Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Two pairs of footsteps thud down each stone step, barely managing to keep balance with the icy sheen coating the floor. Below the desert's surface, the temperature had dropped significantly; it's what's expected, of course, but still not welcome when it poses such a hazard.

The Professor shivers, arms wrapping around his body to contain as much warmth as possible. He's more adapted to the sun's heat shining on him all day–well, at least before it'd taken that long break with Hole Punch's arrival. The difference below ground is pretty significant, and he can only hope poor Olivia isn't shivering her folds crisp.

Staring at the walls doesn't give him much to work with. They're completely blank, bare of any ancient resemblance he's come to be familiar with when exploring similar places.

His hand trails the smooth wall beside him. Nope, no sign of anything. The Professor can't help but sigh. They may have only been here for a short time so far, but it doesn't look too promising. For a secret chamber beneath the Sun Shrine, it doesn't seem special. Perhaps just another burial site, no matter how unique the process is to open it–the Ancient Ones always did respect their dead.

It doesn't take them too long to reach the bottom, and the Professor stops just before Mario to watch as the small origami girl glides into the air between them, her face looking pale. Of course, he shouldn't worry too much, but he usually likes to refrain from bringing children into…places like this. He would've described it as a sort of temple or well-excavated cave if it weren't so different from what the real Shroom Temple had looked like. No ancient scriptures, no carvings on the walls. Just stone, stone, and a little more stone to add to that. Whoever created this place must've been quite the decorator.

“Hey, guys…Is it absolutely freezing in here, or is it just me?” Olivia's face has a few worried wrinkles tugging at it, hardly visible through her trembling form but still there. She nearly crumples with how hard she squeezes her arms around herself, and the Professor quickly lands a few pats on her back to give the girl some comfort. “I thought we restored the Sun…why is it so chilly in here?”

Ah, he could never pass up the opportunity to educate a young soul on how the desert works. Even in the chill of the room, he sends a shaky smile Olivia's way. “Ah! I can explain. Although we are in the desert, we have now descended below its surface, where the Sun's warming rays can not reach us.” Another hard shiver wracks his body, and he quickly backtracks his own statement with a frown. “Actually…the mere lack of sunlight can not explain this degree of chill. I retract my explanation.”

The Professor glances at the two others here with him, seeing the same pale, frosted features mirroring his own in this strange underground place. Once again, he takes another look around at their surroundings: beside them at the stone wall, below them at the rocky floor, behind Mario and Olivia at-

“My word! What in the name of peer-reviewed study is that?” No time is left wasted, his legs moving before he can even process what caught his eye–it's the instinct of a professor, after all, to run at the immediate sign of a discovery. He can see both of them straighten their posture from the corner of his eye, Mario more so into a defensive stance, though he pays it no mind.

He manages to stop the last second before he runs face-first into the…

“It's ice! A huge chunk!” Olivia's voice echoes out behind him. She seems to be more interested in the, well yes, the huge chunk of ice filling half the room than what he's focused on. He can't blame her, that on its own is quite a unique display, but what's on the inside is…that can't be right.

“That's why it's so cold, Professor. I get it now.”

The Professor only half-listens to her. This can't be. It just can't be! After all these years of researching, he just happens to stumble across him? No, no, he must be seeing things. It's only a block of ice. Underground. How normal. But looking at the technology on display only holds even more mysteries, creating questions to add to what hasn't yet been answered. His fists clench by his side, barely able to contain his excitement as he turns back to face Mario and Olivia, who're staring at him with a mixture of concern and curiosity.

“Look at this…the refrigeration technology on display is more sophisticated than I could have ever imagined!” The Professor's mouth hangs open for a moment longer like a gaping fish, eyes darting back and forth between the two watching him and the ice. He clears his throat softly in realisation soon after, snapping his mouth shut–a light red dusting on his cheeks likely would have followed if he wasn't so cold.

Olivia snickers quietly and slowly floats closer, Mario in tow with his usual silent demeanour, though with how long they've been travelling the desert together he can interpret this exact silence as one of fondness. With them by his side, he can only hope that they must see something in there, too. Whatever it may be. Taking a closer look, it could be some sort of colourful fabric? Or maybe…a cloak? And a hand. Two hands. Two feet, too. And even a head to go along with it, shockingly.

“Mother of graduate students! There's someone in there!” The Professor's hands fling to his eyes, rubbing them eagerly and taking a few hard blinks up at the figure. His theory might just be correct. “Hmm…judging by the distinctive red spots and that unmistakable cloak…could it be?!”

