Prompt by the lovely @such-funI love the idea that Vaako is dangerously obsessed with the reader, but she escapes him and the necromongers. So now he is determined to find her and never let her go. It could even be a follow up to Spoils of War, or something similar. Thank you for fulfilling my Vaako needs lol
note: the summary is basically the prompt. This is a direct sequel of Spoils of War and will be 3 parts in total and I’m SO excited to share this first part!!
It’s strange, how life
never really turns out how one expects it to.
From dreams as a child to
travel the universe, to the adventure of leaving home behind you for the big
city as a teenager only to settle in the more realistic expectation to become
an important politician.
Maybe fall in love, get
But you never really did
travel the universe, living in the big city left you broke and lonely and now
there isn’t a government left to be part of.
Funny how that goes.
Instead you find yourself
the mistress of a Necromonger, your planet close to being destroyed and your
tbh I think my favorite thing about Riddick/Vaako or Riddick/Johns is when they use each other's first names?? its the cutest thing to me like Riddick calling Vaako 'Si' or Johns 'Billy' and Vaako calling him 'Richard' all affectionate and making him blush the first time he does and Johns calling him 'Ricky' to get him to laugh at how absurd it is before punching his arm its SO CUTE and no one ever uses their first names in fics and it makes me sad so I wanted to share my love of it with you uwu
The fluff! Yes, I love when the boys call each other by their first names or little pet names. My personal fave for Johns is Billy-Boy. Hey, Billy Badass is also canon so…
The silver ship hung in the night sky, a seed tipped from the hand of an insouciant god. But this seed held no life, only imminent death. Siberius Vaako sat in the command chair of the small bridge, watching their latest target on the viewscreen. The planet was quiet, blissfully unaware of the fate that awaited it.
“Are the EMP pulses ready?” His slender fingers curled loosely around the arms of the chair.
“Yes, First Commander.” The young ensign’s pale brow furrowed. “Sir, they’ve sent a distress call.”
“To whom?” he demanded sharply.
I don’t know, sir.”
The com officer supplied the answer from her post behind him. “It’s a general call for aid to anyone within range.”
An irritated growl. Some astronomer had likely been peering through his telescope at just the right moment. It was a complication he didn’t need. Not that it would change the outcome. “Fire the pulses at will.”
A trio of charges shot from the ship’s pulse array, bright as falling stars. On the planet, the lights went out in a rolling cascade, as though the night had swallowed them whole.
Siberius Vaako moves with purpose through the dim corridor. An old prison annex, or so say the schematics. Whatever it was, it’s empty now, cold and dark and silent save for his footfalls, which echo off the smooth, grey walls. No place for life, not even that of intransigent non-believers or wayward converts in need of correction.
And yet there is life here, in the furthest cell, a single, solitary figure who has called this place home since he bent his knee to the Necromongers twelve years ago It is a secret life, clandestine and precious, untouched by the ruthless hand of his masters, the last of his life before the Necromongers descended from the sky like fearsome, merciless angels of deliverance.
And if the Lord Marshal were to hear even the faintest whisper of its existence, it would mean his life. Hers, too. It would not be swift, but long and cruel and wrought from the bitterest cruelty. He knows nothing of the Lord Marshal before he came to enlightenment, but he suspects there was precious little kindness in him even then.
There is none now.
He stops in front of the last cell and drops into a crouch to scan the darkness. An empty cot covered in grimy, threadbare blankets. A hole in the floor that serves as the latrine. A comb with broken teeth on the floor beside the head of the cot. He tilts his head, and there…
He taps the metal floor with his palm, and the vibrations travel into his wrist. They’re doing the same through the floor, he knows, whispering a summons only she can understand.
A moment later, a dark head emerges from beneath the cot. Dark brown hair frames an alabaster face. It had been like silk once, but now it’s a snarl of mats and tangles, dirty and limp. The face is no cleaner, smudged with grit from the floor and the filth of a body long unwashed. Large, hazel eyes survey him with measured wariness.
“It’s me, little bird,” he says, though he knows she can’t hear it. He raises his hands and signs, I’ve brought you dinner.
She slithers from beneath the bed with serpentine grace and rises to her feet, prancing from foot to foot as he rises in turn to disengage the ward. She grins at him and her hands flutter in happy greeting. Siberius!
She’s on him the instant the ward vanishes in a flash of blue light, a giddy tangle of bony limbs and hair. She smells sour, sweat and a faint hint of urine, but he doesn’t recoil. Instead, he tightens his grip and cups the back of her head.
Too thin, he thinks. Little more than skin and bones. Too thin and too small.
He disentangles himself from her frenetic clutch and reaches into a pouch to retrieve a pair of red plums. It’s a pathetic meal, far too little, but it’s what he could steal from the mess without arousing suspicion.
She utters a squeak of delight and snatches them from his hand, and then she plops down in the middle of the corridor and takes a hearty bite.
Chew, he admonishes as juice drips down her chin and onto her filthy, too-small shift. He reaches out to stroke one bony shoulder. Chew, my little bird.