Sunny altogether. Slumped against the rail, Usopp massaged his wrist, flexing his fingers as he reached for Black Kabuto again. He stuffed the Impact Dial back into his pocket and pushed himself up, peering down at the battles again.

As he watched, Nami leapt backwards, dodging a wild blast of hot air from her opponent, who was now -- Usopp winced -- inexpertly wielding the Clima-Tact. Apparently Nami didn’t care for it either, as she whacked the other woman upside the head, yelling something about weather patterns Usopp could only half hear over the noise of the battle. Brook lashed out with his sword and got the hypnotist in the shoulder, and her pendant fell from her fingers -- releasing a dozen fighters from their stupor. Chaos rippled across the deck as those bounty hunters came to, unsure of where they were, and began to swing wildly, unable to distinguish friend from foe. Chopper was forced to drop to the ground, activating Guard Point and shielding Sanji with his own body. Eyes sprouted across Robin’s skin to watch every angle of approach, and Franky shed his hands’ false skin, meeting the wave of bounty hunters with fists of naked steel. Usopp watched it all happen in a matter of seconds before his eyes fell to Zoro.

He had a horrible realization.

“Zoro!” Usopp screamed over the increasing chaos of battle. If Zoro heard him, he didn’t respond. “Zoro!” Usopp screamed, and then for good measure sent a lead ball whistling past the swordsman’s ear. That got his attention, a quick backwards glare before Zoro ducked under a swipe from Riser. That was all right, Usopp thought. Zoro could yell at him later. Usopp just had to make sure he survived.

“Zoro, duck!”

Zoro looked back and saw Usopp’s slingshot drawn back, aimed squarely at Riser -- and at himself. With a curse, he dodged another swing and rolled, leaving the bounty hunter momentarily alone in the center of the deck. It was all Usopp needed. He closed his eyes and let the projectile loose.

As if in slow motion, the ball flew through the air towards Riser. He saw it coming, smiled, and raised his hands, poised to block the projectile perfectly. Less than a foot away, it exploded into a burst of orange flame.

Riser went over backward, gloves burning. Usopp was doubled over, stomach cramping from stress, but he managed to give Zoro a thumbs up. “Dials,” he said, panting. “In his gloves.” Zoro blinked. Then he nodded evenly, respectfully, just once. Usopp sighed in relief as he turned away, back to Riser, who was straightening up, but Zoro was already in motion, swords arrayed in front of himself, and Riser was too slow to block as he sprang forth.

“Oni Giri!”

For a second, as Zoro touched down behind the enemy captain, there was silence. The fighting slowed as all eyes turned to Riser, dead center of the deck, reeling from the triplet slashes across his chest. Usopp smiled smugly. Take that, you bastard! Teach you to use the great Usopp’s own trick against him.

Then the slashed fabric fell away from Riser’s chest, and Usopp saw the skin underneath: hard and reddish pink, spiraling outwards and patterned with tiny holes.

“Shame,” said Riser, shaking his head. “A true, true shame.”

And then he exploded.

Halfway across the ship, Usopp was hurled back by the force. Black Kabuto dropped from his hand, spinning away, seconds before he slammed into the Sunny’s railing and blacked out. He came to a few seconds later, head spinning, blood in his mouth. The rigging was slashed to pieces, the sails hung in tatters, and deep grooves scored the lawn. Usopp, one eye cracked, scanned the deck for anyone left standing. He saw Nami, crumpled against the door to the womens’ cabin. Brook, folded in half precariously over the railing. Franky, Robin and Sanji all piled atop one another. Chopper slumped against the mast, slowly deflating out of Guard Point -- and Zoro, flat on his back in a pool of his own blood, Riser standing over him.

The bounty hunter was talking, but Usopp didn’t hear a word. The rest of the hunters were unconscious, their bodies littering the deck, and Riser’s back was to him. He was up on his elbows now, mind racing, looking for a way out. Riser’s body had transformed. The Dial armor covered his body like chitin, deep spiraling grooves running through his skin. Up his arms, over his back, even his head -- Usopp shuddered. What was he going to do?

Then he saw it. Tiny, barely the size of a coin, but there on the back of Riser’s neck, right at the base of his skull: a patch of unblemished skin. It was a small target, but Usopp had hit smaller from farther away. But he didn’t have his slingshot -- he looked around.

Just to his right, as if placed there by an invisible hand, was a pistol.

Usopp looked up. Riser’s foot was on Zoro’s chest. Think, think. Black Kabuto had to be somewhere, but -- there was no time. He had no choice. Usopp felt his stomach flip as he reached out and grasped the handle of the pistol. Riser was drawing back his foot, hovering above Zoro’s throat, and Usopp felt his stomach rise into his throat, and he raised his arm, and --

In one quick, smooth motion, he hurled the pistol, sending it end over end through the air until the butt of it smacked Riser square in the back of the head. He stumbled forward from the impact, fell forwards, and hit the deck hard. Usopp blinked. Then, cautiously, he punched the air, and then he laughed and got to his feet and screamed as Riser pushed himself up into a kneeling position.

Usopp scrambled back, dropping to the deck as Riser stood and turned. It was too late to play dead, Usopp realized, and as he watched the color leeched from Riser’s skin, the patterns crawling over his face and chest to concentrate in his right arm. It swelled and darked, and Riser raised it towards Usopp with murder in his eyes.

“I was saving this for your captain,” he said. “But I’ll settle for you. Dial-Dial: Infinite Reje--”

There was a twang, like a rubber band fired into the air. Riser turned. Standing on the deck less than a foot away, shirt torn and burnt, blood streaking his face, was Monkey D. Luffy.

“Usopp.” Usopp looked to his captain, past the Dial man standing between them, and almost sobbed with relief. “Sorry. You guys drifted away, and their ship was broken, so I had to--”

“You,” snarled Riser. “I will take your head, Monkey! Take this! Dial-Dial--”

Luffy’s fist slammed into his jaw, and Riser fell to the deck again. This time, he didn’t get up.

* * *

“Ow!” Usopp jumped in alarm, and looked up. Franky was standing over him, arms raised in a powerfully super dance pose. He sighed, trying to force himself to relax.

“Franky. Hey. What’s up?”

“Just came in to check on you, bro,” Franky said. “Sanji’s up and kicking -- uh, well -- up and walking, and he’s starting on dinner soon!” He flashed Usopp a smile. Usopp didn’t return it.

“Thanks, Franky. I’ll be right down.”

Usopp sat in the library for a few minutes more, trying to settle his stomach. Before long, though, he gave up, and headed down to the galley.

“Usopp!” Chopper was the first one to greet him, looking up at Usopp with a brilliant smile. “Are you doing okay? Still feel fine?” Usopp’s hand reflexively went to his face, where a bandage covered the cut on his cheek: somehow, the only wound he’d taken in the entire battle. He snatched his hand away guiltily and nodded.

“Yup! Doing great!”

“Your back isn’t hurting you, is it?” Chopper’s brow wrinkled in concern.

