Note: This fic's Willow will lean much more toward her Comic characterization since the show version is barely a character.
Jacques had just finished his deep dive into Remnant's finest (or at least, his guess at what passed for it here). After a lot of clicking, wincing, and wondering how things even got this far, he could honestly say... well, it wasn't as good as Earth's stuff. Not by a long shot. But, hey, it was still pretty damn interesting. Between the weird taboos and the semi-normal stuff, Jacques was honestly a bit fascinated.
Turns out, most of Faunus didn't actually have animal-like genitalia as he might have expected, which was a bit disappointing, to be fair, but he swiftly moved on and pretended it never happened.
He wasn't about to get hung up on the genitals of Half-human, Half-animal people who didn't even really know how the hell they came to be.
...Was that racist? That last part did sound a bit racist.
So, yeah....porn was porn, he supposed. Rule34 still applied as far as he's figured out.
Sure, the Grimm were a constant threat, the politics were a mess, and people seemed to have a lot of opinions about Faunus, but some things were consistent across all universes. The internet always had some very niche corners.
But now that the curiosity was sated (and okay, a bit of his inner high school self had been fed), and he recieved that +5 wisdom and.+10 intelligence boost as a result of Post Nut Clarity, Jacques realized that had more important shit to deal with. Like the fact that this whole "being in a new world" thing was more than likely going to take a bit more elbow grease than he thought at first.
Closing the many colorful categories tabs with a sigh, Jacques leaned back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head as he stared at the ceiling.
Back to business.
"First order of agenda: The missus."
He let the words roll off his tongue, amused by the absurdity of the situation. He was in some foreign world, with a cursed technique that was probably going to screw him over one of these days, and now he had to deal with his wife—who likely hated his guts by this point.
Willow Schnee, the wife he didn't remember marrying but now had to keep from hating him more than she already did. She was a thorn in his side, and he wasn't sure how to make that thorn a rose. But that was his next task—fixing things with her.
Maybe she wasn't the worst, though. She was probably just pissed at him for... you know, existing as he did. To be fair, this body's owner had been a proper wanker. Top Ten and 'Hall of Fame' worthy Dickhead of all time.
It didn't help that he was a bit in the dark about the whole relationship. This body's memories were also a bit of a hit or miss since he couldn't exactly force recollections at will. He just had to thug it out until they came. He dragged his hand down his face, trying to picture her.
Tall, white-haired, decent tits, and a mopey, pitiful character from what he could remember from the show, but his body seemed to kind of balk at the idea. Maybe she was different when dealing with Jacques. The woman would still fuck him over after all with all those bugs and cameras, which he should probably get rid of soon.
...That left what? The maids and servants. Well, fuck, he couldn't just stalk and ask his slaves/minions and go all: "What do you know about my wife?" That was a good way to have all sorts of rumors spread. And not the fun, sexy kind. No, the whispers behind the back kind. The kind where everyone knows way too much about his personal life—things he hadn't even remembered about himself yet.
Nope, that would just lead to a lot of awkward conversations and a general sense of paranoia. Maybe a better plan was to start with the basics. Keep it subtle. A little charm here, a little flattery there.
At least, that's what he hoped would work.
....
Eh, fuck it, he'll just Google her, or whatever passed for Google around here.
"Let's see..." He flicked his wrist, pulling up a digital screen from the desk terminal. Luckily, everything was fingerprinted and eye-based, so no passwords that might have fucked him over. "What do we know about Mrs. Schnee's situation?"
With a few swift taps, the data started filling the screen. His wife was still nonexistent in the politics of Atlas. But she somehow still made odd appearances every few years to at least quell the rumors that Jacques had slit her throat. But other than that, nothing.
A whim struck, and he decided on a bit of ego search...and he quickly closed the tabs. Damn...they really went straight to the throat.
Shaking his head, Jacques sighed. Ah, shit. How the hell is he going to deal with Willow?
Her status? Hurt, angry, probably plotting his downfall, and definitely still not on his side.
His status? Confused.
Great.
He could start with something simple: an apology. It was basic, but maybe it was exactly what he needed to start mellowing through her 'fuck Jacques over'. He'd let her know that he hadn't meant to fuck everything up—okay, Jacques definitely had—but Jack wasn't planning on repeating the same mistakes.
'Or maybe I'll just charm the hell out of her', he thought, straightening up with a grin. He was good at this. It was one of his talents. They didn't use to call him El Gran Don Juan back in college for nothing, after all.
That would probably get her attention... right?
Jacques scoffed. "This is gonna be tricky, but I've handled worse. It's just... a fucking cartoon character for fuck's sake. She'll come around eventually."