Yes, it could be. There's no other Toad out there with such a cloak, and he's never seen a replica so realistic in his entire life. The idea had crossed his mind the moment he laid his eyes upon that silhouette in the ice, but he would never have believed it to be right! This whole situation feels so similar to the many dreams he had long ago, as a younger man still determined that he could find the legend. He discreetly pinches himself, just to make sure.

“It's Khap'taan Teeowed himself! He's really real!” The Professor can't hold back his excitement, too busy pointing aggressively at the frozen Toad to show Mario and Olivia for any embarrassment to take hold. Has he really done it? Has he uncovered what will be his life's greatest achievement when he rids the ice? Right, the ice! He can't let the poor Khap'taan suffer anymore!

“This is no mere clue–it's the real deal. I must excavate the site and save him immediately!” And that's exactly what he does. Without hesitation, his hand automatically finds the handle of his shovel and digs the tip straight into the ice. Then again. And again. And a few more times after that. The sound of metal meeting ice fills the room, drowning out Olivia's concerned mutters to Mario. He pays no attention to the eyes burning into the back of his head. He can't quit now, not when he's so close.

But despite the echoing of his shovel, he can't mistake the obvious sound of boxes breaking behind him. It's with one flap of large wings that he's already sprinting away from the admittedly very little progress he'd made; Seeing Olivia's fire vellumental form so many times has definitely accustomed him to know when he should stay back. And so, for the fourth time being in its vicinity, he narrowly avoids being caught in the crossfire of her…well, fire.

The Professor clutches onto his hat to keep it from blowing away in the strong wind, nearly toppling over himself–though that's not what he's focused on. Khap'taan Teeowed's reddish body slumps to the floor, the water pooling around him. So it really is the Legendary Toad, and…

Oh, not even a twitch, huh? That…that's not good, is it?

The Professor rushes over, tugging nervously at the end of his jacket. “He's not moving! Oh, I hope he can be revived…” If not, he can always make use of the body. For research, of course–but even so, a live Ancient One could open a whole new world of discoveries through actual conversations. Olivia nudges into his shoulder, and he stops his anxious fidgeting at her gentle reminder; they share a quick glance, the Professor feeling his mouth move to smile at the kind girl once again.

“Maybe he's just stiff from being frozen for so long. Poor guy…” Olivia glides a little closer to the unconscious body, holding up a hand as if to poke it. “Should I try heating him up with fire again- Hey! Owowowowow-”

A sharp yelp is ripped from her throat as a hand reaches up and grabs her by the hair, throwing her a good few metres across the room. The Professor gasps at the display, hardly having any time to think about what happened before he hurries over to where she's rubbing her head with a pained groan. His protective instincts flare up at the sight of her, but all he can do is hesitantly hover his hands near her without so much as a clue on how to help.

“Olivia! Are you hurt? I mean, what just happened?” The Professor begins to turn around, hand resting on Olivia's head, until once again this sudden aggressiveness strikes him instead as he's yanked back into something firm. Cold metal presses against his neck.

Olivia stares with wide eyes at him…or something just behind him. Mario seems to be looking there too, hammer half lifted as if he stopped midway from pulling it out. This can't be good if even Mario's reacting strongly to whatever this is.

The metal digs harder into his skin, pulling a quiet whimper from the Professor. He doesn't hesitate to hold his hands up in surrender before this apparent blade draws any blood. Even though he really wishes this wasn't the case, he can already understand who's behind him. That strong arm wrapped around his body, the recognisable sword gripped in one hand.

“Stay back. Now, or your little Scholar here gets it.” The Khap'taan slowly drags the blade, only slightly, but enough to emphasise his point with a bit of blood.

The Professor's trembling increases tenfold, fear encompassing him to the point that all he can do is tilt his head back as far from the blade he can get. His vision blackens around the edges from how long he's been holding his breath, while his eyes land on the worried ones of Mario. Any hope that he was in safe hands with the moustached man slips each second the supposed hero stares back in silence. He can't blame the man for not taking action in time–he himself hadn't the chance to get many words out before the attack–but seeing the one he'd believed would keep him safe standing helplessly doesn't give the Professor much comfort. Even so, beneath the many layers of fearful weakness enveloping him, a small pinprick of excitement manages to shine through. He's being held captive by the Khap'taan Teeowed. The real, very alive Khap'taan!

And said Khap'taan grunts from behind the Professor and nudges him in the direction of the stairs. Turning his head to the other, the Professor frowns seeing the glower on the Khap'taan's face, likely aimed at the man in red. He refuses to break eye contact, an unsettling smirk tugging at his mouth.

