THIS WHUMPBLR IS RADICALLY PRO TRANSGENDER!!

The instant reality crashed into his thoughts, tears began to seep from his eyes. Jonah clutched Sawyer’s leg and cried, shuddering and burying his face in the fabric of the other man’s trousers. He wished he could clip right through the ship's wooden walls and disappear into the water beyond the porthole. 

Sawyer groaned, roused by the sounds of muffled sobbing. His wrist chains clanked as he instinctively tried to pull his arms down. He grunted when he failed and met only the cold bite of the metal that kept his arms locked to the bars above his head. He hissed in pain as he raised his gaze. Sawyer flexed his head from side to side, trying to stretch the soreness from his neck when his attention met the quivering boy in his lap. 

“Hey– kid. Hey kid, what’s wrong?”

“Oh god, oh god oh godohgod—” Jonah whimpered, fingers twisting and balling up in the cloth between them.

“Hey,” Sawyer said, a little firmer this time. “Tell me what the fuck’s wrong.”

“I forgot— I can’t believe I forgot..” Jonah wailed, his words muffled against the fabric of Sawyer’s pants. “They’re— They’re gonna b-brand me t-today.” 

Sawyer closed his eyes, and after a beat of heavy silence, he let out a deep sigh. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, kid,” he said, his voice full of what sounded like genuine regret. 

“I—,” Jonah inhaled sharply as another sob wracked his body. “I d-don’t know how, how t-to get out, out of this— I—” 

Jonah hiccupped. He slowly raised his head, suddenly aware that he was embarrassing himself by breaking down like this, but then his vision aligned with the brand on Sawyer’s chest, peeking out above the wrapped gauze on the young man’s torso, and he broke down all over again. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his face into Sawyer’s bandages.

“I.. I don’t know if there is a way,” Sawyer said, his voice low, gentle but dismayed, like he longed for a way to help. Alas, he was chained by the ankles and the wrists, in an even more helpless position than Jonah himself. 

Jonah blinked his wet eyelids open and brought a hand to the surface of Sawyer’s brand. He traced his fingertip along the curled tail of the siren. Sawyer shivered ever so slightly, but let the boy touch his chest anyway, let him trail his fingers above the hem of the gauze. 

The mark still looked so red and angry, despite how old it was—raised and delicate and furious and violent. Jonah couldn’t help but remember how painful his branding with Carlisle had been. His hands trembled and he clutched Sawyer’s back with his other arm. The gesture forced a pained gasp from Sawyer’s lips, but Jonah didn’t notice it through his own sharp, unsteady breathing. 

Though the boy’s grip squeezed right up against his still-healing lashes, Sawyer didn’t ask him to let go. Perhaps he felt it was the least he could do, in the early blue glow of that fateful morning, to provide Jonah some tiny scrap of solace. He found himself a touch dismayed that he didn’t have use of his arms to wrap around the boy. It was a strange instinct, one unfamiliar to Sawyer, but he felt it nonetheless. Instead, Sawyer bent his knees slightly to cradle Jonah’s trembling form. He didn’t want to think too hard of how fond the gesture might seem to outside eyes, but fuck, he wasn’t completely heartless. The poor kid was in shambles.

“Come ‘ere, kid,” Sawyer said, keeping his voice as soft as he could manage. Jonah didn’t even seem to register how unlike Sawyer’s typical nature this really was, he was too preoccupied crying into the young man’s bandaged chest. Sawyer felt truly bad for the kid—he knew how it was. He’d been in the same position for two fucking years. He knew from Jonah’s ridiculously skimpy outfit that the Captain had taken him to his bed chambers the previous night, even if Jonah hadn’t mentioned it. Sawyer knew how it felt, being fucked and used against his will, being forced to please the Captain or the crew under the threat of further torture. He remembered how hellish his own branding had been—he remembered it like it was yesterday, despite the years he’d had to forget. He knew he never would. The memory—the feeling—would haunt him for all his living days. Jonah was in the same position. He hadn’t wanted any of this either.

They sat like that for a while, huddled in the sapphire glow beneath the waves, the silence between them only punctuated by Jonah’s muffled sobs and sharp, uneven breaths. Finally, Sawyer spoke once more.