"Yeah, all I need is a bit of finesse," he muttered, cracking his knuckles. "Some smooth words, a few well-placed compliments, maybe a flower or two. Hell, throw in a romantic dinner under the stars, and she'll melt like butter."
"Well," Jacques continued to himself, "I guess it's time to actually get my ass in gear. No more of this thinking and procrastinating. It's time to go to war… emotional war."
He stood up, brushing off his coat like a seasoned general prepping for battle. "Operation 'Get Willow to Not Hate Me' has officially begun."
Taking a deep breath, Jacques marched out of his office, already mentally constructing his first move. He was El Gran Don Juan after all. What could possibly go wrong?
But as he stepped into the hallway, Jacques threw the door open with the kind of flair that could send a less experienced villain into a panic. The poor maids, slaves, and minions who happened to be within earshot were treated to the loud whoosh of the door swinging wide, sending them into a collective jump.
He paused in the doorway, scanning left and right like some kind of lost tourist.
Tapping his foot with exaggerated impatience, arms crossed in that pose only someone like Jacques could pull off, he waited for his body's muscle memory to kick in and point him in the direction of his wife's location.
It didn't.
"...Great," Jacques muttered under his breath. "This is just great."
The sigh that followed wasn't so much an exhale as it was a full-on, dramatic outburst of frustration. It bordered on the kind of yell one made when everything had gone to hell for no damn reason.
With a swift turn, he fixed his glare on the closest maid—who had the distinct pleasure of becoming the unwilling recipient of Jacques's intense focus. She still held the duster aloft like a weapon, unsure whether to lower it or start running for her life.
Jacques, of course, didn't make things easier for her. He just stared.
She stood frozen, unsure if she was supposed to say something or just pray this was some bizarre power move.
"Call Seiben," Jacques said, his voice calm, though the chill in his tone would've frozen a lesser person on the spot.
The maid blinked, uncertain whether this was an order or some kind of cruel joke.
"Any time now, love," he said, a bit more forcibly.
The maid, after a brief moment of wide-eyed confusion, dashed off toward the nearest communication device, likely trying to avoid any additional "charming" comments from Jacques.
He watched her retreat with a satisfied smirk.
God, it felt good to order people.
As he stood there, arms crossed, Jacques glanced down at his polished shoes, tapping them against the floor again, half-expecting some kind of celestial music to cue up, marking the moment of his genius. But nothing happened.
Right, RWBY wasn't a musical.
A few moments passed, and the faint sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the hall. Sieben, Jacques's (not really) loyal but endlessly confused aide, appeared, his usual neat uniform looking slightly more disheveled than usual, probably from the sudden summons.
"Sir?" Sieben asked, his voice tinged with that cautious respect only someone who'd worked for Jacques long enough could manage without breaking into full-blown sarcasm.
Jacques gave him a once-over, nodding in approval as if this was the expected level of professionalism. Balding, short, possibly schizophrenic, and with what was probably a full-on personality disorder, this was definitely Klein Sieben, the Head of Staff.
"Yes, Sieben."Jacques leveled him with a look. "I wish to see my wife."
Sieben blinked, slightly taken aback. "See... Madame Willow, sir?"
"Who else but Willow, Seiben?" Jacques replied with a sigh. "I wish to see her, but it has been a while since I've done so, and I find myself unaware of where to find her at this time of day," Jacques said, and his body and tone unconsciously moved with the sort of confidence that only came from years of being the absolute worst person in the room.
The head butler winced at the tone but didn't say anything, unsure how to respond. "Are... Are you sure, sir?"
Jacques channeled his Pa, adopting the most "Are you stupid, boy?" look he could muster. "Am I sure I want to see my wife?"
Sieben hesitated, looking more and more like he regretted every moment spent in Jacques' company. "Of course, sir. But... I thought you were... um, not on the best terms?"
Jacques scoffed, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Not on the best terms? Sieben, my dear man, I've only been absent in spirit for the last few years. A little chat will smooth things over. I mean, how bad could it really be? It's not like she's plotting my untimely death or anything... right?"
Right?
Seiben's eyebrows shot up, but he wisely chose not to comment. Instead, he nodded stiffly. "The Madame is in her... chambers, sir."
Ah, finally, some good news. Jacques smiled, nodding in approval as though he'd just received a highly sought-after prize, which he did. If all went smoothly, this would be a small step for him, but a giant leap for his survival!
Sieben swallowed nervously, unsure how to react to the mix of smugness and delusion that was Jacques' not typical outward demeanor.