“You…You are quite the treasure, hm?” Khap'taan Teeowed's eyes flicker to the Professor, giving his shivering body a slow look up and down. His smirk only widens, supposedly happy with what he sees. “I can flaunt you with the rest of my valuables. Come.”

The blade, which had loosened in his grip whilst he whispered to the Professor, is back at his neck in an instant, its metal sharp against skin. The Khap'taan is already dragging him back to the exit without another word.

“Wait, wait, wait! Where are you taking me?” His words actually manage to stop the Khap'taan in his tracks, but now he's not so sure if that's a good thing. The other's eyes snap back to the Professor, a deadly glare aimed his way. He really should've stayed silent, let whatever this is happen. Instead, a hand roughly grabs him by the neck. His breathing is cut off slowly, measured, just enough to leave him without air with the hand firmly wrapped around his throat. Like this, he can't even make a noise, reduced to his feeble attempts at gasping.

Warm breath bats against the side of his face, while a sharp object is poked into his cheek, circling the skin like some sort of twisted caress. “You do not get to ask questions. Come. Now.” The tip of the blade traces the outline of the Professor's face, coming much too close to his eyes for comfort–though, they're already closed by this point. It's hard to look back at the worried faces of Mario and Olivia when being toyed with like this.

It's not like Mario can save him. Definitely not Olivia either, unless there's a vellumental circle nearby. He's sure that the Khap'taan wouldn't hesitate to stab the sword straight into his cheek, or maybe refuse to unclench the hand blocking his airways if Mario were to make a single wrong move. The Professor's face must be an unflattering colour by now–maybe red, or an unnatural purple. Even still, the Khap'taan's eyes still stare. Whatever this strange infatuation is, he's certainly not a fan.

Finally, the Professor's given the chance to inhale some much needed air as the hand moves back down to his chest. It glides up and down for a short moment, stroking his body with surprising gentleness; it doesn't last long, the Khap'taan returning to dragging the Professor to the exit. Of course, this is not good. Quite bad, actually. But…this is Khap'taan Teeowed! It's him, a once in a lifetime opportunity! If this is what he must go through to be near the legend, then so be it. At least everything the other does feels pretty nice. Because he's a legend, obviously. It's not weird to enjoy this kind of attention if it's from someone so well-known. Really, he should be savouring it.

The Khap'taan pushes him again. “That means move, Scholar.”

“Y-Yes, yes, right away!”

Chapter Text

It's with a final rough shove that the Professor finds himself standing, trembling, in front of the Musée. His legs ache from walking all the way here, and the dried blood on his neck which he hadn't had the chance to wipe away itches uncomfortably.

Rather than taking the pipe, which he'd mentioned multiple times to the Khap'taan as a much more efficient way of travelling back to Toad Town, they'd taken the long way. Not without trouble, of course–though, surprisingly faster than he would've gotten here on his own. The Khap'taan's sword being unsheathed at the slightest sign of resistance from anyone they came across proved to be the key to significantly faster travel. Of course, he doesn't condone this behaviour at all, but he can't help but be impressed by the Khap'taan's determination to get to the Marino.

Even so, the sky had darkened quite a lot by the time the Professor's forced to push open the heavy doors to the building. It's just late enough for there to be only a few out, none of these people passing by taking the time to stop and notice the definitely suspicious scene happening in the middle of town.

The Musée is empty as always, the only occupant being the Curator, who's distractedly filing away some papers behind the desk he never seems to leave. The man, at least, hasn't looked up to see the two entering the room.

“Is that you Professor? As I've told you many times before, no, I can't let you stay here all night again to research the Marino,” he speaks with an air of strictness, as if this isn't the first time he's had to make this point. The Curator takes off his glasses to wipe them on his shirt, head turning to face the two; now, without his eyes covered, it's easier to see them widen upon the realisation that the Professor hasn't come alone. “Ah, and who's this you've brought here?”

The Professor watches warily as the Khap'taan takes a step forward, hand going to where his sword lies. He doesn't move to unsheathe it, but the knowledge that it may happen at a moment's notice isn't lost on either of the two staring at the rugged man. The Khap'taan grabs the Professor by the arm and yanks him forward, keeping him close to his side as he continues to advance upon the Curator, who'd straightened his posture and cowered back immediately once he'd picked up on the fact that this stranger isn't the friendliest.

The Khap'taan's eyes land on the Marino's exhibit behind the Curator, and an unsettling grin curls up from the corners of his lips. “I see you possess something that belongs to me.” His voice is gruff, and the words are almost unintelligible through his thick accent, but the venom in which they roll off his tongue is still clear. He wants the Marino, and he wants it bad.