“Nope! Just fine!”

“Oh, thank goodness -- Zoro! No!” Chopper turned away, growing into his human form as he reached out to take hold of Zoro, who was absentmindedly tugging at his bandages. With a sigh of relief, Usopp took a seat at the table.

He looked around at the crew. They were trading stories from the battle. Just then, Nami was describing how the woman she had fought nearly electrocuted herself trying to use the Clima-Tact. “I should have let her keep going,” Nami said dismissively. “Honestly, she probably would have knocked herself out.” Usopp laughed along with the rest of the crew, but couldn’t help looking at Nami’s right leg, bandaged from ankle to knee.

As he looked around the table, he noticed the sheer amount of work Chopper had done evident on every body present. Sanji was leaning on a crutch while he stirred the pot, gingerly testing his left leg every so often. Robin was listening attentively to Brook, conspicuously keeping her hands slack in her lap so as not to disturb the heavy bandaging on her arms. Franky was wearing his sunglasses, but Usopp noticed a slight slackness under his left eye and realized it wasn’t there at all -- something he recognized from the time or two he’d had to help Franky recalibrate his vision. Even Luffy had taken a beating dealing with the crew of the bounty hunters’ ship, and Zoro had come off worst of all, his skin barely visible below his neck. Usopp’s fingers twitched, and he resisted the urge to once again touch the single lonely bandage on his own face.

“All right,” said Sanji, snapping Usopp from his thoughts. “Soup’s up in fifteen.”

“Soup?’ Luffy said plaintively. Sanji shot him a look that shut him up (just barely, judging by his crestfallen face) and leaned against the bar separating the kitchen and the table.

“So,” he said, looking around the room. “What happened after I went down?”

Usopp waited expectantly in the silence that opened up, and only realized after a few seconds that Sanji was looking at him. No, strike that, everyone was looking at him. Even Luffy had shaken free of his soup-filled melancholy to stare inquisitively at Usopp. He swallowed nervously. What had happened?

Well, Sanji, Usopp thought, I stood on the deck away from the fighting, threw one guy overboard, then totally miscalculated and almost got Zoro killed. Oh, and I’m fine, thanks for asking. But his instincts kicked in, and what he said was:

“Oh, you know. The bounty hunters were after me, obviously, so I cleverly evaded them, but then the captain pulled out a crazy special move and took down Zoro, so I had to step in and…” He trailed off. “And… I stepped in to…” Save him, supplied his brain. Don’t stop bullshitting now. But he couldn’t finish the sentence.

Sanji chuckled and nodded, not unkindly, and turned away. “Okay,” he said, “so what actually happened? Anyone? Robin?” Usopp’s gaze dropped, his stomach twisting again. Maybe, if he was very quiet, no one would notice if he just slipped out the door.

“Of course, Sanji,” Robin said. “But I’m not sure what else I could say. Usopp gave more or less the whole story.” She smiled. “Aside from the bounty hunters targeting him specifically. But perhaps they did have a grudge against him. Otherwise, that was all correct. He hung back, their captain rendered most of us unconscious, and Usopp stopped him from killing Zoro before Luffy returned.”

Usopp just stared, slack-jawed. Robin, apparently not noticing, turned to Zoro. “Would you agree?”

Zoro looked at Usopp for a moment. “You throw that gun?” Usopp, wordless, nodded. Zoro shrugged. “Then yeah, that’s all true.” He turned his head to Sanji. “Got that, cook? I thought that asshole broke your leg, not your eardrums. Or are you just too stupid to listen?”

Chopper threw himself between Zoro and Sanji, trying to restrain them both at once, while Luffy cheered them on. The rest of the crew’s attention followed, and Usopp sank into his chair, staring at the table -- only to be surprised when Robin leaned in, speaking softly so only he could hear.

“That was very smart,” she said.

“Yes,” agreed Usopp, having absolutely no idea what she meant.

“The gun,” she said, and Usopp froze, thinking back to exactly what he had done. Oh, god…

“I was following the hunter who dropped it, and I saw them fire without reloading,” she continued. “Were you watching them as well, or did you know it was empty just from picking it up?” She shrugged. “Either way, it was an impressive throw. Well done, Usopp.” And then she leaned away, turning to the spectacle with an impenetrable smile.

Usopp blinked. The gun was empty. Right. He had known that.

Right?

Well, he thought as Chopper burst into Guard Point, forcing Sanji and Zoro apart as the kitchen filled with fur, maybe it didn’t matter. It had all worked out in the end anyway.

#mine creation #one piece #opfic #one piece fanfiction #usopp #in case anyone was wondering #the initial idea for this story didn't come from the bingo card #it came from me thinking what if usopp was in a position where he was forced to use a gun #and the answer was unexpectedly good #opbingo2020 #almost forgot that one whoops

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dbphantom · 5 years ago

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[inhales] fuck it junpai-7 time

I feel apathetic instead of anxious so here’s a ~bit~ from the H2O AU. It’s a good scene with Clay and Zane (and Quietfoot). Personally, I like the bar scene too (takes place 2 scenes before this one) but the intro to that one is kinda self-indulgent and I am not a brave enough boy for that yet. Listen, I’ll be honest, I picked this scene a) because there’s like no H2O content outside a few throwaway lines and you solely borderlands folk can enjoy it without needing to understand the Deep Merfolk Lore and b) I never write fight scenes and I’m proud of it. I know how can a person write borderlands fanfics and not be comfortable writing fight scenes, I’m such a heathen.

Anyway. Context? Uhhh, this is in the past. Meant to elaborate on that one line about Clay and Zane crossing paths on a smuggling job on Junpai-7 (a water planet). I thought it’d be funny if it turned out they were on opposite sides of the job. I’m also a big fan of a one Cutlord Karuu being the resident pirate queen. Because pirates are cool and her name is kickass.

“Where the..?”

Clay blinked open his eyes at the whisper, tried to move his hands to his throbbing head, and realized he was tied up. Yup, if he wasn’t awake before, he was definitely awake now. And, apparently, sitting on the deck of his ship, tied up against the mast, with nothing but the wide expanse of Junpai’s ocean surrounding it.

Well, damn. That wasn’t good.

He pulled against the binds, but they didn’t give- weren’t even in a position to grab so he could untie them. Whoever did this knew what they were doing.

“The hell’s going on?” He snapped at the disembodied muttering, shaking his head to get the exhaustion out. He’d been drugged, and he always hated that. “Domino, you there?”

The same whirring as earlier returned and Clay finally got to see the source- a small drone hovered before him, chirping merrily and spinning in circles.

“Zoomer? Oh! He’s up!”

A figure moved into view and Clay blinked, because he recognized him. The stranger from the bar a week ago. He was still around?

“Hello again! So sorry about this, didn’t think you’d be the one I had to target. But, hey, remember, I promised- no killing!” He showed his hands, free of any weapon, and grinned.

“What the hell, man, I bought you a drink. Where’s Domino?”