“Look, it’s.. It’s gonna fucking suck. It always fucking sucks.” He wasn’t sure if he was helping, but his rambling thoughts were spilling from his lips now, and he let it happen, hoping something would land in Jonah’s mind as comforting. 

“You.. I know you know what it’s like. I know you do. We.. We both do.” Sawyer paused for a moment, clumsy in his attempt at reassurance—a muscle he hadn’t built. Jonah hiccuped against his chest. Sawyer felt like he was talking in circles, repeating himself, so he said the only thing that he thought might mean anything. 

“I’m sorry, kid. Fuck.” 

Sawyer wished he wasn’t so utterly fucking useless in this situation, but he could do nothing but twist his wrists in their handcuffs and hold Jonah with his legs as the boy wept in his lap. Their embrace was awkward, made inelegant by Sawyer's restrained position, but the two boys sat there and let the weight of fate hang over them—Jonah’s own sentence, and the one they shared here, together. 

The swirling currents beyond the brig caused the blue light to waver and flicker as if cast through a kaleidoscope, and they let the seconds pass, huddled together in matching ankle cuffs, soon to have matching brands. 

༻✦༺ 

Jonah was still crying when the door finally creaked open. Jaxon stepped through the threshold, keys jingling from his outstretched hand. 

“Big day for you, eh puppy?” Jaxon called as he crossed the room to the iron cage. 

Jonah sniffed, trying to stifle his crying and pressing his face into Sawyer’s bandaged stomach. 

“My god, look at you two!” The mockery in Jaxon’s tone gave away that awful sneer on his face, even if Jonah refused to look up at him. “Little fuckin’ slut, already cuddling up to the mutt, are you?”

“Fuck off, Jaxon.” Sawyer snapped. 

“Aww,” Jaxon chided, unfazed. “I’d love to leave you both in here all day so I wouldn't have to fuckin’ deal with either of you, believe me. But I’ve got orders, you know.” 

Sawyer said nothing, just stared Jaxon down with a burning hatred in his glare. Jonah hid his face with his hands and balled himself up in Sawyer’s lap as small as he could manage. The instinct to curl up and hope to disappear didn't escape him, even now. His doomed fate loomed over him like an executioner's blade, as horrifying and inevitable as the promise of death itself.

“You little lovebirds had fun in here last night, I take it?” Jaxon sneered, unlocking the cell door. 

“Do you ever fucking shut up?” Sawyer retorted, and Jaxon didn’t miss a beat—his face twisted, and he abruptly stepped forward and kicked Sawyer hard across the face. Sawyer gasped sharply and his head snapped to the side. He reeled at the force of the blow, groaning in pain as it reverberated through his skull, but he didn’t say anything more. Jaxon smirked to himself, satisfied he’d managed to silence the prisoner, at least for the time being. 

Shocked by the sudden outburst, Jonah scrambled back off of Sawyer to press himself into the corner of the cell. Surely, if he just made himself small enough, the violence couldn’t reach him. If he shrunk down into a tiny pinpoint, Jaxon wouldn’t be able to grab him and haul him out of here. 

“Up, mutt,” Jaxon ordered, when Sawyer’s hands were unchained from the bars. Sawyer groaned again and stretched his shoulders, sore and stiff from being locked over his head all night. He grunted in irritation but stood nonetheless, rubbing at his sore cheekbone in the spot where Jaxon’s boot had made contact. 

“You too, puppy,” Jaxon warned. “Don’t make me drag your arse out of there.” 

“No— No wait, please—” Jonah begged, his head spinning with dread. “Don't do this, please! Y-you don’t have to do this!’ 

Jaxon just laughed. “‘Fraid it's not up to me, now is it, pup!” he said, sounding delighted to be the one sending Jonah to such a painful destination.

After a moment so tense the air seemed to crackle, Jaxon’s patience withered entirely. 

“Mutt, grab him, would you?”

“Fuck you. Grab him yourself,” Sawyer shot back.