"Well, lead the way, Sieben!" Jacques motioned eagerly, practically bouncing on his heels. "Time to make my amends."
Sieben gave a resigned sigh and turned toward the hallway. "Right away, sir..."
Sieben led Jacques down a series of turns and long hallways, his footsteps echoing against the marble floors. Jacques, in all his smug glory, strutted along behind him, casting casual glances at the paintings on the walls and the over-the-top opulence surrounding him.
He was practically walking on air, already picturing the reunion that was about to unfold. He didn't exactly expect Willow to melt at his charm or for their love to reignite in an instant, but he would apologize, and hopefully, she'd have one less reason to screw him over.
Sieben, however, walked a little more stiffly, his eyes darting occasionally toward Jacques as if to gauge whether the man was about to do something spectacularly ridiculous. He'd lived through Jacques' highs and lows long enough to know that the latter far, far outnumbered the former. He was, after all, a walking disaster in the shape of a suit.
A snake of the purest breed.
Sieben sighed, muttering to himself, "For how long must the Madame and Schnee name be dragged in the mud?"
They turned a corner, and there it was—Willow's chambers. The door loomed large, almost mocking Jacques' confidence. He stopped a few paces before it, his chest puffed out. This was it.
"Well, here we are," Jacques said with a smirk, wiping his hands together as though about to perform some grand act.
Sieben gave him a look that could only be described as "I hope you don't burn this place down." He gave a small bow, though there was little enthusiasm behind it. "I'll, uh… I'll wait here, sir."
Jacques waved him off dismissively. "Do as you like, Sieben."
With that, Seiben stayed where he was, already muttering to himself under his breath as Jacques walked away.
Jacques waited a moment, took a deep breath, and knocked on the door with exaggerated force—three sharp raps, or at least that was the plan, had the door not suddenly opened and his knuckles collided too forcefully with a smaller, gloved hand.
"How may I be of service, sir?" An older woman—Head Maid, Ohma, his mind told him, finally!—had curled her fingers around his fist like an iron clamp and was now slowly lowering his hand.
Jacques blinked, momentarily thrown off his swagger as he looked down at the maid. Ohma spared him a clinical look as if she'd been waiting for this moment. Shit, the element of surprise was gone. Someone snitched!
The old lady also looked like had absolutely no time for whatever nonsense Jacques might throw her way.
"Right, Ohma," he said, pulling his slightly aching hand back and attempting to regain his usual, slightly menacing charm. "I'm here to see Willow. Is she in her chambers?"
The head maid raised an eyebrow in a way that conveyed the perfect balance of judgment, disdain, and caution. "The Madame is resting, sir," she replied, keeping her tone as neutral as possible. "She has requested not to be disturbed."
Jacques felt his confidence falter just a bit. Requested not to be disturbed. He hadn't considered that she might... not actually want to see him right now. But, brushing off that little sting to his ego, he put on a winning smile.
"Well, Ohma, I'm sure my wife wouldn't mind if I dropped in for a quick chat, eh?" He leaned in slightly to make his point more persuasive. "After all, it's just me, her husband. No harm in saying hello, right?" Jacques put his hand on the door, but it didn't budge.
Ohma's face remained impassive. "Forgive me, sir, but the Madame was quite insistent on not receiving visitors. She... prefers to have her space." Her eyes darkened.
Jacques forced a laugh, though it came out sounding a bit strained. This wasn't going according to plan. He had pictured sweeping in, maybe catching Willow off-guard with a heartfelt apology, and then gliding right out with her hatred of him a bit lessened, at least enough not to rat him out.
Instead, Willow was essentially barricaded from him, and he was talking to the embodiment of a brick wall in the shape of an old maid. An actual brick wall, he was pushing with all his strength, but she looked nonplussed.
"Listen, Ohma, I really need to speak with her. Just one conversation. I'm sure you can allow that, yes?" Jacques leaned in confidentially, his voice lowered, adding with a subtle threat, "Because I would rather not call the guards on my own Head Maid."
Ohma looked thoroughly unimpressed, barely shifting her gaze as she studied him for a long, uncomfortable moment.
Finally, with a sigh that could only be described as exasperated, she said, "One moment, sir."
Jacques watched as Ohma turned and disappeared into the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. He waited just long enough for her to be out of sight before darting forward, slipping in behind her, and catching the door before it closed in his face.
"You...!" Ohmaspun around, her expression murderous, but Jacques ignored her. He straightened his jacket, clearing his throat as if he hadn't just broken every rule of Atlassian decorum, and took in the surroundings.