“Domino? Oh, the one on the dock? He’s still there, I think. I took us out to sea so the other two couldn’t come back yet. Don’t worry, I’ll be gone soon!”

“What are you here for? It part of that contract?” Clay had a pretty good idea. The one thing every spot of trouble they’d encountered lately was after.

Zane nodded, opening the lid on a crate next to the cabin door and poking around inside. “Yeah, yeah. From a one Cutlord Karuu. Sure you’ve heard of her.”

Clay groaned, leaning his head back against the mast. “Yeah. Pirate queen. She’s been keeping an eye on our ring for ages. Whatever she wants, we don’t have it.” He noticed movement out of the corner of his eye and glanced to look at what it could be.

Quietfoot was perched up on the sails, crouched and following the man below. He held up the alien compass they were supposed to be dropping off in Mariejois and put a finger to his lips.

Clay returned his sight back to the intruder. “So, what are you looking for?”

Zane sighed. “Ah, you know, a small, little, bobbly alien thing. Points north. What’s the word?” He paused in his searching, putting the lid on the crate down and leaning on it. “Actually, it doesn’t point north. Supposed to point to a Vault Key. You know, one of those things everyone’s losing their minds over these days? I don’t get it. But the actual ones point north.”

The hitman frowned and scowled at the drone as it bobbed around the ship, mouthing something to himself.

Clay watched, confused and slightly worried he had noticed Quietfoot above them.

“COMPASS!”

Clay jumped and whispered a quiet curse. “What is wrong with you?”

“Sorry, sorry. Remembered-”

Thump.

The two stopped and looked over to see what the noise was. The Eridian compass was spiraling in a small circle, and the two watched it fall without saying a thing.

“… Huh,” Zane finally managed, and looked up at the sky. “Didn’t think I had that pow-”

Quietfoot landed on top of him, sending him to the floor, and snatched the compass back, stashing it in his digistruct pack.

“Holy-! Where did you come from?” Zane asked after he got his breath back, pushing himself up off the deck with a cough.

Quietfoot had already pulled out his shotgun, and he fired it in response.

Zane’s shield took the brunt of it, a few pellets hitting the wall behind him, and he smirked despite the breath being taken away from him again. “You don’t talk much? That’s fine, I can cover for both of us!”

He tossed out a small disc that landed at Clay’s feet, which then projected another, flashier shield.

“What the hell?” Clay demanded, struggling to get out of his binds in order to help his partner.

“Get it?” Said Zane, hands on his knees as he laughed. “’Cover’? Ah, you guys are a tough crowd.”

Quietfoot pulled the trigger again and the barrier absorbed the blast, burning pellets falling around Clay. He felt lucky he was wearing his leathers today.

Zane grabbed the barrier from midair with a button press and bolted towards the rogue, bashing him with it while the man reloaded. He dropped his shotgun and Zane kicked it away, letting it bounce off the railing of the ship and skid across the deck.

“Come on, just give it up! Don’t make me hurt you!” He got a look at the man’s bloodied nose as Quietfoot steadied himself. “Uh, more. Don’t make me hurt you more! … So sorry about that- you seem like a cool fella.”

Clay glanced down at the electronic disc at his feet, then the flashy light shield, and had an idea. He lifted up his left boot and smashed it down on the thing, watching the sparks fly. The barrier Zane held fizzled out of existence for a split second. The hitman seemed surprised, turning his head to see what was going on with his tech.

“I- hey, I just got that fixed! Quit it!”

Clay grinned. He did it again, just as Quietfoot reared back for a sucker punch to the man’s jaw. The barrier vanished moments before his fist reached Zane’s face. He staggered back from the blow, blinking rapidly and touching the blood now dripping from his split lip. “Ow! What was that for? I’m trying not to kill you!”

Quietfoot lunged for his shotgun while Zane was distracted, finishing the reload from his crouched position on the deck.

“Shite,” Zane muttered when he finally looked up, as his barrier still hadn’t returned after Clay reacquainted his foot with the projector. He pulled out another device and pressed the button on its side, and then there were two of him standing side-by-side.

Clay blinked.

Quietfoot blinked.

One of the Zanes grinned and the other one waved.

“What the…” Clay managed. “How many tricks do you have?”

“Enough,” said one, and Quietfoot pulled the trigger on him.

The deck behind him gained a nice fourteen hole pattern, with splinters to boot.

“You know,” said the other, “we don’t have to do it like this. You can just give me the compass and we’ll all go on our merry ways! I’ll even untie you, Clay,” he said, turning his head to grin at him.

Quietfoot whirled around, pointing the barrel of his gun at the talking one and keeping an eye on the other, who was studying him, just in case.

The other opened their mouth to speak and Quietfoot took no chances, quickly firing off his gun. That one stumbled back, shield audibly breaking from the hit. “… Ow!” He wheezed, doubled over from the blow to his stomach. “That’s gonna bruise tomorrow.”

Quietfoot had reloaded while Zane was lamenting over his new injury, and lifted his gun to shoot once more. The hitman looked up and suddenly- instantly- he was standing straight, glaring at the other man.

No, Clay realized. That was the clone- the dude could switch places with it. Oh, now, that was just unfair. And also explained a lot.

“That’s the double!” He warned Quietfoot, who nodded, quickly removing his finger from the trigger, and turned to face the real one. But the original was gone, having dashed off somewhere while his attacker was distracted.

“So,” came a whisper from next to Clay, taking cover behind the mast from Quietfoot’s shotgun. “What do you see in this guy? I mean, not to be rude, but he’s not very hospitable, is he? Or did I do somethin’? ‘Cause, honest, no hard feelings here- just work.”

Clay’s head whipped around to see Zane standing with his back against the mast, peering out from behind it. “What in the- how did you-? Damn it, man, if you’re going to scare me, at least let me fight back first!”

“Oh,” he sucked in a quick breath through his teeth. “No can do. I’m trying to not kill you guys, remember?” He snapped his fingers and his drone buzzed down from its place above them, settling on his shoulder with a small wiggle. “You can play dead, though! It’s like a game!”

Quietfoot had advanced on them while they were talking and Zane grinned at Clay when the man rounded the mast. “Gotta go!”

“Quit running!” Clay yelled, struggling against his binds and kicking his feet as Zane darted out onto the deck again.

“Hell no! He’s got a gun!” The Hitman laughed.

Quietfoot sighed and re-rounded the mast, entirely done with the intruder and stopping first to assess Clay’s whole situation. At the moment, Zane was no threat, just a nuisance.

“You want help?” He asked.

“Holy shite,” Zane said, popping up next to them. “He can talk? For real?”

Quietfoot shot him, but it didn’t do much since the man simply teleported away and popped back up behind him seconds later, leaning over his shoulder.

