this account will mostly be reblogs of whump stuff. I might put my own prompts here but that will likely be rare. My main account is @starmars-jacam and I currently mainly reblog Minecraft yt stuff there
(pfp is a picture of a butterfly I took myself, felt like it fit cause the butterfly was all flakey and missing part of its wing)
Edit 5/12/26: adding a tag for my original story started on my main. #Star’s Royal Siblings whump (you can find the general stuff under the same tag minus the whump part)
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For requests, what about Elliot getting examined by the doctor or medic on the new ship? He thinks they’re going to assault him when they ask him to strip and they’re horrified by how many scars he has and the condition he’s in.
Thank you so much for this ask!!
Worthless Pirate AU - A Transfer of Ownership
Masterlist
Content: slavery whump, mention of past abuse, mention of past noncon, nonsexual nudity, bound and gagged whumpee, whumpee expects/offers noncon
If I missed any content warnings, please let me know!
I got a little carried away with this one too! 4k words
-
“This wasn't the plan, Karine,” an unfamiliar voice said.
Upon stepping aboard the new ship, Elliot was shoved to the ground against a stack of crates, still gagged, bound, and blindfolded. He curled up as much as he could, despite the burning pain in his back. His small body was shaking and his tears were soaking through the dark fabric of his blindfold.
“It is now,” Karine's voice said. “And I will take no criticism on this.”
“I have to agree with Lyra on this one, Captain,” Landon's voice cut in. “This is insane.”
“That is not at all what I'm saying,” the first voice said. “I'm not trying to criticize you, Karine. I'm just confused. Who is this boy?”
“A slave Landon found aboard the Serpent's Wrath.”
Elliot whimpered and squirmed in his bonds. He didn't want to listen to this. He just wanted to go home, back to his master. His existence was miserable, but it was all he knew.
“And you decided to take him? Why?”
“He does not need to be present for this conversation. We can discuss this later. Now, back to your posts. And get me Broderick.”
“Aye, Captain.”
The floorboards creaked as someone approached the discarded slave. Elliot whined beneath his gag, tensing as he awaited the tug of a fist in his hair. But that didn't come. Instead, his blindfold was torn off and his gag was gingerly untied. Elliot forced his eyes open, despite the glaring sun and yelped when he saw Karine kneeling in front of him. He hunched his shoulders and lowered his head in reverence. “P-Please, d-don’t hurt me,” he mumbled.
Karine was silent for a beat and Elliot didn't breathe until she finally said, “What's your name?”
Shocked, Elliot lifted his eyes slightly. What game was she playing? Master always said slaves didn't need names. Was she testing him just to punish him right out the gate? Didn't she know that she didn't need a reason to punish him? That he was hers to play with as she pleased? Maybe this was part of the fun for her. Maybe she liked the thought of playing with his anxiety. He might as well find out what her punishments looked like. It would save him more stress in the long run.
“E-Elliot,” he finally answered.
Karine smirked and Elliot's stomach dropped. “Nice to meet you, Elliot,” she said, to Elliot's awe. “I'm Captain Karine de la Peña. Pleasure.”
Elliot shuddered. “Y-You're Captain de la Peña?
Karine nodded. “Aye, but you can call me Karine. Welcome aboard the Relentless.” She made a wide sweep of her arm to gesture across the ship, but Elliot’s eyes remained firmly planted on his lap. He had to be good. He was at the mercy of the infamous pirate king. What other choice did he have?
“Captain?” a new voice said. Elliot flinched, a sense of dread swelling in his stomach. Karine peered over her shoulder, but didn’t stand up from her kneeling position. Elliot was confused. She was the captain, and not only that, but she was also the most feared and respected pirate to ever set sail across these waters. How could she stand to sit lower than her crew? Didn’t she know she was meant to be above them? How could they ever remember their place if she allowed herself to kneel beneath them?
“You wanted to see me?” the stranger said. The man was tall, but not nearly as tall as Landon. He had warm brown eyes and skin to match. His black, tightly coiled hair was cropped close to his scalp and there wasn’t a single visible scar on the man’s body. Elliot was astounded. He’d never seen an unmarred pirate before.
“Aye,” de la Peña said, finally standing to her feet. From Elliot’s low vantage point, she and the stranger seemed to be of relatively equal height. Not that it mattered. Elliot was exactly where he belonged, bound and sitting at their feet. He bowed his head again in an attempt to make himself smaller. “This is Elliot.” Karine gestured toward the prisoner at her feet. “I need you to examine him for injuries and treat any you find.”
The man looked at the shivering boy as though just noticing him for the first time. “One of Whitlock’s?” the man asked. Karine gave a single curt nod in response. “Since when do we take prisoners?” Elliot flinched again. Was this man seriously questioning his captain? Elliot had borne witness to far too many executions and he squeezed his eyes shut in preparation for another.
But all Karine said in response was, “Since today. Now I’ve given you an order, Broderick. Once the boy is sufficiently treated, I will gather the crew and explain everything. Now, take our guest to the med bay and make sure he is well looked after. I will be hearing no more qualms about this. Savvy?”
The man nodded but said no word in response, even as Karine left the two alone. The stranger fixed his gaze on the bound slave at his feet. Elliot was trembling, terror igniting in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t want to go to the med bay. He was too exhausted and his only injuries were the lash marks on his back and the deep purple bruises painting his limbs and torso. Why couldn’t they take him to the brig instead?
The stranger sighed. “All right, little thing. Up you get.” The words were gentle, not spoken in the way of a command, but Elliot knew an order when he heard one. With his hands bound, it was difficult to push himself to his feet. Each movement pulled at the welts on his back, sending fire shooting up the boy’s spine. Just as he nearly managed to scramble to his knees, he slipped, his back crashing against the crates he was propped against. Elliot hissed in pain, a faint whimper escaping his throat. The stranger rushed to his aid, gently taking hold of his shoulders in order to hold him steady. “Ah, apologies there, mate. Let me help ya.” The man gingerly guided the slave to his feet. “Don’t worry. The med bay is just below deck. Not far at all. Think you can make it?”
Elliot nodded, though his confidence was minimal. With the way his hands were bound, keeping his balance aboard a rocking ship would be difficult. But he didn’t have a choice. “Y-Yes, Sir,” he said. Elliot didn’t look to gauge the man’s reaction to his obedience, but he hoped he was pleasing the pirate. Captain Whitlock had trained him well. He could be good. He could prove himself worthy of serving the pirate king and her crew as a hostage.
The stranger gently nudged Elliot in the direction of the ship’s hatch and helped him below deck. He didn’t bother to untie the boy’s hands, but Elliot had expected as much. A slave couldn’t be trusted with unchecked use of its appendages.
Elliot let himself be led through the underbelly of the ship until they reached the med bay, at which point, the slave finally looked up from his feet. The med bay was nothing like the one Elliot was used to. This one was clean and well-maintained with glass cupboards fully stocked with multi-colored labeled jars. There was a cot in the center of the room with a thin mattress, atop which lay several white folded sheets. There was a wash basin in the corner, but this one looked to be made of steel, as opposed to the splintered wooden one aboard the Serpent’s Wrath. It was empty, but the cauldron suspended over the furnace along the wall gave Elliot hope that hot water was a possibility. He quickly snuffed out that flicker of hope. Obviously, that wasn’t for him. He had never bathed in hot water before. That luxury was reserved for the captain and possibly a lucky first mate. Hot water would be wasted on a slave.