Jaxon hurled a fist for Sawyer’s face, colliding his knuckles against the same cheekbone he’d just kicked. Sawyer cried out as his head snapped to the side, and the force of the blow sent him stumbling back along the wooden floor of the cell. He braced himself against the iron bars and clutched his face, willing his head to stop fucking spinning. 

“I said, fucking grab him,” Jaxon hissed, his voice thick with pure venom. 

“Fuck— Fine, Jesus—” Sawyer relented, still breathless from the second attack. When his vision wasn’t wavering so badly, Sawyer approached Jonah, who still huddled in a terrified, shaking ball in the corner. 

“I’m sorry, kid,” he said, remorse and resignation weighing down his words as he reached for Jonah’s wrist. Jonah didn’t pull away, but Sawyer did have to physically drag him up into a standing position. Jonah just cried, stuffing the fabric of the cloak over his mouth as Sawyer led him out of the room to follow Jaxon out to the upper deck. 

༻✦༺

Jonah squinted as he was led up the staircase into the bright sunlight. Dawn crested over the horizon, casting dazzling yellow beams across the deck and drawing harsh shadows beneath the tall masts that bisected the ship’s wooden surface. 

Jonah hissed against the sudden, piercing light, only to be met with a matching onslaught of noise. The crew had gathered in a large semicircle around some sort of portable furnace—coal burned a brilliant orange in its lower chamber. A grisled man with thick forearms held a long iron rod, pointing the end down into the furnace’s heat. 

Jaxon ripped the dark cloak from Jonah’s shoulders, revealing the silky blue slip-dress that barely clung to his form. The crowd of sailors erupted—they jeered and hollered at Jonah with a fervent vigor as he was dragged towards the center of the gathering. The men whistled, barking catcalls and slurs at him while Jaxon led him across the deck. 

Captain Vale stood before the crowd, a confident smile on his face. Voss stood behind him with arms crossed, his expression an impassive scowl that dared any of the men to take a step out of place. It was the glare of a fierce guard dog, ready to pounce—a look that said, ‘don’t any of you dare touch what is not yours,’ and it was felt by all those who gathered around on the deck that morning. 

Miraculously, the crew managed to keep their hands to themselves as Jonah passed them by. The boy was squirming in Jaxon’s grasp, desperate to avoid the scene. He missed the brig so terribly now. The crew’s fervor rose, proverbial foam gathering into their mouths—they cast hungry eyes upon the young slave, eager to watch the spectacle that was about to unfold. 

Jonah cried the whole time he was led up to the Captain and that furnace that burned beside him, trying and failing to stifle his sobs as the sailors taunted him. 

“Look at him!” 

“Captain’s teasin’ us, showing the whore off like that when we can't even touch him yet!”

“”He’s already cryin’! Pain ‘asn’t even started!” 

“Imagine how ‘e’ll sound once the burnin’ starts up!”

Jonah, in a desperate act, blinked through blurry eyes up at Sebástian, hoping for some sympathy, but he found it a stupidly naive endeavor when all he was met with was a satisfied, closed-lipped smile. 

Sawyer had dropped off at a certain point when another man in the crowd caught his arm, and Jonah mourned his close presence as Jaxon dragged him to his position. Despite the fact that Sawyer’s presence should have been anything but comforting, the events of the past night had caused Jonah’s guard to falter around him. Sawyer was the only one who had yet to actually hurt him. He’d even seemed a bit remorseful. Jonah didn’t have much time to dwell on it, for Jaxon’s grip was relentless and unwavering, and he pulled Jonah harshly forward until the boy was situated between two masts. 

Jaxon gripped Jonah’s shoulder and whirled him around to face the crowd. Before Jonah could steady himself, two unfamiliar, burly men surrounded him on either side, gripping both of his bony wrists in their respective grips and fastening them tightly to the ends of two long lengths of coarse rope. 

“Please! Please, Captain, M-master—” Jonah cried, pleading at Vale through tears. “Y-you, you don’t ha-have to do this— Please! I’ll, I’ll be good—I’ll be good! I belong to you, I belong to you—”

“Silencio, dear boy,” came Vale’s commanding tone, his presence rising to silence the jeering crowd until his voice alone dominated the entire deck. “You will endure this for me, to cement my ownership, for nobody will ever own you but me, after this.”