“Wow! I can’t believe you can actually talk,” Zane rambled with a grin as Quietfoot undid Clay’s binds. “Do you just not like to, or is it something I said? Because I was asking Clay earlier if it was something I said and I’m just not sure. This whole thing we’ve got going on right now is only work, you get that, right? When I’m done with my contract, we should all get a drink together. You all seem like a pretty cool group of fellas. Like your friend, Domino! I remembered. Haven’t met the other two, but they seem neat. I like your shapeshifter- I know what that’s like. Must be cool to do it on command.” He paused momentarily, brain seeming to catch up with his mouth as he blinked. “Uh, I know what the tricking people’s like. Not the- not the other thing. So, what do you say?”

Clay pulled his hands loose and rubbed his wrists with a quiet mutter of thanks, then pulled his pistol from his digistruct pack as he stood. Quietfoot readied his shotgun and the two turned to face Zane, who looked particularly dumbfounded.

“Is that a ‘no’ to the drinks?”

“Listen, man,” Clay said, pulling the hammer down on his pistol and pointing it at him as he backed up towards the railing. “You’ve got three seconds to sit down and shut up, or else things are going to get really, really bad for you. I like your style, don’t get me wrong,” he admitted, “but nobody messes with my crew. And, here’s the thing: I think I don’t want to see your brains lying on my deck, so sit the hell down while we get this ship back to port.”

“Alright,” Zane said, raising his hands above his head with a grin. He held his clone’s device in one hand, and his silver digistruct pack in the other. “You got me.”

Clay glanced down at the man’s hip, because he could have sworn his digistruct pack was black.

… It was.

That wasn’t his.

Quietfoot cursed from beside him and began reloading his shotgun, pack blatantly missing from his belt. Clay understood, then, why the man didn’t stop Quietfoot from untying him and instead decided to talk nonsense. He went to take the shot for his partner, but the stupid drone flew over and latched onto his arm, throwing off his aim.

“Kidding. I was kidding!” Zane tossed his digiclone device into his own pack and saluted them with two fingers and a grin, hopping backwards onto the railing and balancing there for a moment. “This was fun! Seriously, let’s get together later!”

“What the hell are you doing? Get off that!” Clay yelled, still struggling to get the robot off of him. “Don’t be an idiot!”

Going overboard on Junpai-7 was a death sentence- everybody who lived and worked here knew that. But the hitman? He was just some stranger from Pandora. He’d have no idea the consequences. And Clay did, admittedly, have a soft spot for the guy, despite his thievery and overly talkative personality; he wanted to make him pay a little, maybe even recruit him into the rogues when all was said and done, not watch him get brutally ripped apart by sea kings and flash whirlpools.

But Zane didn’t seem to care about what Clay said. He looked him in the eye, did a dramatic, sweeping bow, and dropped backwards with a grin and a whistle.

The bot relinquished its death grip on Clay’s arm and flung itself over the railing of their ship with reckless abandon. The clone, too, vanished after a second, as did the broken barrier disc lying forgotten on the deck beside a smattering of bullet holes.

The two rogues were left staring at the place the man was standing, until Clay broke their stupor by rushing to the railing and leaning over.

There was nothing in the black waves.

Clay had half expected them to be pink with blood, or at least see the hitman struggling to stay afloat in the brutal current, but it was like he had vanished into thin air. What, was this another one of his tricks?

“Stay alert,” Clay told Quietfoot, who nodded. “Don’t know where he went.”

“That’s just great. He better not still be on the ship- I’ll blow his damn head open. Now we’re out twenty mil and all my guns. Sorry, Clay, I should’ve untied you sooner. Might’ve been able to get the bastard at the start if we were both up and at ‘em.”

Clay shook his head. “He was a real crafty son of a bitch, don’t feel bad. ‘Sides, one of those Vault Hunting bastards was bound to be strong enough to get what they wanted eventually.” He sighed, putting his pistol away. “Domino was right, it’s probably for the best we don’t get involved in all this alien stuff. Maybe twenty mil is a small price to pay to learn that.”

“Maybe,” said Quietfoot, looking out at the water. “May-be.”

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petrachord · 6 years ago

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astra inclinant (Chpt 2 out of 29)

Chapter Title: umbra

Translation: “shadow” or “ghost”

Fandom: One Piece

Links: AO3 and FFN

Once, Mother told him in secret that they’d wanted a second child for his sake.

“Why?” he asked and she had shook her head, an old little smile on her lips. She never did answer him, but Rosi arrived all the same.

He was very shy and meek, not one for confrontation. Did weird things like thanking and interacting with the slaves. Also cried. A lot.

They had nearly nothing in common, but he worshiped Doflamingo anyway. Followed him around everywhere and tried desperately to impress him. It gave Doflamingo all sorts of strange feelings inside he didn’t know how to account for. He supposed the slaves deferred to him as well, but Rosi was different. An equal. He didn’t have to constantly totter after him or call for him or really have anything to do with him at all.

But he seemed to want to. And he always did.

“I love you, brother,” Rosi would say sometimes, softly, as if he thought it needed to be said.

Doflamingo supposed he understood what Rosi meant. He appreciated Rosi’s love like he would a pretty sunrise—something he recognized at a distance and was always pleased by but could never quite fathom the idea of touching.

Not to say he didn’t try. Not to say he didn’t love him back in the only way he knew how.

“You are mine.”

===

It took a mere year for the Donquixote Family to make its name. They ran drug rings and slave trade, smuggling weapons to the hands of tyrants. Entire towns burned to the ground and grown men begged for the lives before expiring. There was blood enough for days.

Trebol and Diamante praised Doflamingo endlessly for their successes, attributing him to their growing power and the spreading horror of their names. It was rather funny how satisfied they were already.

Because he sure as fuck wasn’t.

The enterprise required expansion and when he turned seventeen, he declared they’d be taking their business to the seas. Pica and Diamante laughed uproariously, fantasizing of plunder and women and luxury. Trebol’s thoughts were of prestige and fame, rambling from then on about emperors and warlords.

Perhaps people like them could not understand. There was only one objective Doflamingo gave a rat’s ass about and that had nothing to do with treasure or the absurd system of the Shichibukai.

Only Vergo seemed to have half a clue.

“Piracy, huh?” he pondered once, leaning against the rail of their most recently…commandeered ship, “You’ve a knack for poetics, Doffy.”

Doflamingo rested his chin on a palm. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Going out onto the waves,” Vergo’s shades glinted beneath the noon rays, reflecting the crisp waters, “A full circle.”

Doflamingo snickered. He immensely enjoyed these moments of perception from Vergo.

“We’re all buried at sea.”

A small smile crossed Vergo’s lips as he lit another cigarette. The wind was blowing out to the waves, heady tobacco blending together with the salt spray. Doflamingo inhaled, focusing upon it.

And didn’t bother acknowledging the shadow of eight-year old Rosinante sitting on the rail between them.

===

The hallucinations had begun out of nowhere. One moment, Doflamingo was having the time of his life, pounding into some moaning tart in the backroom of a local pub and the next Rosi was standing at the edge of the bed, peering into his face.

Doflamingo swore, nearly crushing the girl in his rush to scramble off of her. His recent growth spurt had made him long and heavy, and the dresser tipped over when he kicked it accidentally.