“All right, just sit there,” the stranger commanded, gesturing to the cot. Elliot did as he was told, wincing at the pressure on the welts along his thighs and buttocks. He sat as still as he could manage while the man dug through one of the lower cabinets in search of something that Elliot couldn’t see. “It’s Elliot, right?” the man said, his back still facing the slave.
It had been so long since Elliot had last heard that name. He knew it was his, but it sounded so foreign. “Y-Yes, Sir,” he mumbled, his voice soft and quivering.
The man stood to his feet, joints popping as he did so. He turned back to face Elliot, a crooked smile on his face. “I’m Broderick. Ship doctor,” he said. “Nice to meet you.” Confusion immersed Elliot’s features, but he didn’t have time to dwell on the thought before he noticed the pristine knife in Broderick’s left hand. Elliot paled, suppressing a gasp at the sight of the weapon in the medic’s hand. They were gonna kill him. This wasn’t a hostage situation at all. This was revenge.
Broderick didn’t seem to notice his terror, moving to kneel behind the slave. Elliot tensed, preparing for the familiar feeling of steel carving through his flesh. What came instead, however, was a gentle tug at his wrists followed by the sound of the knife slicing through his ropes. “So,” Broderick began as he worked to relieve the boy of his restraints. “The Serpent’s Wrath, eh? What made you wanna join that crew? You’re not the kinda pirate they normally take in. You owe money to Whitlock or somethin’?”
As the pressure around Elliot’s wrists fell away, Broderick stood to his feet and returned the knife to its resting place. Elliot brought his hands out from behind his back and gently rubbed at the raw skin the ropes had left behind. “N-No, Sir.”
Broderick hummed, still facing away from the slave. “Ah, just fell for his charm, eh? Can’t say I blame ya. The man’s a right bastard, but least he’s nice to look at, eh?” Elliot didn’t respond, opting instead to ponder what the medic was talking about. Did he not know that Elliot was a slave? If he could look at the state of the boy and assume he was just a regular pirate, what state did they keep their slaves in aboard this ship? Elliot shivered at the thought.
“Right then,” Broderick said, turning to face the boy once more. “Captain says I need to check you for injuries. Mind stripping to your undergarments?”
Elliot froze. He wanted to obey, he really did, but… “I don’t have undergarments.”
Broderick furrowed his brow, a deep blush crawling up his neck. “Uh…” his voice shook a little and he nervously scratched the back of his head. “Not really sure how I'm meant to check you for injuries then. Might I ask why not?”
Elliot averted his gaze, choosing instead to focus on the raw skin encircling his wrists. “Master doesn't allow them. N-Not for me.”
“Master?” Broderick repeated, a hint of disgust slipping into his voice. “You mean Whitlock? He makes his crew call him Master?”
Elliot shook his head. The medic seemed confused, but Elliot hadn't been given an order to elaborate. As much as he wanted to explain himself, it was improper of a slave to correct its superior. He had to be good. He just had to be good.
After several long, agonizing moments of awkward silence, Broderick nodded. “Right. I'll fetch you some undergarments. Wait right here, mate.”
Elliot didn't lift his gaze from the floor. “Yes, Sir.”
Once the medic had gone, Elliot took the opportunity to finally process what was happening. He was a hostage aboard an enemy ship, at the mercy of de la Peña herself. His master had hardly fought for him, despite claiming that he was his prized possession. He was alone in uncharted territory, surrounded by pirates that seemed to hate the very existence of the man that owned him. What was he supposed to do? What was going to happen to him?
Elliot flinched at the sound of the door swinging open, the medic nervously reentering the room. “So, uh…” Broderick began. “We've nothin’ that'll fit you. S’pose you could leave your trousers on. Do you've any injuries on your lower body?”
Elliot nodded sluggishly. He was exhausted. Whatever this game was that the medic was playing with him, he just wanted to get it over with. He knew what was about to happen to him. It was just cruel to delay the inevitable like this.
“Right,” the medic said. “S'pose we don't have a choice then.”
Elliot wanted to laugh at that, if he were even capable of making such a sound anymore. He never had a choice. That was the whole point of all of this.
He knew what he was supposed to do, and this time, he didn't need instructions to do it.
Elliot pushed himself off of the cot, his insides churning. He didn't want to do this. He really didn't want to do this. But that was the point, wasn't it? That's what made it so exciting for everyone else. That's why it would never stop.
Elliot slowly and deliberately stripped out of his oversized clothes, starting with his poet's blouse. He grasped the hem between his thumb and forefinger, blinking back tears, and methodically pulled the loose, stained garment over his head.
Broderick gasped. The boy's torso was a rainbow of bruises, countless shades of black, blue, purple, red, yellow, green interlacing to create a masterpiece of the midnight sky across the boy's skin. The angles of his body were sharp, bones jutting out in all directions. As the boy leaned over to strip out of his trousers, the medic caught sight of angry red lash marks on his back. His lower body was a similar story. Cuts and slices criss-crossed his skin overtop old scars, hand-shaped bruises painted his thighs, and Broderick could see the whip marks that were wrapped around the back of his thin legs.
The boy didn't even try to cover himself, to retain any semblance of dignity. He just stood there, still as stone, as though waiting to be given an order.
It was only then, as Broderick’s eyes roamed across the poor thing's battered body, that the medic noticed the long-healed scar over top of the boy's heart. The scar’s glossy sheen gave away just what kind of scar it was.
The burn was clearly old, likely several years old, but the image it created was as clear as the day it was burned into the boy's skin.
No, not burned.
Branded.
The insignia of the Serpent's Wrath was branded into this young boy's chest.
Elliot couldn't take the silence any longer. He knew what the man must've been thinking as he took his time gazing upon the slave's naked body. He was wondering how he wanted to use the slave. And Elliot was truthfully thinking the same, though the exact opposite. He was wondering how he'd be forced to repay this man for the medical attention he was about to receive. The ship doctor aboard the Serpent's Wrath always appreciated a simple blow job after treating the slave. Elliot just hoped this one would be as easy to please.
“Um…” Broderick began, voice quivering. “Would you mind turning ‘round for me?” Elliot did as he was told, almost robotically. He slowly turned on his heel, and Broderick didn't miss the tiny, near invisible wince he gave.
Save for the brand over the boy's heart, his back looked even worse than his front. The myriad of bruises matched those on the front of his torso, but this time they were intersected by long, fresh lashes. The glimpse of the lashes Broderick had spotted before didn't do them justice. The welts were long, jagged, and swollen. They were a bright, angry red, but that could've been attributed to the thin coating of blood covering Elliot's back. But they didn't stop there. The lashes continued downwards, mostly concentrated on the boy's ass, but his thighs hadn't been spared either. The welts below his waistline ended just above his knees and were clearly not as fresh as the ones on his back.
Based on the fact that some were still oozing blood, it was safe to say the lashes spanning from his shoulders to his hips couldn't have been received any longer than an hour ago. While the ones below his waistline must've been given the night before.
Broderick's heart ached for the boy. He silently cursed himself for being too blind to see it before. He'd called Whitlock Master, he was branded with the serpents’ insignia, all he seemed able to say was “yes, sir” and “no, sir”, he was thin as a needlefish, and he wore more wounds than Broderick had ever seen. This wasn't a pirate. However Elliot had ended up aboard the Serpent's Wrath, it wasn't by choice.
Broderick’s stomach twisted into a knot. He'd known Christian for years. The man was an entitled piece of shite, but Broderick could never have imagined he'd do something like this.
