Content: whipping in punishment and slavery kind of context, new slave, PTSD
Presenting another part of their body to protect the first. Being hit on the same place multiple times can cause more severe injuries and our brains know that instinctively
Gasp of pain rather than an initial cry--this type of pain is so sharp, it's shocking. (This changes with different types of whips--one with heavier knots will feel more like getting pelted with rocks)
Holding their breath so they don't scream
clutching their work/whipping post tightly, bending over it
If on legs or arms--Pulling partly out of the way so that their clothes bulk over the area they were just whipped. The whipping effect is significantly hampered by having to get through clothes.
Screams usually start with a "ckl" sound
Afterward there may be different kinds of physical shock (I don't mean necessarily medical shock)--a sudden severe pain like this tells their body they are in serious danger, so they may be shaking, feeling faint, have incredible amounts of adrenaline
Feeling pain where they were lashed every time they see whumper again
Rage that can't abate. Especially if it was sudden and shocked their body, they would instinctively need to eliminate such a dangerous threat, so the animal rage may not die down for a long time, if ever
some good ol’ physical whump for today in the form of whipping! the unbearable sting as it comes down on whumpee’s back, the air of punishment, of being treated like a misbehaving farm animal at the mercy of a cruel handler. the open gashes that the whip leaves carved into their torso even weeks later, deep enough to leave visibly divoted scars cutting through that fragile flesh. the whip coming down right along the curve of their spine as whumpee is unable to hold in a scream of agony, knowing that even when the torture is over, the marks will never truly be gone.
the brig!! thrown in there and forgotten while saltwater seeps through and drenches whumpee constantly leaving them coughing and miserable
lack of sleep, forced to be on duty for hours at a time
smacking whumpee to the deck with a blow that leaves their eyes watering.
scrubbing the deck until their hands are scraped and bleeding. their arms and back ache so badly that when they stand up, they immediately double over.
flogging for minor mistakes. the humiliation of having their shirt ripped away and the stabbing, sharp pain of the cat o'nine tails on their skin is enough to break down the most stoic of the crew
collapsing on deck. in general. fainting. nausea. suddenly light headed and woozy from blood loss
falling to the deck on hands and knees and scraping them on the rough, worm-eaten wood
hostage situations on “friendly” terms. whumpee can wander around on deck and maybe they even joke around with some of the pirates. but the minute they try to escape, there’s a sweeping blade at their throat and someone roughly manhandling them to the captains quarters to be “dealt with”
being made an example of for misconduct is often extreme and cruel. there are no laws on the high seas
the damage left by the opposing side’s cannon fire? timber embedded in limbs, gaping wounds, and formerly brave sailors curling up in fetal positions to try and protect themselves
a captain whumper who calls their prisoner whumpee “darling” in the most derogatory way possible.
emergency first aid being applied hurriedly and with unskilled hands.bandages made from old shirts, amputations done unabashedly and crew mates being carried back fireman style to their ship.
“bite down on this” and “don’t look” as they cut away a damaged limb, multiple crew members holding whumpee down
mer whumpees— caught and put on a leash so they’re dragged along the side of the boat. sometimes they pull whumpee up and “have a bit of fun” as whumpee thrashes and gasps for air.
captain whumpee found stranded on an island by an opposing captain. they’re “taken care of” by being humiliated and beaten, laughed at, and forced to be the cabin boy
Slammed into the top of a desk with their arm twisted behind them
Whumpee wincing and freezing under whumper's weight as they realize they're trapped; if they move any more their wrist is going to break
whumpee crushing their lips in their teeth to hold back cries of pain that they'd be punished for
Guards shoving in a manacled, stumbling whumpee before the king, kicking him to his knees and forcing him to bow so low his forehead hits the flagstones
Fist in the hair to yank whumpees head up
Or fingernails bruising into the cheeks for the same goal
Whumpee frustrated to rage that they aren't being allowed to just walk straight, instead they have to throw them into walls and slam them down into seats
Looking up with a livid glare at main whumper when they get there
Whumpee starting to speak, "wait, just--" gets yanked so hard the words catch before he staggers forward
"I can walk." Whumpee growls next time they come for him. Snarky guard--"well, you're to be dragged."
When the whumpers step away from whumpee, now tied up and gagged on the floor, panting through his nose
Humiliating punishments like whipping while whumpee is tied up like this, whumpee floundering awkwardly away with a muffled shriek at every strike
Holding whumpee's arms so whumper can punch them over and over in the stomach
A lineup of prisoners, but whumpee is the only one that gets thrown and kicked into position
short story, captive siblings, public beating, for those who are into that sort of thing.