The girl didn’t even seem to notice the thundering crash it made. She didn’t even seem to notice he was gone at all, as she lay sprawled on the bed still, gasping, a blush of pleasure across her snowy cheeks.

Doflamingo’s mouth went dry. Rosi straightened, hands behind his back, as if he were about to start rocking on his heels. He looked exactly the same as when Doflamingo had last seen him. Sweat and dirt-stained, clothes worn, that thumbprint of their father’s blood at the corner of his chin from where Doflamingo had touched him.

Rationally, it couldn't have been real. He still surveyed the islands across the North Blue and kept a tap on the local news, but had long stopped expecting anything. It had been seven years after all. At this point, Rosi was either dead or didn’t want to be found.

“No,” Doflamingo growled, “No, no, you don’t get to do this to me.”

“What was that, hon?” the girl murmured, eyes clearing, “Hey, what are you doing over there? Fun’s back this way, big boy.”

She sat up, slinking right past Rosi. Her long hair was still dark and wet with rainwater. She smelled of her muddy traipse through the storm when Diamante had demanded whores for company. A cool bird-like hand took him by the wrist, guiding it to her lily-white breast.

“Come on now,” she said softly, fingers resting over his knuckles, “Don’t be shy.”

Doflamingo yanked his hand back and made her jump.

“Shut up.” He pointed toward the side of the bed, right at Rosi’s blank face. “Do you see anything there? Just nod or shake your head.”

The girl looked startled, hesitating a beat that made Doflamingo want to smack her in his impatience. But then she turned, glancing at his brother without comprehension and shook her head.

Doflamingo refused to let the icy grip of panic take him.

“Get out,” he snarled to the girl and wrenched his pants off the floor, far from aroused anymore.

“W-What? But you still have an hour—“

“Did you not hear me?” Doflamingo grinned and the girl paled. For an incredible second, it almost seemed she wanted to keep protesting, before self-preservation kicked in and she nodded, scooping up the crumpled pile of her dress.

It wasn't until her footsteps had faded down the hall that he managed to turn himself around again. Rosi was still there, sitting on the upturned dresser and idly kicking his feet.

“What do you want?” Doflamingo asked quietly.

He was stared at. The expression was mostly blank, save for a faint shadow of reproach, of child-like disapproval with him that Doflamingo remembered so well his stomach curled. Fuck, he was too young to be going crazy.

“I looked for you,” he said, “I really did. But you were gone. I think you’re probably dead actually. You’re not here to blame me, are you?”

Rosi’s face softened. He hopped to his feet, touching the floorboards without a sound, and for a second, Doflamingo thought he was walking towards him and couldn’t stop himself from flinching.

But Rosi halted at the end of the bed, crouching near the post. He stared at Doflamingo, before looking down.

A dropped photograph lay half-wedged between linen and wood. It was yellowed and creased with too many folds. A young raven-haired girl hugging a woman in a wheelchair.

Doflamingo recognized the hair first. It had just been fanned out over the pillows only minutes ago after all and ah, that’s right, he’d chatted with her pimp, hadn’t he? And learned the whole tragic tale. A dying mother. A life of poverty. She sold herself for a handful of pills.

Diamante had laughed and laughed until he cried. (God, the sentiment in people, am I right Doffy?)

Doflamingo hadn't laughed. Fraying hair and brittle wrists had crowded his memory then. And coughing. Endless coughing.

Rosi stared at him, nearly bending backwards just to meet his gaze. The torn hem of a lilac dress was clutched between his fingers.

Doflamingo slid on his glasses.

In the end, he fucked no one and left over twice the entitled payment for the stunned woman, storming out of the pub and into the wet cloud-ridden dark. Diamante didn’t protest much, cowed beneath the seething blackness of Doflamingo’s glare.

The photograph was still in his hand, growing increasingly wet and ruined. His trembling grip crumpled it further. With a burst of crimson petulance, he thought about setting fire to the entire pub and tossing it into the flames.

Instead, it slipped through his fingers to lie in the rain.

Rosi was gone.

===

He kept coming back.

Every time Doflamingo tried to do anything even remotely interesting. Or further the many meticulous plans he’s laid out, Rosi would be there.

Sometimes, in the pristine satin robe of a Celestial Dragon. Sometimes, in the rags their father had reduced them to.

Always watching.

Over the next few years, Doflamingo grew used to seeing him in doorways and windows, seated at the table while Vergo made reports, or spattered with the guts of whomever Pica had slaughtered for laughing at his voice.

Ignoring him to do what he pleased resulted in nightmares. And a left eye that seared with such agony he once nearly gouged it out.

By that juncture, Doflamingo was sincerely contemplating if he'd gone insane. He’d done a vast amount of reading in his spare time, determined to educate himself, and concluded that at some point he'd suffered a psychotic break.

Doflamingo could not fathom why or when. He hardly thought he was broken.

But what else could this be? He wondered, standing in the rubble of another nameless town, Trebol giggling and Rosi huddled amongst the corpses, cradling Father’s head like a toy.

===

“You really should leave me alone.”

Doflamingo was twenty-three and Gold Roger had been dead for six years.

The Grand Line festered with impossible dreams. A torrent of skull sails poured in, each with their own silly little design and captain, here to pursue their silly little goals.

A new era was rumbling on the horizon. Unwritten history with the quill poised on the page. How Doflamingo fantasized about tearing a hole straight through it all. There were so many ideas rambling in his head these days, so many horrible and hilarious things to achieve.

The crew had grown like a rising swell. It sufficiently sized now to organize into individual teams and supervising officers. They were all misfits, orphans and freaks to some degree, ostracized and barely existing on the fringes of society. No one wanted them, which was a waste and a shame, because there was such talent to be found.

Lao G from death row and Jora from the streets. The latest recruit, Senor Pink, had been plucked out of the jaws of a loan shark and was blinking at him with puzzlement.

“Young Master?” He spoke, all caution, and Doflamingo’s gaze trailed down from the bookcase, where his still eight-year old brother swung his feet.

“It’s nothing,” he reassured, shoving aside his own surprise that he’d spoken out loud, “So a little lady’s smitten with you, is she?”

Senor Pink blushed as deep as his namesake. “W-Well it’s nothing very serious. Just a few dates really. But since we’re going to be docked here until the log pose updates, I just thought…uh…”

Doflamingo pretended to listen as he prattled on. He kept tabs on every interesting development and was already well-aware of Senor Pink’s pretty, pretty Russian. They were discussing marriage at this point, far beyond a “few dates,” and Doflamingo was not pleased at all that his subordinate thought to hide things from him. Trebol had already urged that the relationship needed ending by force, worried about a division in Pink’s loyalties. Having yet to see any evidence of this, Doflamingo hadn’t bothered. He liked Pink and didn't like suspecting family.

Even if things changed all the time.

“My dear Senor,” Doflamingo said, abruptly interrupting the other man, “Let’s just cut to the chase, shall we? You are lying and I’m frankly quite offended you presume me so easy to evade.”