Broderick cleared his throat. “Uh…you-you can turn back ‘round now.” Elliot did as he was told, not a flicker of defiance in his small, horribly beaten body. Broderick nervously scratched the back of his neck. “Right then. Um…why don't you, uh, just sit here a minute? I'll go have a word with the captain.”
Elliot's stomach clenched, but he did as he was told, sinking into the thin cot mattress. Why did he need to speak with the captain? Had Elliot done something wrong? Had his marks turned the man off? No, that couldn't be it. Master always said he was prettier like this.
Broderick paused just in front of the door and turned back to face the slave. “Uh, feel free to use one of those sheets to cover up, if you want.” He gestured to the pile of folded linens beside Elliot. “I'll be right back.” With that, he disappeared into the corridor beyond the med bay.
Elliot glanced at the white sheets, contemplating whether that was explicit permission or not. He desperately wanted to be covered, of course, but what he wanted didn't matter. Was the medic simply trying to be polite? He'd seemed genuinely disgusted at the sight of Elliot's body. Perhaps this was his way of telling the slave to cover up without being overtly insulting. That was generous of him. Elliot hesitantly took one of the sheets and draped it over the lower half of his body.
Elliot's attention was stolen by the sound of harsh, muffled voices on the other side of the door. It was difficult to make out the words, but they sounded frantic and stressed and like they were trying their best to keep a hushed tone. Elliot tried his best not to eavesdrop, but the walls were thin and he couldn't help the way the words slipped through the cracks as the voices grew louder.
“You didn't tell me he was a slave, Karine.” Broderick's voice said. “What use have we for this boy?”
“I told you, I would discuss this with the whole crew after you've treated him,” Karine's voice returned. “So, if you want answers, I suggest you do your job.”
“It will take me a very long time to treat him. You haven't seen how bad it is.”
“I know how bad it is,” Karine's voice said.
“No, you don't!” Broderick exclaimed in a whisper-shout. “I've never seen someone in a state like this before. It's horrific.”
Elliot glanced down at his body, at the brush strokes of purple left behind by boots, fists, and anything else the crew was creative enough to see as a weapon. Horrific. Tears welled in his eyes at the thought. Master had always said he looked beautiful like this, like he was their very own work of art. He'd never been described as horrific before. Was he really that repulsive?
The conversation continued, but Elliot's thoughts were too hyper focused on that one word to continue listening.
By the time the door opened again, his tears were flowing freely. He threw himself to his knees at the medic's feet, not noticing the captain lingering behind him. Elliot lowered his head and cried, shoulders shaking with the effort to hold back the loud sobs rising up his throat.
“I-I'm so sorry, Sir,” Elliot said, bowing down until his forehead collided with the salt-stained wood.
Confusion etched onto Broderick's features. He glanced over his shoulder at his equally-confused captain, but she was more focused on the black and purple bruises spanning the boy's torso. Looking back at the kneeling, naked boy, Broderick didn't know what to do. “Uh…sorry for what, mate?”
Elliot knew what was happening. He'd been through this song and dance more times than he could count. Broderick wanted him to admit what he'd done wrong. He wanted to hear the slave accept how disgusting he was.
“I'm s-sorry I-I've r-repulsed you.” Elliot lifted his head, eyes bloodshot and overflowing with tears. “P-Please don't p-punish me for-for my ugliness. I promise, I-I can still service you.”
Elliot nodded eagerly. “Y-Yes, Sir. I-I've done it before, h-hundreds of times. Master's ship doctor r-required it after every-every time he treated me. I-I could use my m-mouth. Or-Or my hands, wh-whatever d-disgusts you the-the least. You-You don't even have to l-look at me. Please, l-let me p-prove to you that-that I'm a good boy.”
Broderick's breathing had ceased somewhere during Elliot's desperate pleas. Surely he wasn't hearing what he thought he was. He wanted to look at Karine, to gauge her reaction to this, but he couldn't tear his eyes from the trembling, naked boy at his feet.
He didn't want to ask. He really didn't, but he had to know for sure what the boy was asking.
“Are you—Are you offering to-to suck me off?” The medic shakily asked.
Elliot's face reddened, his eyes darting from side to side, unable to land squarely on the medic standing above him. He forced a nod. “Y-Yes, Sir.”
Broderick didn't know what to say. This was too much. Karine had taken prisoner a slave from an enemy ship, a slave who had clearly been beaten and whipped sometime recently, a slave who had just offered himself up to be raped. It was just too much. “I think I'm gonna be sick,” Broderick mumbled.
Devastation flowed through the boy at the sound of those words. This was all he had. This was all he could offer the medic in return for his treatment, but he was too disgusting. The man was too repulsed by the sight of him, even the thought of using him made Broderick sick. What else was he supposed to do?
Karine watched the scene unfold, mouth agape. She'd known upon seeing the boy for the first time that he had been treated like scum, but this was so far beyond what she could've imagined. The poor boy looked crestfallen. Maybe she was way more in over head than she thought.
Broderick panicked upon seeing the way the boy deflated. “I-I'm sorry, mate. I shouldn't have said that. What-What I meant to say was, I-I'd never do anythin’ like that to you, not because you're ugly, but-but because I-I'm not like your old ship doctor, okay? You don't have to repay me or anythin’ like that. This is my job. This is what I do and I don't expect payment for it.”
Elliot sniffled and wiped his tears, lowering his head in shame. “I'm s-sorry, Sir. I-I shouldn't have a-assumed.”
“No worries, mate. I just wanna treat your wounds. Savvy?”
Elliot nodded, keeping his face hidden from view. “Y-Yes, Sir.”
Broderick nodded. “Right then. Um…why don't you lay face-down on the cot? I promise, I won't do anything to you. You-You can use the folded sheets as pillows if you'd like, and-and I'll prepare to clean you up.”
“Yes, Sir.” As Elliot scrambled to obey, wincing as he did so, Broderick glanced at the horrified expression on Karine's face. Once the boy was settled on the cot, she finally met the ship doctor's gaze, shock and awe visibly displayed on her face. Broderick motioned for her to leave the med bay, but not before shooting her a look that said, What have you gotten us into?
-
Thank you so much for the ask!! This was so much fun to write. I'm having a blast exploring my characters in a new environment.
I know a lot of you were excited for more post-rescue pirate content, so I really hope you enjoyed this!! If anyone else has any suggestions or requests for this au, please send them to me!!
The next couple weeks are gonna be very busy for me, so forgive me if I take a short break from writing. Unless I come up with something that I simply can't ignore😏
Whumpee is often left gagged when Whumper isn't around. After a while, they start to chew and bite it. Is it out of boredom? Anxiety? Something else? Who knows, but it drives Whumper up the wall because they're having to replace equipment every few months.
Team Leader no longer fought the restraints tying them down to the chair. The beating drained them of any remaining energy, so the only thing they could focus on was breathing through the pain.
"Here's how it's gonna go," Whumper grabbed Team Leader's chin, admiring their already bruised face. "I will now call Teammate, and you will tell them to drop the case: say it's been solved, send them on vacation... whatever. Just make sure they stop."
Team Leader met Whumper's gaze and blinked once, exhausted and resigned. Whumper let go of their chin and pressed the button on the phone. The dial tone echoed in a nearly empty room.
"Hello?" Teammate's voice came through the speaker after a few moments.
"Hi, Teammate, just checking in on your project," Team Leader put in an enormous effort to sound calm and even vaguely cheerful.