Jonah gasped when he felt his arms being yanked out to the sides. The men who held the ropes attached to his wrists yanked them hard out to either side of him and began to fasten them to the masts that stood tall to his right and left. Jonah cried out when he felt himself being pulled apart—they tied his wrists so tightly out to the sides—he felt his muscles completely stretched, so taut he thought his tendons might snap. 

His wrists ached with the pull of it, and he tried to writhe against the ropes, but once he’d been tied expertly into place, Jonah found himself unable to move his torso at all for how tightly he’d been stretched apart. He stood there, crying and helpless, arms wide open, waiting for the brand that would inevitably burn itself into his chest. 

Captain Vale sauntered slowly up to Jonah, taking his sweet time and relishing in the theatrics of the performance he was about to direct. He slipped a finger beneath the fabric on Jonah’s slender shoulder, sliding the pale blue silk off of the boy’s shoulderblade. He gingerly completed the task on Jonah’s opposite shoulder, causing Jonah to wince at how mocking his gentleness felt now. It was almost sickening, in the wake of what was to come. 

“Please,” Jonah pleaded, willing himself to look the Captain in the eyes now, in their close proximity. “Please, Master, please—! I can b-be good— I, I want to be good! Please, don’t do this to me, please!” He cried, trying and failing to keep his voice between himself and the Captain. His tone cracked with terrified sobs as he forced the words out. 

Vale lifted a tender hand to swipe Jonah’s hair out of his face, before cupping the boy’s cheek almost lovingly. 

“Oh, my dear, beautiful slave,” Vale cooed, his voice dripping with that same warm honey that had laced his words the night before. “I’m doing this for you, my pet.” 

Jonah blinked up at him, incredulous and horrified. He couldn’t bring himself to speak. 

“Yes, darling, don’t you believe me?” Sebástian smiled. “This will make you better. Surely you want to be better for me. Surely you want to be good, don’t you? You want to be mine.”

Jonah stared up at Vale with glistening eyes, tears streaming down his cheeks uncontrollably as he was faced with the horror of his poition—just how inevitable it was. He’d stupidly thought that Vale, if anyone on this ship, might appreciate his efforts, might reward his obedience with some semblance of mercy. But terror and bile rose up his chest at the full realization that he could truly do nothing to stop this. He was a squirming insect cocooned in a spider’s silk, fully ensnared by the will of the man before him. 

This had all been Vale’s idea, after all. 

How could he?

Jonah felt so stupid for feeling the bitter heartbreak of betrayal. He’d been so foolish for falling for the man’s faux gentleness. 

But even as the thought hit him, Vale lifted a finger to Jonah’s face and almost lovingly swiped away the tears that streamed down his cheek, and Jonah felt himself melt again almost instantly. He instinctively leaned into the touch, automatically eager to earn the man’s favor again. Maybe if he groveled, if he prostrated himself and opened, pathetic and willing before the Captain, he might be spared. 

Somewhere in the crowd, Sawyer bristled. What the fuck was this pathetic display? Jonah was leaning into the Captain’s hand like a well-trained lapdog—he was about to be fucking branded and he was leaning in? Sawyer felt a twist of loathing in his stomach at the way Jonah’s eyes pleaded up at the Captain. It was fucking pathetic. Jonah really did have no spine at all. 

With the boy’s silken garment now barely hanging off his shoulders, Sawyer couldn’t help but notice just how small and fragile Jonah was—the way the boy’s ribs jutted out from his skin, the way his shoulders looked almost sharp, the way the light cast deep shadows into the dips above his prominent hip bones. Shit, did his last owner even feed the kid? At least Sawyer could count on one meal a day, most of the time.

As much as Sawyer hated the way Jonah kissed up to the men in charge, even he could admit he had no idea what Jonah had been through before he’d stowed away. The way he leaned into the slightest gentle touch from the Captain’s hand, it was nauseating to watch, but it fit the assumption that his life before this must have been even worse, somehow. Though Sawyer had a hard time imagining what would be worse than the ship. His lashes still fucking hurt whenever he moved. 