Oho, he’d forgotten how white of a shade Senor Pink could turn. Even better than that petrified bird impression of Jora’s. A corner of Doflamingo, which was forever a ten year old boy burning in the flames, was alight with vicious glee. Fear was not nearly so practical as devotion, but it was fun to see all the same.

“I-I’m sorry, sir. I was going to tell you sooner, but there was just never…She thinks I’m a banker, she doesn’t know that I’m…well, I-I guess I’m afraid she might—“

“What, Pink?” Doflamingo tilted his head. “Leave you? Send the Marines after me? Is she a bigger problem than I’d initially thought?”

The man’s eyes widened. Fat beads of sweat trickled from his perfectly coiffed hair and he nearly stumbled over himself to correct him.

“What? No, no, Young Master, she’s not a threat at all. I-I swear she knows nothing. She’ll never know anything. You don’t have to waste your time.”

“Never a waste of time where my family’s concerned,” Doflamingo chided, smiling coolly, “I've been abundantly clear. Mistakes can be excused. But betrayal…”

“I would never betray you,” Senor Pink said, fists squeezing and voice thick, “Never. Not for anyone. Please, Young Master, leave her be. I-I’ll…I’ll break things off with her today if you want me to. Give me any punishment you see fit for lying.”

His head was bowed and oh god, he was close to tears, was it really so serious a thing, eheh. Doflamingo fiddled with his options. Something from the frozen depths of him mused on killing her anyway and making Senor Pink dispose of the body. He’d never been partial to the notion of sharing…

Fingertips brushed his elbow. Doflamingo blinked and Rosi was sitting on the desk with blood coming out of his eyes.

===

(Senor Pink cringed like a dog awaiting a kick when Doflamingo suddenly cursed, nails screeching against polished wood.

“You’ve picked the wrong time,” the Young Master snarled and terror wrung Pink's stomach a little harder. As far as captains went, the Young Master was in his own league. A towering god among men. Power exuded from his every pore, but he was still surprisingly generous and reasonable, even if impossible to predict.

And certainly while those rare moments of anger were frightening beyond description, crew members were never subjected to it as long as they remained useful and did as they were told. He always made his expectations so very clear and Senor Pink would not dare resent him for that.

No, everything had simply been his own fault. He’d fucked up for real and now he’d never see or hear or touch her again.

“Get lost.”

Senor Pink stiffened.

“I said get lost, Rosi.”

Senor Pink raised his head).

===

“…Sir?”

Doflamingo’s jaw creaked as he glared into Rosi’s stained and dirty face, ignoring the shudder that echoed through his soul.

“Young Master?” a voice warbled through his senses, “Who are you…?”

Doflamingo turned back to Senor Pink, who flinched just at his gaze. He made a single alarmed glance at the empty space Doflamingo had been snapping at and did not attempt to move or speak again.

Eyes narrowed, Doflamingo considered the man impatiently. He had an inkling then of what would send Rosi away. It wasn’t the statement he’d prefer to make and he would probably never hear the end of it from Trebol, but he wanted Pink gone now.

“…If you watch her well,” he said slowly, “And never forget where your loyalties lie…then I could care less what you do.”

Senor Pink gaped, his previous unease crushed instantly beneath the weight of hope.

“S-Sir, do you mean…a-and it’s okay if we…”

Doflamingo sighed, resisting the urge to rub his temples. Oh well, he was bored of this whole situation anyway.

“Don’t lie to me again. Now get out.”

Senor Pink bowed so low his forehead was nearly level with the desk. He didn’t dare to ask what had changed his mind.

“Thank you, Young Master,” he said, voice trembling, “For your forgiveness.”

Doflamingo snorted as the door clicked shut after him. Forgiveness, huh?

“What the hell do you think you're playing at?"

But he was already in the room alone.

#donquixote rosinante #donquixote doflamingo #donquixote rocinante #donquixote corazon #op fanfiction #one piece #astra inclinant #my writing

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thejollyroger-writer · 6 years ago

Text

Keep Hope Close at Hand, Chapter Ten

Start at the Beginning: tumblr // AO3

Previous Chapter: tumblr // AO3

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Killian wakes with the sun, both he and the bed groaning as his back fights with the movement. The bed at Granny’s, somehow, was one of the more comfortable of his life, but that didn’t say much after the lifetimes he’s spent on hammocks, cots, and hay bales — but somehow, it still managed to stiffen his back enough to make him feel the old age that is catching up to him, much to his dismay.

Without waking Hope, Killian pulls a fresh change of clothes out of his half-packed duffel bag and heads for the shower, letting the hot water wash the aching out of his bones. He tries his hardest to keep his mind off the events of the day before, of the anger that seethes through him every time he thinks about Neal and the way he has been treating his wife.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t work. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees her. Sitting at that picnic table, trying her hide her tears from him; watching in fear as he confronted Neal so she did not have to.

The anguish on her face as Graham led him into the back of the police cruiser.

All he wanted to do was reach out and comfort her. Hell, all he’s wanted to do since he got here was reach out and comfort her, but learning of the hurt that this curse has woven into the life that she has come to believe is real just made it worse.

He rinses off one more time before shutting off the water, realizing that showering is not the way to clear his head, but instead of getting dressed and waiting for Hope to wake up, he finds himself standing in front of the mirror and taking a good look at himself.

It’s been a few days longer than usual since he has trimmed his beard, since he forgot his trimmers back at the apartment in Boston. The added fullness of it only seems to accentuate the lines of his face, the muscles of his jaw that are not quite as sharp and defined as they used to be. Not only is his beard fuller, but it is also lighter, tinted with more patches of red and grey than he remembers there being before, a characteristic he also notices is true with his hair, which has also grown a little longer than usual. But what really gets him are his eyes — or, better, the lines around his eyes. His eyes themselves are still the same startling shade of blue that they’ve always been, and he hopes that never changes. But around his eyes, webbing out towards his temples, sit deep lines. Not wrinkles, per say — much deeper than wrinkles. Laugh lines. He pulls the name up from somewhere in his memory, having read it in a book or heard it mentioned on the television, but he knows it’s right somehow. Laugh lines insinuates that he’s spent a lot of his life laughing, especially since he has been able to hold his little girl in his arms. Thinking of his darling cygnet pulls a smile to his face, a motion that accentuates the very lines he is thinking about, almost proving his point.

He runs his hand across his beard, down the muscles of his jaw, and to the back of his neck, where he hooks his thumb under the chain hanging around his neck, pulling the rings hanging around it in front of his face and his mind back to his wife.

She never answered him the night before, when he told her to let him know if she needed anything; though, he supposes if there was something that she needed, she either would have told him, or found help somewhere else, from someone that she thinks she knows better than she knows him, even though, in reality, that person does not exist.

Hanging his head, he lets the rings fall down to his chest once more. Gods, he misses her, misses waking up beside her every morning, the feel of her he held her in his arms. Where he was always rough edges, scars across his mind and on his body, she was always so soft, her words and her lips and her skin, in all the ways he never was, was never allowed to be. She was all the best parts of him, the reason those parts were able to exist after so many years of caring for no one but himself, and having to go all these years without her anchoring him down to the world was one of the hardest damned things he has ever had to go through — which is saying a lot.