"Oh, it's going well! With the evidence I found, we should be able to prove Whumper's guilt."
"Great," Team Leader threw a glance in Whumper's direction. "Do hurry up, though."
Whumper's face darkened. They quietly put the phone on the nearby table and grabbed Team Leader's pinky, slowly bending it as a threat.
"Yes, I will. Leave it to me!" Teammate replied eagerly.
Team Leader's face contorted as they tried and failed to stifle a yelp.
"Is everything alright?" Teammate asked with concern.
"Y-yesss," Team Leader hissed. "I'm just busy. Gotta go. Good luck with your investigation," they rattled off as soon as they managed to steady their voice, somewhat.
"Right, thanks. Talk to you later!" Teammate said.
They sounded relaxed, completely unaware of what was happening.
The moment the call was over, something snapped, and Team Leader screamed.
Whumpee just slumped on their knees, sobbing in Whumpers basement. They’d been numb for so long but some random memory had triggered a rush of grief so strong that they couldn’t hold back any longer.
Maybe it was the realization that they were never going to see that random coworker that complimented their shirt (now ripped and covered in blood). Realizing yes, they’d probably never see anyone they knew, close or not, ever again.
Maybe it was coming across the gum wrapper left in their pocket, realizing they missed so badly something so small. They’d used to keep a pack of gum on them always. The tiniest things stung the worst.
Maybe it was realizing they’d probably missed some important milestone. They couldn’t be sure how many days had passed but they’re pretty sure they’d missed Christmas. Someone’s birthday. A wedding. A funeral.
Little details attacking when they were least expecting them.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Winged Whumpee losing their ability to fly. Maybe they get their wings torn off. Maybe their wings get damaged (by Whumper or Whumperless). Either way, they lose a core aspect of themselves and their life. Something they can never get back.
Bonus Point: they're surrounded by people who still has their wings/still can fly
leader stares at the bloodied bodies of their team in front of them. they feel their heart pounding in their ears.
"leader?" one of their remaining team uncurls and looks up at them.
in one breath, leader takes the grief from each loss and tucks it away in a box in the back of their brain. "it's okay. are you hurt?"
smaller than ever, they crawl over to leader and latch onto them, "i don't think so." they look past leader and immediately tuck their face into leader. "oh god. what are we going to do now?"
Written in Ink, Signed in Blood by Emachinescat (AO3)
HTTYD | Link in Title
Johann forces Hiccup to write his own ransom note at knifepoint.
Fandom: How to Train Your Dragon (Animated Movies), DreamWorks Dragons (Cartoon)
Words: 2,907 | Chapters: 1/1 | Rating: Teen And Up Audiences | Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply | Category: Gen | Part 3 of Bad Things Happen Bingo, Part 24 of Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Hurt
Characters: Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III, Johann (How to Train Your Dragon)
Additional Tags: Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III Whump, Kidnapped Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III, Hurt Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III, Hostage Situations, Hurt No Comfort, Whump, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Hair-pulling, Knives, Blood, Panic, Threats of Violence, Threats of torture, Implied/Referenced Torture, Ransom, ransom note, Angst
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Excerpt below; read the whole fic on AO3! <3
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Hiccup stared down at the blank piece of parchment on the table before him, heart pounding and stomach twisting. "I'm sorry," he said, somehow managing to keep his voice steady despite the unease curdling in his gut. "You want me to what?"
"You heard me, Master Hiccup," Johann snarled, tightening his grip on Hiccup's right wrist and pushing the arm slightly higher up his back. Hiccup couldn't stop a sharp inhale as pain lanced from his wrist to his shoulder. Johann's satisfied chuckle rode on the wings of the warm breath ghosting the back of his prisoner's neck.
Motion to the left caught the corner of Hiccup's eye; with a flick of Johann's wrist, a wickedly sharp dagger appeared from his sleeve. Panic flared and Hiccup tried to twist away from the approaching weapon, but Johann's fingers squeezed his wrist so tightly that pain sparked to his elbow and his fingers started to go numb.
The razor edge of the knife, warm from Johann's body heat, kissed the delicate skin of Hiccup's throat. Breath caught in his chest and terror screamed through him, freezing his blood and stalling his heart as the knife bit, so sharp he hardly felt the skin break. He did feel the droplet of blood trickle down his neck and nestle in the hollow of his throat, and his heart slammed back into motion, fast and desperate and loud, his pulse the beat of war drums in his ears. He wanted to bolt out of the chair he'd been forced into, shove the table away, and run. But they had taken his prosthetic leg and chained his right ankle to a table leg.
"Fear," Johann purred, drawing the knife back just enough to give Hiccup a sliver of breathing room, though it didn't make breathing any easier: The terror had a strangling grip on his lungs. "That is more like it." His voice hardened to Gronkle Iron. "Pick up the quill. Now, or you'll be writing with your own blood instead of ink."
Whumpee is able to provide a little too much information about Whumper during team meetings. Details that seem too personal to be dug out of research alone... the kind one would only know if they knew Whumper closely.
Team begin to suspect Whumpee is a traitor, a double agent. They stop listening to Whumpee's advice and suggestions during meetings because they think Whumpee is trying to trick them into one of Whumper's traps.
Now imagine the look on the Team's faces when they're captured because they didn't take the precautions Whumpee told them to.
Imagine the look on their faces when Whumper walks past all of them and goes straight to Whumpee because "It's so good to have you back, darling. I've missed you."
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Ok so imagine a living weapon who got rescued by a team and got out of the brainwash. BUT the team has to go incognito inside a living weapon auction to save the other whumpees, so ex-LW pretend to still be one for the mission's sake.
Can you imagine ?👀👀👀
●the team seeing the staff no giving a fuck about ex-LW comfort and treating them like an object or telling the team they "could get a good price out of that one"
● the staff asking ex-LW questions about the 'training' they got and them having to recall painfull memories while unable to show emotion (and the team being horrified)
●ex-LW seeing old handler/whumper
●Being afraid things will go wrong and they will lost everything again
● bumping into another living weapon who was trained with them or who fought side by side with them and they recognized each other but can't talk
● and living weapon is sad because they thought their friend was able to escape but is apparently still prisoner. At least their new handlers don't look too cruel ?
●or they can talk breafly buy ex-LW can't blow the team's cover so they just lie
●and when the team is able to save the whumpees ex-LW has to reassure the others that they are actually nice or new handlers, and won't hurt them, but know years of brainwashing can't be erased so quickly...
watching this video by molly burke (everyone go follow her) and she just quoted someone saying "the person i was wouldn't hang out with the person i've become" and. waugh. how many of your whumpees can relate pre- and post-incident. because i know my whumpees would feel that statement big time
Whumper's mild voice sends a shiver down their spine. He runs a finger down their back, along one of the worst welts. Whumpee flinches, eyes on the dropped whip.
The mattress dips when Whumper stands up, and still Whumpee doesn't look away.
"I even know you could enjoy this, Whumpee."
He goes around the bed and Whumpee doesn't bother to turn their head and watch, resignedly laying there.
"Found a little something when I went back to clean your place. Do you recognise this?"
Whumpee's eyes flicker towards him. He's holding something, far enough that they have to squint slightly to see. He steps a little closer and Whumpee's confusion only ends when they recognise the writing on the first page. Their eyes go wide and they push themselves up, staring at the stack.
Whumper chuckles, walking slowly toward them.
"You do! That's fun. I only skimmed through it, but I thought it'd be exciting to read it together, hmm? Find out what makes us compatible."