Characters are cis m and cis f, 24 and 26 years old, respectively.
CWs: slavery, beating, whipping, bleeding, bruising, humiliation, exposure, family trauma
Her knees hit the wet planks painfully hard as they shoved her down and tied her hands around to the weathered wooden post. She was trembling all over. From the cold drizzle, from fear, from anger…she wasn’t sure which. The Lashmaster tore her sodden tunic apart from the neck down to waist, allowing the fabric to fall away and expose her naked back. The tunic had been her only garment. They probably knew that.
The petty official overseeing the affair barked out her name.
“Lyra Stael, slave. Accused of theft from a registered merchant. The sentence is thirteen lashes.”
The Lashmaster unfurled the meter-and-a-half of treated ox leather with which Lyra would be tortured. Lyra leaned in toward the post, bracing herself against the soggy timber. She took a deep breath in.
The lash cracked like exploding gunpowder.
The breath was punched out of her chest from behind.
The streak of pain ignited across her back, a white-hot flare.
She blinked away tears and tried to writhe the pain away, her mouth opening in a wordless howl. She pressed her forehead against the wood, beginning to hyperventilate.
Another lash. Another breathless jolt. Her scream died in her throat, coming out as a raspy choked whimper. She hiccupped. Her eyes were streaming, nose leaking.
They struck her again. And again.
Then came the sound she most dreaded in the world.
“Stop, you bastards!”
Her brother, his voice hoarse with rage, came barreling into the square. His eyes were wide, his taut, wiry physique animated by a vengeful fury. Two guards jumped on him mid-charge, one slamming a club into his ribs, the other twisting his arms behind his back. He still thrashed, still fought, kicking out with mud-blackened bare feet as they beat him to the ground.
“Cullen,” Lyra rasped at him, her voice thin and quavering, “Please don’t.”
Twenty-four summers since her brother had come into this world. Twenty-four years since she became duty-bound to keep him from hurting himself. With his temperament, it had always been a losing battle.
And she was about to lose it again.
“If you touch her again-!” He choked on the rest of his threat, spitting as they pushed his face into the dirt.
The presiding official cocked an eyebrow. “I suppose this one is her responsibility as well. Very well. Tie him up on the other side.”
Lyra was vaguely aware of herself pleading with them as they stripped Cullen naked to the waist and dragged him to the post. Pleading not for herself, but for him. He didn’t resist as they roped his arms around the post, his hands together with hers, the cords biting into his wrists.
He pressed his forehead to the wood and looked up at his sister, his eyes meeting hers through the damp, matted tendrils of his dark hair.
“I said I would take the next one,” he said gravely, wincing as they tightened his restraints.
He blurred in front of her as her eyes welled.
“I never asked you to,” she whispered. “You idiot.”
He closed his eyes and gave her hand his best attempt at a reassuring squeeze.
“For obstructing a punishment,” the official announced. “And for assaulting a judicial officer, the combined sentence for the lad will be eighteen lashes!” He stepped away from the platform again, making room for a deputy with another whip to join the Lashmaster.
“…with nine lashes still to go for the girl.”
The whips, in chorus, whistled through the cold, damp air and snapped across their shivering backs.
They both buckled under the blows, Lyra gasping, Cullen groaning. Their fingers tightened around each other’s wrists as they fought with all their strength to remain upright.
Another pair of biting, shocking blows beat them down again. The Lashmasters worked methodically, prolonging each lash into its own trial of endurance. The rains fell harder now, and the siblings’ wet, tender skin began to split and weep. The modest crowd had grown. Some grimacing, some flinching sympathetically, and some just staring impassively.
Lyra slumped to the ground when she had taken her thirteen, her arms still suspended from the pillar but her legs curled up defensively, hissing and whimpering as the rainwater ran pink down her aching sides. And still she had to wait as her baby brother took nine more evil strokes.
When at last the final lash had fallen and the dripping black leather was coiled again in the Lashmaster’s hand, Lyra gripped the post and pulled herself forward with all her strength, her bound hands reaching out for her only family. He was slumped forward, his shoulder resting against the wood, his head fallen forward, moaning piteously with each breath, but still there.
“Hey, hey,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to his. “You did it. You made it. We made it.”
His eyelids flickered. The corner of his mouth twitched in the barest hint of an acknowledging smile.
Hot tears mixed with the rain running down her face, steaming in the chilly air.
“Don’t ever do that to me again,” Lyra whispered. “Don’t you ever. Ever.”