Killian lets out a long sigh, running his fingers through his hair before shaking some of the water out of it. It doesn't take much to dry himself off the rest of the way after all the time he's spent in front of the mirror, so he slides into his jeans, fixes his hair to look more reasonable, and goes back out into the room, where he sits on the bed, trying to distract himself with one of the novels on his Kindle app.

It's just started to work, finally able to focus on the words without images of his crying wife rearing their heads, when Hope begins to stir next to him, rolling on to her side to use his thigh as a pillow. After a few more minutes, she turns up to him, eyes still heavy from sleep, and smiles.

“Hi, daddy,” she mumbles, then yawns.

“Good morning, darling.”

“You're clean.”

“Yes, I am.”

She nuzzles down into his leg again, humming softly. “I should be clean, too.”

He's missed these moments with her, when she is still half-asleep and says everything on her mind, and he can't help but laugh at her.

“Then get clean, love. Take a shower, then we can go out on the Jolly.”

“What about mom and Henry?” she asks, and he feels his heart try to wretch its way up his throat. He's glad that Hope wasn't with him when he found Emma by the docks the day before, that she hadn't had to hear Emma's story — that he could still shelter her from some of the madness here.

“I'll text her while you're in the shower and see if they would like to join us.”

She hums again. “Okay,” she mumbles, then rolls away from him, climbs off the bed, and gathers what she needs to get ready.

He hates lying to Hope, but if Emma wanted to talk to him, she would have reached out to him, right? Texting her again, when she had gone over twelve hours without responding to his first message, would be overstepping, right? He's just going to tell her that they were busy, even though just thinking about it burns a hole in the pit of his stomach.

He has just released the moorings attached to the dock when he hears movement in the cabin below; before taking his place at the helm, he decides to investigate.

When he opens the door, he finds Emma lacing up her boots, Henry still asleep on the bed. Emma turns to him, eyes wide, and presses a finger to her lips, begging him to stay silent, then points her finger towards the ceiling. “Up on deck,” she mouths, and he nods.

Hope is sitting against the railing paying him no attention, which he appreciates in this moment. He turns back to Emma, who slowly wets her lips before pulling the bottom one between her teeth, her cheeks slowly reddening. Unsure of what to do, Killian scratches the spot behind his ear. “We were about to set sail for most of the morning,” he tells her, unsure of what else to say. It’s certainly not the first thing he wants to ask her. It doesn’t even make the top five, if he’s honest with himself. So how it’s the first one that happens to come out of his mouth he may never know.

Her eyes, which have been turned down, snap up to meet his.

“Don't let us stop you.”

He smiles at her, if only for a moment. He wants to reach out to her, rest his hand against her cheek to feel her, warm against his worn palm. But he know he cannot — not yet. So he does the only thing he can before doing something he really regrets, and nods, turning on his heel away from her and back to the helm.

So they set sail, Hope sitting down on the lower deck with the storybook in her lap while Killian mans the helm, Emma looking out over the water not far from him. The wind is blowing her hair that is not tied into her ponytail softly away from her face. He can swear that she’s never been more beautiful than she is right this moment, but he’s sure this isn’t the first time he’s thought that, either.

And it certainly won’t be the last.

When he is on a course he likes, he locks the wheel and walks over to her, leaning against the railing hoping the space between them is enough to assure her comfort, even though all he wants to do is get closer. He gives her a moment to notice he is there before speaking, confirming that he does not startle her. When he does speak, his voice is soft, just above a whisper, and he hopes that she can hear him above the sound of the waves.

“If you don't mind me asking, love, why are you and your boy on my ship this early in the morning?”

For a moment, she is silent, and he worries that perhaps she did not hear him; but then she sets her head in her hands, elbows resting on the wooden railing, and he watches the rise and fall of her shoulders as she takes a deep breath. Slowly, the words start rolling, recalling her whole story from the day before: going home, then to the station, killing a few hours, Neal getting released, stopping to pick up Henry and David telling her that he’s already been taken home.

Telling Neal she and Henry were leaving. It’s here that she loses her composure, a slight quiver working its way into her words as she continues. “He said I better find somewhere good to hide, because he wasn't going to let me just walk out of his life and never look back. But that's exactly what I did. But then I didn't know where to go. David and Mary Margaret's was the obvious choice, but then I would have had to explain, and if he wanted to come looking for me, that's the first place I would go. For some reason, you were the second person that popped into my head, before any of these people that I've known my whole life. You, who I've known for barely two weeks, but I guess after what you did for me yesterday, you just felt…” She pulls her lower lip up between her teeth, searching for the right word, which she finds after a moment: “Safe.”

She stops, looks up at him, and he is silent, not sure what to say, if saying anything is even the right choice. And then she does it, that knitting of her eyebrows that she always did when she was searching his eyes for some sort of answer, and it's almost too much for him, especially when she reaches out to touch his arm, her fingers brushing just above the scars on his arm. The moment only lasts for the shortest of seconds before her hand falls to her side, the other pushing her hair out of her face, and she turns back to the water.

“You must think I'm absolutely insane after all that.”

He smiles at her, fights every muscle in his body when they cry out to press his hand against her cheek. “On the contrary, love, it actually makes complete sense.”

For a moment, they are silent, simply staring at the other, and Killian fights the urge to spring and tell her everything — but before he does, the door to his cabin creaks open, revealing Henry, still in his pajamas, his hair sticking every-which-way from sleep. (Killian takes notice of this specifically, since the lad at this moment looks very much like Killian does in the same state, still groggy from sleep and not yet having groomed himself, and it pulls a smile to his lips.)

When she sees him, Hope calls up from her spot on the deck, excited to see Henry, and he responds in kind, rushing down to hug her. Killian can tell that Emma is just as excited about the blossoming friendship between Hope and Henry as he is.

Their morning spent on the water passes by quickly, all of them simply cherishing time spent with the others. Henry and Hope sit on the lower deck, slowly paging through the Storybook and whispering to each other, and Killian and Emma moving between periods of content silence and casual conversation, Killian revealing to her that they're thinking of staying in Storybrooke for a while, a subject he has not even breached with Hope — though he imagines she won't really argue against it.

Around midday, Henry comes up behind Emma and wraps his arms around her hips, pressing his face into her side.

“What's up, kid?” she asks, wrapping her arm around his shoulder.

“I'm hungry.”

“Me, too!” Hope yells, still on the lower deck, and Killian turns to Emma, a soft smile spreading across his face.

“Well, love, with two hungry kids, I think this means it's time to return to shore, perhaps indulge in some lunch?”

Emma tries to return his smile, but the thought of going back to the shore — back to reality — is one that she had been mentally avoiding since stepping foot on the Jolly Roger the night before.

Because when they get close enough to shore to restore Emma's phone service, reality hits.