Whumpee shakes their head, tearing up slightly. They try to beg around the gag but Whumper only smiles.
"I'm sure I can help turn some of those maybes into yes."
His finger goes down the page as he searches something. He looks up, still smiling, "Like collars. I'm sure I can help with whatever... apprehensions you had."
He's distracted by something, chuckling lowly as he reads. "I'll even make sure to practice my knots. I can't keep you chained now that I know you like ropes so much."
Whumper shakes their head again, eyes pleading. It's a lost cause, they know, but refusing makes them feel better.
"Aww, don't be shy. I can be accomodating, Whumpee. It's the first time I have someone with the same tastes as me, so I'll make an effort."
He shakes his head softly, amused as he turns the page. Whumpee remembers filling it out, and again, discussing it over and over with their partner. They remember the list's order, and they shake their head again, preemptively. Whumper doesn't look up.
"Oh wow. That's fun- Kneeling is a yes? I'll have to check on your posture, then." He sends them another smile, almost teasing this time, and Whumpee feels sick, swallowing convulsively.
"Hmmm... Begging, I've seen already. Following orders.... that I haven't seen yet, but I think we're getting there. Bit of a brat, aren't you?"
Whumpee feels anger just long enough to look up at Whumper. It curdles into more shame and they try to curl on themselves - a reminder that it's a bad idea to pull on their back.
"Oooo, pet names?" He looks up at them, eyes glinting with perverse excitement. "You enjoy those, sweetheart?" He reads the note that Whumpee know is written in the corner and his voice is dripping with mirth as he adds, "Or is puppy better?"
Whumpee can stop neither the flinch nor the wince that ensues.
"Aww. That's so cute, honey. I'll try to remember for you."
He turns the page and quickly skims through the next, skipping it. He sends a wink towards Whumpee, "Don't need a list to know how to take care of you, darling."
Whumpee shudders.
He's much slower on the next page, reading almost line by line.
"Slapping is a yes? Huh."
Whumper moves the list to his other hand, looking up. He moves his wrist quickly, up and then in a swift arc towards Whumpee. It's harsh, striking the nose more than the cheek. Whumpee's head is forced to the side so fast they hear a crack in their neck - a twinge of pain that doesn't even register as they drop back on the bed.
"Like this? Did you enjoy that, kitten? "
Whumpee's whimper doesn't seem to register as Whumper goes back to the list. He doesn't comment for a while and all Whumpee can hear is the crinkling of paper and the sounds they make as they swallow around the gag.
A bark of laughter breaks the silence, so mean and mocking it would have made Whumpee flinch even in another context.
"You have gag preferences?"
Whumpee closes their eyes, which does absolutely nothing to stop them from listening to Whumper's mocking.
"I'm sorry, darling, I just really needed you to be quiet. I'll use one you like next time."
He continues reading, snickering when he reaches the next section. Whumpee turns to the side, looking away. Shame doesn't register anymore, so there's only something vaguely shaped like betrayal. Something so personal being turned against them again and again.
"We won't be doing any roleplay for now but the notes you wrote are so detailed..." They keep their eyes on the wall, away from Whumper.
"Maybe in the future, when we know more about each other. We'll need a lot of trust."
The last page he barely skims. "No room in the budget to get more toys, darling. You're already quite expensive."
His voice makes it sound like a joke. Whumpee hears him take a few steps to set down the list and then he's back on the bed, sitting near their back. There's nothing they could do to stop themselves from tensing, and even less to stop the flinch when he grabs their shoulder.
He turns them towards him. It takes merely an instant but it forces Whumpee's back into the mattress and they scream into the gag, tearing up.
Whumpee finishes the roll to get onto their stomach before awkwardly pushing themselves up. Whumper is watching when they look up, a soft smile on his face.
He reaches for the gag, ignoring Whumpee's sudden tensing and leaning away. Their jaw aches and they stay quiet, trying to catch their breath.
Whumper leans forward slightly, reaching for Whumpee's chin. He's the gentlest he's ever been as he tilts their head up, expression almost soft.
Then his mouth is on Whumpee, hot and wet and invasive. It's not a sweet kiss; teeth digging into skin, tongue violently exploring their mouth, Whumper's hand tight on their chin.
Whumper moans loudly, pulling away just enough that they can both catch their mouth. He wipes his mouth and chuckles, watching Whumpee pant and choke on the lungfuls of air they're trying to take.
"I'm really glad we had this conversation, sweetheart. I'm sure it'll help both of use enjoy ourselves much more."
something i’ve always loved is a whumpee with very rapid healing who never hesitates to throw themselves in harm’s way, to act as a shield. Why shouldn’t they? it’ll all heal soon enough, and sure it hurts, and sure some of these hits wouldn’t have landed anyway, but better safe than sorry. especially when they’re first paired with a team that takes full advantage of this, then moved to a second team that, for some unknowable reason, cares about whumpee’s wellbeing
#390
content: team whump, guns, shot, immortal whumpee, hero villain whump, needles, past trauma, comfort
It was so easy.
It was so rewarding.
It was such a no-brainer.
Sure, it hurt for a little bit, but that was a small price to pay for being a literal meat shield that kept their teammates safe.
Wasn't it?
Everyone on their previous team took it for granted. That Whumpee would jump before a bullet, or a sword, or a dagger. They took full advantage of Whumpee's healing power, and there was never really a discussion about how maybe that wasn't all that ethical, how maybe heroes should've had a stricter moral code, and really, Whumpee didn't mind, Whumpee was just glad to be useful, it was fine if it hurt—
"Whumpee, move!" their new leader screamed, but it was too late. The bullet embedded itself in Whumpee's back, and they stifled a groan, knowing their new team would likely also think the noises were annoying. "Fuck! Everyone, pull back! Whumpee got shot!"
What?
Their previous team would've just carried on as usual. That was Whumpee's purpose: to take one for the team. To take two for the team. To take ten for the team. To take and take and take until they were nothing but a bloody heap on the floor, barely breathing, but always regenerating.
Before they knew it, Caretaker had picked them up in a bridal carry to rush them back to the team vehicle. But the battle wasn't over yet. Villain was still at large, and Leader and the team needed to stop them, and Whumpee was helping in that, they had done well, so why—
"Shit, Whumpee," Medic said once Whumpee was gently set down on their stomach. "You'll feel a pinch — it's a local anaesthetic. I'll need to dig out the bullet."
"Can you work while I'm driving?" Leader asked, already starting up the engine.
"I'll try."
None of this made sense. They abandoned an entire mission because Whumpee got shot, and now they were wasting anaesthetics on them?
"It's okay, Whumpee," Caretaker said quietly, just barely audible over the sound of the engine. They were holding Whumpee's hand like they were something precious instead of expendable. "I'm sorry this happened. You'll get better, okay? I should've paid closer attention to you out on the field."
"I don't get it," Whumpee finally said. They felt some pressure around the wound, but no real discomfort; they assumed the anaesthetic was working as intended. "Why are you all... Why are you..."
"Why what?" Caretaker asked gently.
"This is my role in the team. To take bullets. To act as a shield. This has always been my role."
Caretaker furrowed their brows. "Whumpee, what are you talking about?"
"With my previous team, it was all so natural. We never really had a talk about my role, but it was just... sort of obvious. I'd heal. They wouldn't. So I was cannon fodder."
Caretaker looked horrified. "You'd heal, sure, but it'd still hurt."
"I'm used to it."