They’d strung Jonah up the same way they’d done to Sawyer only the day prior. Sawyer wanted to look away, but he kept his eyes forward, not wanting to draw any more attention to himself. Despite it all, he really did feel for the kid. His own branding was one of the worst things he’d ever experienced.

The Captain swiped his thumb over Jonah’s lower lip and the boy took the man’s finger into his mouth, desperate to prove he didn’t need a branding to prove he was a good pet.

Sawyer’s eyes widened when he saw it. Oh that was fucking vile. Sawyer wanted to believe it was acting, that Jonah was only pretending to enjoy it, but the glassiness in the boy’s eyes, the way his eyelashes fluttered when he gazed up at Sebástian, it made Sawyer’s stomach churn with fury, disgust, and something akin to betrayal. He felt like he was going to throw up if Jonah kept being so fucking pathetic. 

When the iron brand glowed red-hot in the furnace, the burly man holding the rod nodded to Vale, and the Captain turned from Jonah to address the crowd of men once more. 

“Gentlemen! On this morning of Tuesday, the twenty-fourth of May, we will initiate our vessel’s newest slave.” The crowd grew restless, ready to erupt into cheers the moment the Captain was finished speaking. Vale reached into the furnace and withdrew the long iron rod, and Jonah’s stomach dropped in terror when he saw the glowing red insignia at the end—the siren with the tail curled up above her head. 

“We hereby mark him with the mighty symbol of La Sirena herself!” Sebástian’s voice bellowed across the deck, riling the crowd up further with his every word. “Her mark binds this slave, Jonah, as property of myself and of this fine ship. May her spirit bless our crew and bring us bountiful fortune!” 

A split second later, the crowd of sailors burst into a frenzy of whoops and hollers, cheers and eager cries, some waving hats and handkerchiefs as they buzzed with anticipation to watch the violence unfold. The noise drowned out Jonah’s sobbing entirely, though he never stopped crying. 

The Captain turned to face Jonah, whose terrified eyes stayed locked to that glowing red siren. She drew closer and closer towards his chest, and the moments passed like eons in Jonah’s terrified mind. He was fully hyperventilating, dizzy with terror, sure his knees would buckle if his arms weren’t being held up by the ropes at his wrists. 

And then, like a blast of blazing lightning, the iron struck. Jonah’s eyes squeezed shut and he screamed louder than he had in years. His skin sizzled and hissed beneath the siren’s magna-hot touch, melting like candle wax and morphing itself around her fiery kiss. Jonah shrieked like a banshee until he couldn’t breathe, until he felt like his vocal chords were shredding apart in his throat. He was a ball of pure instincts now, lit up like a live wire, and he squirmed and shook against the restraints as his body desperately tried to get away, away—away—

He screamed for what felt like days, convulsing as though electrified—when Vale finally pulled the iron brand from his chest and handed it off to the burly man at the furnace. The crowd was feral now, a shouting and hollering pack of coyotes—a snapping school of piranha around a fresh, bloody corpse.

Jonah’s ears were ringing so loudly he hardly heard them. He’d collapsed in the restraints, no strength left in his knees. He just wanted to fucking pass out already. Even with the iron gone, the fleshwound burned away, searing and red and furious—nearly all the blood in his body now pulsed beneath his chest. It was absolute agony, and Jonah sobbed so hard he thought he’d break apart. His chest was spasming, and he found himself choking as he tried to gasp for air—he could hardly inflate his lungs through the hellfire that radiated through his body.

At some point, Jonah felt the blessed grace of darkness seep into the corners of his vision, and he welcomed it like a gentle embrace. The pain had become too much, at last, and his body was extending a hand of mercy to end his suffering, if even for a moment. Jonah let it consume him, grateful for any reprieve. The darkness slid in like black syrup from his periphery until it overtook his sight entirely. Jonah’s head fell forward, limp, as he slipped from the deck of the ship into pure inky blackness. 

༻✦༺

To be continued!

LA SIRENA DE SANGRE TAGLIST

@spookyboywhump @livelaughwhump @phoenixpromptsandstuff @unforgivenn @befuddled-calico-whump

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