The room was dim, heavy curtains blocking most of the natural light and casting everything in a muted, bluish tint. Soft classical music played from an old record player in the corner.
Jacques tried not to wrinkle his nose at the scent of perfume and aged liquor clung to the room.
His gaze landed on Willow, seated near the window with a glass of wine in hand. Several empty wine bottles stood on a side table nearby. Her gaze was unfocused, aimed somewhere beyond the window, and she didn't even react to the sound of his entrance.
It was… sad.
The fact that, despite her knockout body, the thought "would" wasn't the first thing that came to his mind really showed just how pitiful this scene was.
Still, definitely would.
"The empty bottles are on the table," Willow murmured absentmindedly. " Take them and leave." She waved her hand dismissively. "And don't bother me again, Ohma."
Jacques cleared his throat, holding back a smirk as he stepped forward. "I was hoping to do more than just clean up," he replied, his gaze fixed on her, trying to read the expression behind her glassy, distant stare.
Willow looked over her shoulder, her eyes heavy and tired, barely focusing on him.
"Hello, Willow," Jacques greeted her, attempting a small, disarming smile.
She blinked unreadable before her lips twisted into a bitter smile. "What do you want?" Her voice was hoarse, strained. "Or no, maybe it would be more fitting to ask what else you've come to take from me?" She let out a dry laugh, lifting her half-empty glass in a mock toast. "Sorry to disappoint, Jacques, but I've got nothing left. Well, nothing but this."
Jacques tried not to flinch at her words. He forced a smile, though it felt almost absurd in the face of her pain and the glare the Head Maid was giving him. "Well, that's… something," he said, stepping closer. "Maybe I'm here to give back a little, for once."
Willow's brow remained arched as she slowly set her glass down, giving him a long, scrutinizing look. "Give back, Jacques? Really?" Her words dripped with sarcasm.
Jacques winced but forced himself to keep his composure. "I know I haven't been the best husband—"
Willow let out a laugh, cutting him off. "Haven't been the best husband? Jacques, you don't even know the first thing about being one."
He sighed It was clear seduction was out of the question, and apologizing was proving to be a bitch. But he wasn't going to give up so easily. He'll aim for something a bit more close to her heart.
"Look, Willow, I came here to… well, to apologize," he said, trying to soften his voice. "Maybe it doesn't mean anything to you, but I'm trying. Can't we at least try to talk things out? I don't our family to be so fractured."
She stood up abruptly, and for a second, Jacques felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe she was finally ready to listen. She took a step toward him, eyes roaming his body as if she were weighing something.
"Apologize?" she repeated, her voice slurring. "And what exactly are you apologizing for, Jacques Schnee? The years of lying to me? The betrayal? The manipulation? Or just the fact that you've dragged this family name through the mud after everything I've done for you.?"
He hesitated, realizing he hadn't really thought this part through. "I… I'm sorry for all of it, Willow," he said, trying to muster some sincerity. "I know I've made mistakes, and I want to make it right. We could… start over. For the kids."
For a moment, a strange expression flickered across her face—something almost resembling pity. She stepped even closer. Then, slowly, her hand reached for the bottle on the table beside her.
Jacques blinked, still caught up in his naive optimism. "Willow, we could really—"
CRASH.
The bottle came down on his head, shattering with a force he hadn't expected. Glass splintered everywhere as he stumbled back, gripping his head in shock.
"Fuck!" Fuckiing Fuck!
"Start over?" Willow spat, her voice filled with venom. "That's the funniest thing you've ever said, Jacques. You haven't cared about anyone but yourself since the day we met, Jacques." She tossed the broken neck of the bottle aside, then grabbed him by the collar, yanking him forward until her face was mere inches from his. "So the next time you even think about lying to me again—or, gods forbid, use our children as bargaining chips—I'll rip off your dick and hang it around your neck."
His vision blurred with anger as she shoved him backward, and he hit the floor with a thud. A pulsing pain radiated from his head. He reached back, fingers brushing the source of the ache, and pulled them away to see blood.
"Fuck! This... this bitch," he hissed through gritted teeth, fury simmering under his breath. His mind reeled as he pushed himself up, feeling the sting of his wounded pride far more than the blood seeping from his head.
He gritted his teeth, steadying himself as he staggered back up, his vision still swimming.
Oh, this bitch, he muttered under his breath, wiping a smear of blood off his finger
But damn, this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
"You want to make it hurt?" Jacques muttered, the blood still trickling down his forehead. So be it.
Two can play that game.
"Your...Your children?" He repeated her words, as if they were a joke. He laughed through his teeth, his voice strained and his chuckle was strained and manic. "That's so rich, Willow."