They looked even more horrified. They squeezed Whumpee's hand. "Monsters, the lot of them. On this team, we look out for each other. Even if you heal. Even if you think it's useless."
Whumpee couldn't find the words to explain what they were feeling, so they kept quiet. But deep down, deep in their heart, there was something dangerous blossoming. Something they shouldn't have felt towards a teammate, or an entire team, when they knew their power made it so that they would always be required somewhere else. Maybe they'd be moved in a week, maybe a month, maybe a year. But they'd be moved.
When Jester performed, he looked just beyond the king, at the man held in the shadow of his throne.
The man stood stone-still, hands braced on the pommel of his sword, but his face remained malleable, beholden to slight twitches and the occasional glint of the eye. While the king laughed, the sound barreling down the marble hall, Jester glanced at the knight’s firm mouth.
His first smile—hardly an uptick in his lip—had nearly sent Jester offstage. He’d recovered by swiveling around and collapsing to the floor, bracing an arm over his face so that he could stare at Knight without suspicion.
Amusement softened Knight, sloping his shoulders and raising his hard-set brow. Jester took a moment more to savor his face before tumbling to his feet.
////
The pain barely registered when Knight grabbed Jester’s cheek and turned his head to the side.
“Hey there, handsome.” Jester slurred, attempting to grab at Knight’s elbow.
Knight frowned, leaning closer. His thick calluses itched along Jester’s hairline as he pushed his head back further, angling his face toward the candelabra above.
“How’s the pain?” He asked, sweeping Jester’s fringe upward. The hair dragged, wet and slick, across his forehead, and a blitz of ache arced through Jester’s numb stupor. He shied away on instinct, but was held still by the thumb under his jaw.
“Oh,” he mumbled, “they hit me.”
And then, he laughed.
“They really hit me.”
Knight’s jaw clenched.
“Your pain, [Jester].”
“Oh, I’ve had worse, don’t you worry.” He patted Knight’s arm. “I just—I really thought I had a good show here, this time around.”
Jester thought he’d been lucky. The King had treated him well, affording him sumptuous lodgings and living expenses. He’d been amused by simple, lighthearted performances, and Jester hadn’t strained his morals or body to please him.
So the hit had truly blindsided Jester. A noble had hurled a hefty goblet at his temple and Jester had fallen to the floor, like a puppet unspooled from its strings. And then the King’s court had laughed, louder than Jester had ever heard before, the sound resounding down the hall like a clap of thunder, and Jester had clutched the carpet, fighting his darkening vision.
“You dragged me out of there.” Jester jolted out of the memory, squeezing Knight’s wrist. “You didn’t have to do that.”
There were always repercussions for cutting a show short.
Knight’s finger grew lax against the side of Jester’s face.
“It was my will.” He affirmed, before dropping his hands to Jester’s ribs. Jester gave a shaky breath before Knight’s grip shifted further up and Jester was suddenly airborne, dragged onto to his toes. He swayed into Knight’s side and Knight steadied him as nausea burned up his throat.
“You have no reason to help me.”
“I do.” Knight said simply, pushing Jester forward.
////
“Don’t you have a king to mind?” Jester asked as Knight set a water basin on his bedside table.
“I am one of many guards.” Knight dipped the cloth, and settled in front of Jester, who leaned back slightly, hands twisting in his sheets. “My duty now is to make sure his majesty’s entertainer remains in one piece.”
“I see.” Jester breathed.
So that was Knight’s aim. He was simply tending to the King’s toys.
That hardly mattered though, because Knight still touched him gingerly, one hand curled over Jester’s shoulder, the other pressing the cool cloth to Jester’s temple. No matter the motivation, Jester would remain weak to a kind hand. A lump worked up his throat and he shakily shallowed it down.
“Do my performances ever amuse you?” Jester winced as Knight daubed his wound. “I always feel bad that you have to stand through every one, start to finish. It must grow boring.”
“Your duty is to entertain the King, not his knights.” Knight shifted the cloth to Jester’s hair and worked the blood out from the strands. “You don’t have to amuse me.”
“I’d like to.”
Knight stopped and Jester nearly jumped as Knight crouched to meet his gaze.
“Focus on the king,” he intoned, “and you’ll make it out of here alive.”
“Alive?” Jester echoed as Knight drew away and set the cloth down.
The man touched the reddened fabric before dropping his hand to his side. He eyed Jester where sat. His gaudy vest hung unbuttoned, tassels reflecting the firelight. From beneath his eyes, his makeup dripped and Knight considering returning, if only to wash away the night completely from his face, but he’d done more than enough.
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Content - vampire Whumper, intimate Whumper, bloodbag Whumpee, forced submission, dubious consent blood drinking, kinda dubious consent touch, but nothing sexual, mentions of past punishments
Someone was in his room.
Aiden realized this even before he opened his eyes. He felt a shiver run down his spine and his body got tense, ready to escape. He shifted involuntarily, muttering something under his breath, not yet fully aware of the world around him.
Then someone gently brushed his hair back from his forehead, which made him open his eyes. It took a few seconds for his sight to adjust to the light.
"Good morning," Victor said with a strangely pleased expression.
Aiden quickly covered himself completely with the blanket as soon as he recognized him.
"Go away. Don't ruin my weekend," he muttered, hoping that Victor would listen for once and stop ruining every good moment of his life.
Victor just laughed.
"Don't be like that. I just wanted to say hello." There was something unsettling in his voice, Aiden only now noticed. He'd expected his usual aggression, born of a sense of superiority, being treated like something he deserved. Instead, Victor seemed calm, as if he didn't want to hurt him.
"We both know you're lying."
Aiden tried to ignore him. He closed his eyes again, but pulled back the blanket to feel the sun on his skin. A pleasant warmth spread through his body, and if only it weren't for Victor, whose gaze was still on him, he would surely have fallen asleep again.
Victor lay beside him in silence. Aiden flinched at the feeling of Victor's fingertips gently tracing his neck, then gently tugging at his hair.
He didn't push him away.
Although he knew there was nothing natural about the touch, that it was just another of his games and a way to hurt him, he didn't want to give it up completely. Not now, while his mind hadn't yet broken free from sleep, while his emotions were suppressed and he didn't have to face everything that awaited him once he fully awoke. He could allow himself a moment of unconsciousness, only later he would worry about what Victor would do to him once he remembered his position.
Victor continued touching him, as if trying to soothe him for some reason. Aiden didn't think about the unusual nature of this behavior. He'd forgotten that Victor had never allowed himself this much intimacy before. He treated him like an object to be used and discarded once he'd used it, felt entitled to occupy his time, and considered his apartment his own. There had been nothing more intimate between them than a casual acquaintance. Until today.
Victor touched his ear and gently tugged on the titanium hoop in his earlobe, then flicked the newly made helix, causing a stinging pain. He quickly caressed his face and placed a kiss on his cheek, but it wasn't until Aiden felt his breath on his neck that he realized his motive.
"No," he protested, less forcefully than he'd thought, gently pushing him away. "Please, no. Not today. Not now."
Victor must have noticed the sudden fear in his eyes. He grabbed his wrists and looked at him.
"Why? You know the rules."
"I've never agreed to this. You were the one who forced me from the beginning, because you knew I couldn't say no," he said quietly, looking away.
Victor sighed, but released him, then sat down on the bed.
"Are you afraid of me?"
