@killian-whump / killian-whump.tumblr.com
Milah punishes Killian, the rest of the crew react to their Captain being a sub, he's then treated like a cabin boy while Milah assumes his position
This one does have some whump in it, but not nearly as much as usual. However, there’s enough to require a cut. So, more below the cut.
Bullied by Father Lucas in The Rite (2011)
The main climax of this film takes place when Father Lucas (Anthony Hopkins), who has been training Michael (Colin) in exorcising demons, gets possesed himself. The demon taking up residence inside the priest wastes no time in backing Michael against a wall, berating him with a crazy tirade of insults before abruptly backing away and busting out some painful contortionist moves.
Notes: This fic would not nearly be what it is without @caprelloidea‘s handholding, encouragement and keen eye. She’s the best, I think you all agree. Based on a picset posted by @bleebug, encouraged by @its-imperator-furiosa‘s enthusiasm for the idea, and written with @queen-mabs-revenge in mind. There is nothing explicitly dominate/submissive about this, but there are borrowed elements of that dynamic.
Summary: When his ship crashes onto a secluded island after a storm Killian “Deckhand Hook” Jones finds himself the unlikely companion to the dark “goddess” who inhabits it. A fairy tale in three parts.
Rating: Explicit for whoa smut in the later chapters. Some mild violence.
Word Count: 15K+
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Thunder cracked in the sky above, the entire ship tremoring and shuddering with the force, and not a blink later purple silver lighting flared brilliant white in the crew quarters. The storm was upon them.
Starkey crowed as Hook threw up an arm, his hammock swinging violently, almost pitching him to the deck, the flinch happening before he could check himself.
“Oh no not the raaain,” came a high pitched mocking voice from somewhere in the black darkness of the cabin. Probably Evans. Loud raucous laughter followed, but Hook ignored it, their mocking jeers the least of his concerns as the thunder boomed again, the ship pitching with the force of another wave.
Hook squeezed his eyes tighter, his hand clenched at his side to still the shaking.
It wasn’t that he was scared of storms persay, but bumpy seas always meant no lanterns could be lit, all fires must be extinguished, and the crew quarters were pitch black save for the flashing lighting in the portholes. It wasn’t that he was scared of the dark either, but he definitely preferred the light. He was also quite sure they were all going to die, and like most things in his life, he was terribly afraid of death.
“‘Maybe ‘e’s worried ‘is hook will rust,” came another voice. “Then how’ll he lay about scratching his arse the useless twat?” The laughs came again, the pounding rain at least drowning them out a tad. Thunder cracked once more, and in unison the men all shrieked in mock terror.
“Not me hair!” Came a cry.
“B-b-b-bloody hell,” came another. They laughed again. It was an old game, the same old insults, the same mocking jeers.
Hook continued to ignore them, a decade and then some of practice helping him along, focusing on his breath, on maintaining his place in the swinging hammock as the ship rocked and swayed beneath him. If he fell on his face in front of them again, it would only make it worse.
Attacked by Anthony Hopkins in the 2011 film, The Rite
When in Rome, beware of rogue Anthony Hopkinses. They will back you up against a wall and shout relatively lame insults at you that will lapse into weird sing-songy things about welshmen at carnivals, only to culminate in a strange contortionist act you never wanted to see. Don’t ask questions.
Screencaps from colin-odonoghue.com, brightened by me.
REFRIGERATOR
“So how did you keep food fresh back then?” Henry asks, pulling in the line Killian had indicated earlier and wrapping it expertly around the cleat.
Killian shrugs. “We didn’t. Food went bad frequently. We either ate it anyway, or went hungry.”
He doesn’t tell him of the times the older boys on the crew forced the weavil-filled, rotten food into his mouth for fun, held his nose closed until he swallowed, laughed as he gagged and cried and tried to get away.
He doesn’t tell him of the days he spent curled up on his bunk, shaking with fatigue after going without food for the third day in a row, his stomach clenching, painfully empty.
“Oh,” is all Henry says.
They work together wordlessly to tie up the ship, as they had so many times before.
“So you must really love refrigerators then, huh,” Henry asks with a grin, tossing his backpack over his shoulder as they head away from the docks.
Killian doesn’t tell him of the times he spent fearful that everything Emma bought that day would be gone the next day, rotten and full of bugs in the white box in the kitchen.
He doesn’t tell him of the times he lay awake at night, the sound of Henry’s snoring drifting in from down the hall, Emma’s light breathing beside him, wondering if having too much was scarier than having not enough.
Killian laughs instead, grateful that it feels sincere. “Aye, lad. They’re quite ingenious.”
Side by side, they walk home.
You’re so terribly good at this, hon… I don’t even know what to do with you. It’s like you’re some kind of savant of angst or something. I FEEL LIKE MY LIFE HAS BEEN IMPROPERLY LIVED BEFORE I FOUND YOU. I mean… Yeah. No, I mean that XD And with that, I dub this tale…
Satan’s Scribbles Part 6: “Ruthlessly Ruining Refrigerators”