Ohma stepped forward, placing a hand on his shoulder, trying to guide him away. "Perhaps it's best you leave, sir."
"Yeah, I'm leaving, don't worry," Jacques snapped, throwing Willow a look of disgust. "Drank yourself numb for years, didn't you? Didn't give a damn about those kids when it mattered—so don't play the 'mother of the year' now." He scoffed, glancing down at the shattered bottle.
"Leave." The bitch actually had the nerve to growl at him.
Jacques dragged his feet as he turned away, but he couldn't resist adding one last jab. "Oh, boo-fucking-hoo. You're upset? Feel betrayed? That's funny coming from someone who barely noticed them unless her wine glass was empty."
His voice dropped lower, colder.
"Your kids fucking hate you, and you have no one to blame but yourself."
The widening of Willow's eyes was the only warning he got.
A huge white circle appeared behind her.
It all happened so fast.
One second, he was looking at her, taunting her. The next, he was on the ground, his back against the cold floor, Ohma standing protectively in front of him, as the faint glow of blue and white light faded from her fingertips.
Jacques blinked, dazed, and a sharp pain throbbed through his skull.
He barely registered the shattered glass around him or the coolness of the floor. All he could focus on was how close he'd come to a much worse fate.
Ohma, still standing in his way, spoke without looking at him. "Leave, Jacques."
He forced a laugh, weak and bitter, to cover the sting of humiliation and fear. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but the fury in Willow's eyes—her raw disgust—silenced him.
"Fine," he muttered, pushing himself up with whatever dignity he had left. He took a final, sneering glance at Willow, but she didn't even look at him. She was staring at the ground, her breath heavy, like she was trying to breathe through the rage.
He stumbled out of the room, his hand instinctively going to the blood on his head. The throb of pain was sharp, a reminder of how badly things had gone. The fucking bitch. He cursed her silently.
She thinks she can attack me, he thought bitterly, shaking his head. She doesn't know who she's fucking with.
But the words still echoed in his mind, each one sharper than the last.
Your kids fucking hate you.
Yeah, why wouldn't they? She'd been a drunk, checked out when they needed her most.
What kind of mother drinks herself away, not give a shit about her children.
'A shitty mother, that's who!'
But something twisted in his gut.
'She never gave a fuck about us, Jack.'
The words hit harder than he expected. He tried to brush it off, to laugh it off.
But something was different now.
'Your mother hates you, Jack.'
Fuck.
FUCK.
He stopped in his tracks.
'Your kids fucking hate you.'
The words echoed in his mind. He couldn't shake them, couldn't escape the way they hit a bit too close to home than he wanted to admit. Damn his whore of a mother, and her issues!
His chest tightened, and he lowered his head.
He took a deep breath.
"Fuck!" He stomped his foot down on the cold marble floor. The frustration surged inside him and boiled over. 'Great, now, I'm projecting my own issues on a damn cartoon character of all things.'
Without thinking, he spun around, pushing the doors open with such force that they slammed against the walls.
Ohma turned, her eyes narrowing as she saw him. A frown twisted her face, but she didn't try to stop him this time when she saw the look on his face.
He looked toward Willow. She was kneeling on the floor, her knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her shoulders trembled slightly.
For a moment, Jacques just stood there, staring at her, his chest tight with something like guilt—something he didn't want to admit.
"I lied," he muttered. The words tasted like ash in his mouth. "Your kids don't hate you. They care about you. I shouldn't have said otherwise."
However!
A second later, he added. "but you're still a psychotic violent bitch who should take that pity dick out of her mouth."
He didn't wait for her to respond, didn't even give her a chance. He turned on his heels and stormed out of the room, his footsteps pounding down the hallway. He barely noticed Seiben waiting near the garden of white lilies.
When Jacques reached him, Seiben's eyes flicked up, his expression unreadable, though there was a faint glimmer of approval? in his gaze.
"I suppose it could have gone much worse, sir," Sieben said.
Jacques glared at him, irritation crawling under his skin.
Sieben didn't speak immediately. Instead, he nodded toward the garden of white lilies. "I've always had a soft spot for Eastern white lilies. Do you know what they represent in flower language, sir?"
Jacques didn't respond.
"Purity, rebirth, and redemption," Seiben continued with gravitas, offering Jacques a meaningful look.
"Sieben..." Jacques said gently.
"Yes, sir?"
"My head's split open. Save the pretentious flower talk to someone who cares, and call the damn doctor!"
The head of Staff gave a small, almost amused nod.
"As you wish, sir."