Aiden clenched his fists, indignant at the question. Of course he was afraid. How could he not be? Victor could easily hurt him and nothing stopped him, could knock him unconscious and make sure he never woke up. He needed him alive, but he could always find someone to replace him when he was no longer fit for purpose. Aiden was just a fleeting whim of someone who could have it all. Something easily replaceable. He knew all this, but he was afraid that if he agreed, Victor wouldn't like his answer. So he remained silent.
"Of course you're afraid," Victor answered for him. "Last week... I could have been more gentle."
"Is that an apology?" Aiden muttered, though it didn't really matter. Even sincere regret wouldn't erase what Victor had already done to him.
"No. You deserved it." Victor reached out to touch his cheek, but he quickly brushed it away.
Aiden wanted to disappear. Or at least find a place where he could be safe. Victor had taken away his place where he felt like himself, infecting it with his presence to the point that it prevented Aiden from living a normal life. In the first week, he tried to defend himself. He installed extra locks on his doors, bought a silver necklace and hung a cross in every room, but he regretted it when Victor almost killed him in a fit of rage. After two weeks, when he realized he wouldn't be able to escape his new routine, he started taking tranquilizers. A feeling of helplessness crept into his daily life. He still glanced nervously around the apartment, and whenever he entered it, he hesitated for a moment before opening the door, afraid that Victor was waiting for him. The paranoia faded over time, or rather, it became as inevitable as his morning coffee. Aiden could only try to survive.
"You know what I've noticed lately, Aiden?" Victor suddenly spoke up. "My behavior towards you doesn't fit your personality. You're incredibly stubborn. I can punish you every time you disobey me and you'll still persist. Intense pain works for you, but then you act like I'm going to kill you and you start panicking as soon as I appear, while milder pain has no effect and only increases your hatred. It's frustrating."
"So you'll replace me? Because I don't meet your expectations?"
Victor looked at him in disbelief.
"What? No. Of course not. Why would I end this so quickly and deprive myself of the fun? I honestly thought you were smarter than that."
"So..." Aiden needed a moment to calm down and gather his thoughts. "So you'll destroy me. You'll torture me until I can no longer resist."
Victor didn't nod, but he didn't laugh either. He simply looked at him with eyes full of pity and patted his head.
"No, you'll submit yourself." His voice was calm, as if Victor was certain he was right.
Aiden's heart began to beat faster.
"Why?"
Why are you doing this? Why should I agree to this? Why do you keep coming up with new ways to torment me? Why can't you just leave me the fuck alone? Why, why, why, why, why.
A gentle touch on his back distracted his thoughts. He felt Victor lift him into a sitting position, then settle him on his lap, wrapping his arms around him.
Aiden blinked, mentally reproaching himself for letting him do this. He didn't feel the pull of his charm, not this time, which put him in an even worse position. If Victor were controlling him, as he had in the past, he would have some excuse, because his power would have influenced his thoughts, decisions and behavior. Instead, he came off as submissive. He hated that about himself.
"I thought," Victor licked his neck, "that it would be more interesting. I'd like to see a different side of you. See how you act when you don't feel the need to defy me."
"I don't want..." Aiden began, trying to push him away.
"What exactly?"
"Just... leave me alone."
Unable to stop the tears from streaming down his cheeks, he rested his face on Victor's shoulder. He didn't want to be seen in this state. He didn't want to be seen as weak, but he felt trapped and saw no way out. Victor's touch, while on the one hand soothing him, stroking his back to comfort him, on the other was so unfamiliar that Aiden couldn't help but feel fear and revulsion. He would almost rather be attacked, forced to remain still so Victor could sink his fangs into him, or for feeding to be considered trivial, unworthy of much attention, something to do during breakfast, like drinking morning coffee. What Victor was doing now, how he was behaving, was something new, and Aiden didn't know how to react.
As soon as Aiden finished crying and calmed down a bit, he remained still. He let Victor hold him, enduring this strange, unfamiliar situation.
"So what, Aiden?"
He didn't want to answer. He much preferred to remain in this state of uncertainty, pain-free, even though he still felt uncomfortable. But he couldn't keep Victor waiting, especially since he could sense his... excitement. It wasn't a good sign.
"Do whatever you want," he finally muttered, giving in.
"Good decision."
Victor didn't need more to get closer to his neck. Aiden felt his cold breath on his skin again, goosebumps and shivers running through his body, but this time he didn't push him away. He involuntarily gripped Victor's shirt and mentally prepared himself for the pain.
It wasn't as he expected.
He felt two stings, as if someone were jabbing thicker needles into his neck. Victor held him tightly, preventing him from escaping. His hands occasionally stroked his back, so this time Aiden didn't want to escape. He didn't protest as the energy was drained from his body. It felt... somewhat pleasant, however absurd it sounded in his mind. Victor didn't tear at his skin, as he sometimes did to punish him. He bit him deeply enough to easily drink his blood, but... he wasn't cruel. For some reason, he didn't want to hurt him unnecessarily.
Aiden didn't even notice when he'd removed his fangs. He was still sitting in the same position on Victor's lap, a little weak. His neck stung when Victor licked it, but then a pleasant warmth spread through him. He wanted to fall asleep, right then and there.
"It wasn't so bad, huh?"
Aiden mumbled something in response, lacking the energy to speak properly.
"Ah. Did I drink too much?"
Aiden shook his head. His eyes were closing on their own. All the tension drained from his body. It was over. He was safe, right?
Victor sighed, but slowly stroked his head.
"You can fall asleep if you're tired. I'll wake you when I make breakfast."
Aiden made a surprised sound. Breakfast? Victor had never made him breakfast. He had never cared for him or touched him like he did now. Was this his new reality?
Victor laid him on the bed and covered him with the blanket. Aiden heard him get up and walk towards the door, then suddenly stop.
"Aiden?"
"Hm?"
"It'll be better from now on," he replied, closing the door behind him.
From the Cryopreservation Vaults: FHK Original Re-Coronation Scene version
Pre-revision original draft of the coronation scene, a bit more cruel and full of flashbacks (ultimately I scrapped the new robe part because it was far too cruel of Cinn’s friends and people and they’re not villains)
The day of Cinn’s second coronation dawned. As on the day he had abdicated, he dressed simply in a white tunic and plain trousers tucked into low boots. At the appointed hour, he approached the dais in the square of the capital, accompanied once more by his chosen successor and flanked on the other side by the kingdom’s new general, Akon, the man who had given him back hope.
Today the crowd was no somber group of angry mourners. Their cheers were a roar, swelling as the three men strode through the crowd and climbed the dais.
Cinn’s eyes were caught by the bloodied whipping posts and he almost stumbled. He had not seen them clearly at first, surrounded as they were by flowers and candles. Why were they still here? But they were not his destination this time. They were no one’s. He would have them taken down as soon as he could.
He passed the posts, fighting not to look at them, and took his place beside the throne that had been erected in the center of the platform. Rauffe took the throne. Seeing the older man there, knowing what was about to happen, Cinn’s heart clenched and tears came to his eyes.
He was thirty now. If his world had not fallen apart twice over, he would have been here on this day nonetheless, but it would have been beside his father. Cinn swallowed, fighting the tears that threatened to spill. Yet he was glad that it was Rauffe, the man who had been as a father to him when he had faced ruling a country years before he had expected to.
The crowd’s cheers settled to a murmur as Rauffe raised a hand and stood again.
“Good people! Our grief has been replaced with rejoicing, as our beloved King Cinn has returned to us! The empire is in pieces, yet we stand. It has been my honor to serve you as your king through this time, but it was never a role I was made for. So it is now my honor, my privilege, and my joy, to return the crown and the kingdom to King Cinn.”