A few seconds pass in silence, mainly because the Curator is left speechless while the Professor is too frightened to speak up. It doesn't linger for too long, though, as a single furrow of the Khap'taan's brows stirs the Curator into frantic motion. His glasses are hastily placed onto his face, somewhat lopsided, while he practically stumbles his way from his desk to hide behind the exhibit. His hands are flat against the submarine, more likely for support than as a way to give it to the Khap'taan; it's not like he can, the thing's much too big for his little arms in comparison to actually hand it over.

“Something that belongs to you, you say?” The Curator lets out a nervous chuckle, glancing between the Khap'taan's slow nodding face to the Professor's worried one, who is in turn shaking his head and mouthing the words ‘listen to him’. There's a short gap of hesitation, before the Curator's shoulders slump in resignation. “I-I suppose you may take it if you must, but I do beg that you return it in a timely manner as it is my best attraction- oh.”

By the time that he got the words out, albeit a bit quieter and a lot more anxious near the end, the Khap'taan had already made his way over to the man–not without the Professor unwillingly dragged along. At the mere mention of returning it, something dark and ugly seemed to reflect in his eyes, followed by a flash of metal slicing through the air as it's brought up to the Professor's neck in an eerily familiar motion.

“I will pay for my Marino. You give me what I desire, and my treasure lives in return.”

At this, the Khap'taan pulls the Professor's body against him like a doll, dragging him around as and when he pleases. He purrs the word treasure, grazing the cutlass gently against the Professor's neck for the Curator's fearful eyes to see. Said man turns a deathly pale colour, a soft ‘oh’ slipping from his lips in response. Using the Professor's life as a bargaining chip is cheap, but it's effective.

The Curator gapes at the sight, waiting for a few tense seconds, and then pushes up his glasses with a finger and folds his arms sternly. The colour slowly begins to return to his cheeks, while he steps out further from where he's hidden.

“Oh, I can't believe you would think to trick me like this, Professor!” He waves an arm at the display before him, scoffing loudly as he does so. It manages to shock even the Khap'taan, who hums interestedly behind the Professor. 

“I know what you're doing. You've hired some guy to dress up as the false legend–quite poorly, might I add–and gotten him to fake a hostage scenario just to get your hands on the Marino. Well, I have seen right through your deception, and I'm offended on behalf of this legend you seem to believe is real that you would- wait, wait, what is he doing?”

During the Curator's lecture, the Khap'taan's hand had snaked up into the Professor's hair. He appeared to whisper something into his ear, too quiet for the Curator to hear. In a single moment, the Khap'taan lifts his leg and lands a sharp kick to the Professor's lower back. He collapses to the floor with a shrill cry, and the Khap'taan stands so that he has one foot on the Professor's back to keep him down.

“You believe I am fake?” The Khap'taan digs his heel into the Professor, sword pointed to the back of his head. With the pressure being put on him, the Professor is reduced to a heaving, gasping mess on the floor, skin forcefully pressed down into the cold surface; beneath the weight holding him down, murmurs of ‘help’ and ‘please’ tumble out of the Professor's mouth, raspy and pained.

The Curator's confident demeanour falters, and with a soft gasp, he takes a shaky step forward, hands clasped together. He laughs, though humourless, and beads of sweat begin to form just above his brow. “Y-You really know how to put on a good act, don't…you…” he trails off, his voice wavering. Another step forward.

“Stay. Back.” The Khap'taan grunts, eyes trailing every movement made by the Curator, down to even the tremble of his hands which quickly raise in surrender. His expression is sharp, calculating, and clearly annoyed as he drags a deep cut into the back of the Professor's neck. It's unclear whether he did it as a warning or as an example of how far he's willing to go, but the unpredictability of the Khap'taan is enough of a threat on its own to make the situation urgent. “My Marino. Give it to me.”

The Khap'taan's face scrunches up slightly as he speaks. The words come out slightly unnatural, wrong from his lips, perhaps caused by his weak grasp on the modern language, since he always seems to slip back into ancient tongues when talking. Whatever it is, it certainly doesn't make him any happier, and he glares impatiently at the Curator with a distinct frown.

The Curator hurriedly stumbles backwards, nearly tripping over himself in his pursuit to get away. “Y-Yes, yes! Take the Marino, just please do not kill a man in the Musée!” His earlier stance on this whole thing being a ruse goes forgotten as he runs further back into the Musée, with one last shout along the lines of ‘the Marino is yours’ before he's fled fully to one of the other exhibitions.