Between Mary Margaret, David, Neal, and Graham, she has nine missed calls in the past two hours, though most of them are time stamped for the past 30 minutes. She decides not to call anyone back until they reach shore, but it does not work; almost as soon as she reaches down to put her phone back in her pocket, it starts ringing.

Mary Margaret.

So she answers it.

There is panic in Mary Margaret's voice, but it seems to get better when she realizes Emma has picked up the phone.

“Oh, thank God,” she breathes, realizing Emma is actually on the other end of the line and not her voicemail message. “Neal is at Granny's,” she says, her words coming out quickly, as if she is unable to stop them. She sounds as if she is on the verge of crying, of completely falling apart, and with the few words she has already said to Emma, she doesn't blame her. She continues, “Screaming things about how you want to end it with him, how you've taken his son and left. Is this true? Did you and Henry leave? Where did you go? Why didn't you come to us? I called David at the station, and he and Graham are here now, but Regina is here, too, making it impossible for David to do anything, and Neal technically hasn't done anything in the first place. The only way he says he'll calm down is if you show up with Henry.”

She hangs her head, wishing she were standing not in the middle of the deck of a ship, but closer to anything that she would be able to bang her head against. This is the last thing she needs, to need to acknowledge the nightmare life back on land has become.

But she has no other option. She has to go, has to face this head-on instead of continuing to run away from him as she wants to.

Killian can tell that something is wrong by the look on her face, but he cannot leave his current position at the helm, steering them back into the harbor. He feels his heart in his chest, pounding loud enough that he can swear that he hears it, because something is wrong. He’s not sure who she’s on the phone with, what the voice on the other end of it is telling her, but when she turns around to face him, her bright eyes meeting him from all the way across the ship, his suspicions are proven simply by the look in her eye.

He can feel in his gut that it’s Neal, and when she hangs up the phone and makes her way back to the top deck to stand beside him, she fills him in on the phone call.

“I have to go, Killian. There’s — there’s nothing I can do.”

He catches himself starting to reach out his arm to pull her into his shoulder, try to comfort her. He can’t, there’s nothing he can do but stand there and watch her shoulders fall.

He’s wrong, he realizes — there is something he can do.

“Then we’re coming with you, love.”

She snaps her head to face him, green eyes wide with surprise. “No, please, you don’t have to.”

“Aye, I know. But if you think I am going to let you go alone, then you are sorely misinformed.”

The surprise on her face turns to anger. “What, do you think I need your protection? That I can’t take care of myself? All I’ve done my entire life is take care of myself, and I’ve been protecting myself from Neal Gold for most of my life, the last thing I need now is your sympathy.”

He lets her get through her tirade, knowing that stopping her when she is angry will do more harm than help, and when he does respond, his voice is soft, non-confrontational. “That was never my argument. I would just like to have the opportunity to back you up where and if you require it.”

For a moment, Emma stares at him, and he’s not sure if he’s succeeded; but something in his expression makes her sure that he’s not going to back down, so she agrees with a soft nod of her head, the sharpness of her gaze blurring around the edges. It can't hurt to have someone else there on her side.

As soon as Killian steps foot in the diner, he knows that the situation is worse than either of them imagined. All movement has stopped besides Neal pacing in the middle of the room, everyone else simply sitting at their seats and watching him. Thankfully, David and Mary Margaret are sitting in the booth right inside the door, and Killian and Hope slide into the booth beside them, nodding silent hello’s.

And when Emma walks in, Henry's hand clamped in hers, every eye in the room turns to her.

As soon as he sees her, Neal starts screaming again, his voice shrill and echoing off the surfaces of the small diner. “How dare you! You leave in the middle of the night, take my son with you, and don’t even tell me where you’re going! I’ve been worried sick about you!”

“Neal, please, can we have this conversation somewhere else? We don’t have to — “

“No, you’re going to talk to me here, now, and this whole town should hear your story, you crazy lying bitch.”

Emma does not respond immediately, searching for another way to talk him into leaving, but his words have started to take their toll on her. The last thing she wants is tell all of Storybrooke of the things she has put up with for Neal, that he had told her to leave and not come back, that she had to take Henry because she was afraid of what he would do to them — but she meets Killian's eye, sitting beside David in one of the booths, he looks as if somehow he is reading her thoughts, and simply shrugs, a sad smile momentarily flashing across his face.

His words from earlier play through her mind: “I would just like to have the opportunity to back you up where and if you require it.”

She appreciated them in the moment, but it is not until she is standing here, every eye in Storybrooke on her as she tries to put her words in the right order, that she runs them through her head again to calm her down. Even if no one else in this room believes her, if she has no other allies in this, she knows she has Killian, and somehow, that is enough for her.

So as calmly as she can, trying her absolute best not to break down, she begins. She reminds him about what he did, her eyes set on his not because they want to be, but because she can't risk looking at anyone else.

“You kicked me out of the house, Neal. You threatened me, told me to “find a good place to stay, because there’s no way in hell” you’re letting me and Henry go, so of course I took my son with me! Did you really expect me to leave him there with you, for you to treat the same way you've been treating me over the past few months? To yell at him, berate him, get incredibly drunk and remind him of every time he’s let you down? Have him wonder when you’re going to become more violent and move on to the physical?”

Neal glares at her for a moment before declaring, “Well, he's coming home with me tonight.”

“Like hell he is,” she bites back, but Regina finally speaks up from her corner of the bar, where she has been watching intently.

“Actually, Emma, you can't stop him. Henry is his son just as much as he is yours. You can't keep Neal from having him.”

She takes a step back, her brows knitting low on her forehead. “You… you can't be serious. I just said that he was violent, that he threatened my life, and you're telling me that I have to send my son home with him?”

Regina pulls the napkin off her lap and uses it to wipe off her face, her movements so slow that Emma can swear that she is doing it on purpose. “Yes. That's what I'm telling you.”

Feeling her lip quiver, she pulls it up between her teeth, unsure of how much longer she can hold herself together, so she kneels down and puts her hands on Henry's shoulders. “I'm sorry” she says softly. “Call me if you need anything. Anything.” She leans in for a hug, one that he returns in kind, and while they're embracing, she whispers, “If he does anything, write it down. Time and date. I'm sorry.”

Standing, she turns her eyes from Henry, then to Neal for a moment, and lastly to Killian before turning around and walking out.

Unable to intervene, Killian watches as Neal grabs Henry by the shoulder, rough enough to elicit a low growl of his own, and walks him into the back of the restaurant, Regina jumping off of her stool and following not far behind. Killian’s not sure what he just witnessed, but he knows he doesn't like it.

He has an idea — a crazy, terrifying, awful idea, but when Hope leans over and whispers in his ear, he knows it can't be that crazy if she has the idea, too.

#my writing #khcah #keep hope close at hand #cs ff #cs fics #captain swan #captain swan ff #ouat #ouat ff #heres a relatively nice chapter #in the middle of a lot of shit #its straight downhill from here #theres so much happening #good luck

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