Cheers again erupted from the crowd. Cinn could not help but smile, warmth flooding him even as a tear trickled down his cheek.
Rauffe again raised his hand and the people quieted. His face sobered. “We have suffered much, it is true. Many of us have lost those dear to us -- my own son lost his life helping our neighbors fight the empire’s cruel dominion. But we would have lost far more if not for the bravery and stubborn pride of all of you, and the noble sacrifice of our king. He is returned, passed through trial and suffering, and if he was beloved before, he is twice beloved and thrice honored now.” He turned, beckoning Cinn forward.
Cinn stepped forward, taking a knee before the throne, facing his people. Rauffe lifted the crown from his own head, placing it on Cinn’s.
“Rise, your majesty, and take the robes of your station.”
Akon came forward now as Cinn stood, opening the chest he bore to remove a glittering blue and gold robe. Rauffe removed the royal robe he wore and folded it, setting it aside, taking the robe from the general. he held the robe up before the crowd and Cinn could see it was made of rich silk the color of the sea, trimmed in gold and embroidered in a wild crisscross of gold threads. His eyes traced the patterns, heaviest on the back of the garment but extending along the sleeves in lesser density. They seemed to have little rhyme or reason, and his brow furrowed. Then he saw rows of small lines across the backs of the shoulders of the garment as Rauffe began to speak, turning towards Cinn.
No…
“You have suffered much for this people, your majesty, and to honor all you have borne, the artisans among the city’s tailors have created a new royal robe, stitched with the scars you have suffered. Let it be a reminder, to you and to them, of the love between you and your people and of the weight of your role as their king.”
Cinn’s head began to swim. He forced himself to dip his head and allow Rauffe to place the robe upon his shoulders. It had a high collar, golden lace around the hem circling his neck. He swallowed hard, forcing away the memories of golden points locked around his throat.
Panic clawed at his throat.
Rauffe stepped aside and took a knee.
“His royal majesty, King Cinn, first of that name, tenth of his line, the Scarred King!”
As one the crowd dropped to a knee, echoing the cry. Warmth fought with shame in his chest and he bowed his head to them in return. He took a deep breath, swallowed.
“It is my honor to be your king again, and I shall do all in my power to serve you well. I would see our land thrive and show all around us that we remain unbowed.” His voice caught and he took another deep breath to steady himself. “I have no greater love than this kingdom nor greater privilege than to be your king. Even as we mourn all we have suffered and all we have lost, let us look to our future together with hope.”
The people cheered again, a roar that shook the dais. As he stepped down, Rauffe and Akon in his wake, the crowd parted. Hands reached to touch his robe with reverence as he passed.
It took all his wherewithal not to flinch.
Finally they returned to the palace, and Cinn went straight to his solarium.
Once inside, he stripped the robe from his shoulders and collapsed to the floor as sobs wracked his body. Shame twisted his stomach.
How closely had the servants examined him to record all his scars?
Disgust at his deformed, scarred body and the violation of having his scars displayed once more clenched his stomach tighter as he heaved in sobs. He was going to vomit.
Father… you would have known what to do… what to say…
The door opened again, and he was dimly aware of Akon entering and kneeling beside him. Cinn looked up at him through reddened eyes.
“They do not… I can’t…” He buried his face in his hands. “I… he should have been there.”
Akon’s brow furrowed. “Who, sire?”
“My father… it should have been him. I wasn’t ready, I never wanted the throne so young.” Another sob escaped him and he wrapped his hands around his middle. “And after everything… I just want to return to normalcy.” He looked up and pointed at the robe, his hand shaking and face flushed. “But they ask me to wear my scars… as a badge! To wear on my person a daily reminder of that which I would rather forget!”
Akon sighed, wrapping an arm around the young king’s shoulders. “Sire… your scars are no shame. Your people honor what you suffered, even if they will never understand the horror of it, of what you survived. What we survived.”
“I do not want more pity, I do not want my scars on display for all to see!” His voice grew to a shout. “These are not the scars of a veteran warrior to be displayed with pride!”
Gently, Akon placed his hands on Cinn’s shoulders and turned the young king to face him. “My lord, your people love you. They too have lost much. We all have. Your strength and all you survived inspire them. Those scars…” He lifted his own tunic, showing the branded sigil of the king that had betrayed him. “Our scars. They are not a shame. They are a testament to what we have survived.”
Cinn reached for the robe, running his thumb over a line of the gold thread near the hem. “These were from failing to bow.”
Spreadeagled, naked and facedown on the gravel, the whip striking his feet and buttocks over and over.
He touched another section of the robe, so thickly crisscrossed that the blue all but vanished beneath the gold. “And these, some because I would not beg.”
Wooden gag between his teeth, braided rope tearing his back to shreds over and over again while he screamed.
“Or to break the spirits of my people being murdered for fighting back.”
Lying bound and helpless while the struggling breaths of a dozen men and more choked to nothing between his cries of pain as the whip struck over and over.
“And these…” He ran his fingers over the neat lines of tallies reaching from shoulder to shoulder. “Carved by a man angry over the lives that my people took at the cost of their own.”
A knee on his back, every nerve alight from drugs slipped in his food and screaming against a gag as the knife sliced his skin over and over.
His fist bunched up the collar, wrinkling the silk and lace. “And this collar! How am I to wear a reminder of the mockery I was leashed by like a dog!” His voice broke and his shoulders curled around the robe as he clutched it, tears streaming again down his face.
Akon came closer, wrapping his arms around the sobbing young man until they faded into quiet hiccups.
Then he gently took the robe, touching the embroidered lines near the hem. “Those horrors and pain are not all that is written here. Here is a spirit that refused to bow or break even when it was easier to.” The long crossing lines of the back. “And here, refusal to beg and give up your identity. And the defiance of your people too — I heard the soldiers whisper of it, of how they faced even death with a refusal to bend their pride or give in, even to the end.” The rows of small lines, the tally. “And here? Your Majesty, this tally is not a shame but a testament to your people, bringing the empire to treaty instead of surrender with spirits like yours.” He placed his hand on his chest, where Cinn’s heraldry now decorated his formal tunic. “And here, my new loyalty over that of the one that betrayed me. Your scars — our scars, are not a shame. They are a testament to what we have survived.” He looked gently at the young man. “But the collar was an innocent mistake, and makes for terrible style, if you ask me.”
The young king looked back up, the anguish of his expression giving way to a wry, if still watery, half-smile. “Do you think they’ll let me remove it?”
Akon handed the robe back to him. “Sire, there are advantages to being king, are there not?”
An unexpected laugh erupted from Cinn’s lips. He reached up to touch the crown that now ornamented his dark hair, then leaned his head back and watched motes of dust dance in the sunlight from the high windows for a moment.
He took a deep breath.
Then he stood. “True enough, my friend.” He offered his hand and the general took it to help himself to stand as well, pulling Cinn into a hug.
Cinn stayed there a long moment, then took a deep breath and pulled away, straightening his shoulders. “Thank you, Akon. I yet wish my father were here but… I am glad to have you and Rauffe by my side in his stead.” He smiled warmly at the man, then glanced over his shoulder. “I… suppose I should change into finer clothing for the banquet. I will go and do so.”
He draped the robe over his shoulders and turned to leave, then turned back. “And even if it might insult those who made it, I will have this robe’s collar altered.”