Blood pools around the Professor, soaking some of his shirt with the red liquid as it continues to flow out of his wound. He can feel his heart racing, pulsing throughout his body, and tears begin to well up in the corners of his eyes watching the Curator leave him. He couldn't shout for help if he wanted, his throat too torn to make a sound, and now even the people he knows personally are too helpless to save him.

The Khap'taan lands a hard kick to the Professor's head not long after, a hearty laugh pulled from him as he picks up on the soft whimpers and whines coming from the Professor's shaking form. He bends down and grabs him by the hair once again, yanking the injured man up to his feet.

“See how he left you?” The Khap'taan's grinning face, scar-covered and marred in all its glory, leans uncomfortably close to the Professor's. Up close like this, the years of being frozen in ice really catch up to him as the horrid stench of the Khap'taan's breath hits his face. “You cannot leave me. They cannot help you, my treasure.” The hand in the Professor's hair loosens its grip, changing to instead softly run its fingers through his hair. It's like the Khap'taan's toying with him, threatening his life and then treating him with a strange gentleness that is so unlike him it's almost humorous.

The Professor opens his mouth to respond, but all that manages to come out are a few measly coughs. Somehow, this seems to please the Khap'taan in a weird sort of way. His expression grows triumphant, as if proud over the fact that the Professor can't even defend himself. The smile on his face turns softer, but his eyes still have that same sharpness to them which had been there since he'd been freed from the ice.

One of the Khap'taan's arms wraps around the Professor, tightly pinning both his arms to his sides. The other, the one with the sword, presses against his lower back as a gentle reminder that he can't let his guard down no matter what. The Khap'taan takes a step closer, stopping just before their bodies touch. “I know you wanted to find me all this time, my treasure. You wanted this all along.” And with this, he leans down and presses his lips against the Professor's.

It doesn't go smoothly at all. The Professor's face heats up once he realises the Khap'taan is kissing him, but immediately he tries to free himself from the tight hold. His heart pounds against his chest, and all he can focus on is how the Khap'taan's lips feel so rough yet soft at the same time. Despite this, he still tries to get away, though unsuccessfully. The blade pokes harder into his skin, urging him forward into the unwanted embrace and the kiss which the Khap'taan deepens in an instant.

The Khap'taan moves his free hand to the back of the Professor's neck, poking and prodding at the open wound there. He seems to revel in the gasps of pain it brings, and he bites on the Professor's bottom lip in an attempt to draw more noises from him. It's painful, aggressive, and yet the Professor can't help but melt into it.

Pulling back a little, the Khap'taan scoffs as he watches the Professor's lips chase his own. He pulls away his blood-soaked hand, placing a finger on the Professor's lips. His face moves lower, mouth now pressing against the crook just between his neck and shoulder. “So eager…” The Khap'taan's voice rumbles against the Professor, before he opens his mouth and latches onto the skin with his teeth. He bites down hard, drawing fresh blood from the wound which he's quick to lick up, ignoring the cries of pain coming from the Professor.

Finally, the Khap'taan decides to pull away and take a step back. His eyes scan the Professor, taking in the state he's in with sick pleasure. He has a smug grin on his face, proudly licking the blood off his lips and teeth for the Professor to watch. The moment passes though, and he grabs his wrist and drags him to the doors.

“I cannot move my Marino myself…” The Khap'taan grimaces, glancing from the submarine to the Musée's exit. He stares at the Professor in thought for a moment, eyes squinting at the man who shrinks under the attention. Then, he seemingly comes to a conclusion as he grabs the Professor by the front of his shirt and yanks him closer. His mouth hovers next to his ear, and he lightly grazes over the back of the Professor's neck with his fingertips as he speaks. “You will go out and find someone who can bring my Marino to the water's edge.”

The Professor shivers, nodding slightly. The Khap'taan, pleased with this answer, actually gives the Professor some room to breathe and takes a step back. He lightly shoves him forward, refusing to wait any longer for his Marino to be returned to where it truly belongs: the Great Sea. Soon. Soon, he'll be back out on her vast waters, with his treasure in tow.

“Oh, and please do not forget.”

The Professor freezes from where he was opening the doors, half turning back to face the Khap'taan. “Yes…?” His voice is meek, barely audible, but nevertheless it receives a mocking chuckle from the Khap'taan in response.

A glint of something unidentifiable, something sinister, shimmers in the Khap'taan's eyes. “Your acquaintance. The coward who ran. Lest you not return to me, I will ensure that he will pay for it in your stead.”